She tries to lift her head and look at him all proud, like she usually is, but instead her back slides down the wall so she’s on the floor. Dad crouches in front of her.
“Keep your voice down,” he says to her, “or you’ll wake your mum.” He takes her chin between his fingers and wrenches her head up so she’s looking at him.
I don’t know what to do. I want to look away but I can’t stop watching. I want to stop them both from arguing. I don’t want him to hurt her.
I see a big china dog on a shelf beside me. It belongs to my mum. She loves that dog. She likes the smooth, nubbly texture of its ears. I pick it up. I don’t want to smash my mum’s china dog and I don’t want to hurt anybody, but I’m desperate to distract Dad and Becky, to stop the thing that’s happening. I throw it, as hard as I can, but it hits the top of the banister and so it smashes right by me and rains shards of china around my feet as well as down onto my dad and Becky below. I see this as if it’s in slow motion.
Becky screams and I do too, and then my mum comes from her room and turns on the landing light. It freezes the three of us: Becky, my dad, and me. Mum’s wearing just her nightie, long sleeves, hem brushing the carpet, soft fabric, and she just stands there really quiet for a second, then she says to Becky, “Go to bed, love,” and Becky runs up the stairs past us. My dad comes up after her fast, two steps at a time, and before I realize what’s happening his hand is on my arm and it feels so strong and my bones feel like brittle sticks, but my mum is calm, and she says, “Mick, give him to me, he’s hurt. Look, Mick, he’s cut himself on the broken china. Mick… Please…”
I don’t remember any further than that. Just as if it were a dream, my mind cut the memory there, at the point when it felt like the stress of it was nipping unbearably hard at the edges of me. And then it replayed, even though I was desperate to sleep, and I felt as if tiredness was collapsing my veins.
And I knew what it was telling me. It was telling me that people aren’t always what they seem, and it was telling me to fear for Benedict.
And both of those things made me break out in sweat, even though the night was cold and the duvet was too thin to stop the chill from creeping in around me, and there was no extra body in my bed to keep me warm.
But, worst of all, it compounded both my guilt that we hadn’t found him yet and my fear for what could be happening to him at that very moment.
Deep into the small hours of the morning, I felt as if I was coming undone.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2012
The Prolonged Investigation: This phase in the investigative process occurs when it becomes apparent the child will not be quickly located, most immediate leads have been exhausted… While some observers might view this stage as one of passively waiting for new information to emerge, in reality, it presents an opportunity for law enforcement to restructure a logical, consistent, and tenacious investigative plan eventually leading to the recovery of the child and arrest of the abductor.
—Preston Findlay and Robert G. Lowery Jr. (eds.), “Missing and Abducted Children: A Law-Enforcement Guide to Case Investigation and Program Management,” fourth edition, National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, OJJDP Report, 2011
Researchers reported that abductors seldom “stalk” their victim. However, they are usually very skilled at manipulating and luring children. Those lures commonly involve requests for assistance, to find a lost pet, to claim an emergency, calling the victim by name, posing as an authority figure or soliciting the victim by internet computer chats.
—Marlene L. Dalley and Jenna Ruscoe, “The Abduction of Children by Strangers in Canada: Nature and Scope,” National Missing Child Services, National Police Services, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, December 2003
Email
To: Corinne Fraser
Cc: Giles Martyn
From: Janie Green
October 28, 2012 at 08:13
OPERATION HUCKLEBERRY—WIBF BLOG UPDATE
Morning, Corinne
Bryan and I have spoken about developments relating to the WIBF blog this morning—much of which he’s asked me not to refer to directly in email—so we’ll speak about that. However, I can say that activity continues on the WIBF blog, in that last night a post appeared suggesting police incompetency. In spite of that we are confident that what we discovered yesterday has taken the sting out of its tail so that while it remains unpleasant and accusatory, no further privileged information was made public.
As of this morning, the blog owner has been contacted by ourselves by email and has been asked to take down the blog. We reminded the blog owner of contempt of court and other legal issues and made it clear that we would take action against them if necessary. We’ve not yet received a response, and we are not overly hopeful of their agreement, because the blog has a rapidly growing number of followers. Best-case scenario might be that the knowledge that we are monitoring extremely closely at least keeps the content somewhat under control, while we look into tracing the identity of the owner from the email address (apparently this could be complicated depending on how smart they’ve been at covering their tracks). However, now that the blog lacks a source of confidential information about the investigation, Bryan, Giles, and I all feel that it shouldn’t be a worry to the extent that it was, even if it remains vindictive and aggressive, which, as you’ll see below, seems to be the tone of much of the media this weekend. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.
Roundup of this morning’s press coverage relating to Operation Huckleberry to follow. The supplements are all over it—double spreads, etc.—usual mixture of sensible and scurrilous, some editorial and thought pieces too, and Rachel Jenner in particular is still a target.
Looking forward, I’m hopeful that with the blog out of the running or at least under control, we might be able to get some more positive material out there to reinforce our efforts and encourage people to come forward.
Janie Green
Press Officer, Avon and Somerset Constabulary
RACHEL
When dawn came there was no respite from the grip of my nighttime fears, because it was Sunday.
One week since Ben went missing.
A lifetime of loss in one week.
And still no news.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, as I brushed my teeth with slow, ineffective strokes, and I didn’t recognize myself.
The police ordered a taxi to take me to the hospital. They promised that a squad car would remain outside the house. They promised me that they would protect me.
The police asked the taxi to collect me from the back of my house so the driver wouldn’t see the press and work out who I was. The driver was an older man, wearing a Sikh turban, with a white beard and white eyebrows. I slunk into the backseat behind him.
“BRI is it?” he asked.
“Yes please.”
“Do you mind which route?”
“No.”
On the passenger seat beside him was a newspaper, opened out, and I could see a photograph of Ben. He wanted to talk about it.
“You heard about this little boy then?”
“Yes,” I made myself say. I was desperate he shouldn’t recognize me. I pulled my scarf up around my chin, moved my hair so that it obscured my face.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.” I pressed myself against the window, staring out as the taxi descended into the city. We were driving through deserted residential streets where the only sign of life was a mangy fox panting sickly in the shelter of an evergreen hedge.
“My wife, she says the mother’s done it. She can feel it in her bones. That’s what people are saying, you know, the mother’s done it. But you know, I don’t think she did. It’s unnatural, to do that. We had an argument about it last night, you know?”
I could sense he was trying to meet my eye in the mirror, gauge my opinion. I looked away. It was impossible to answer him.
We turned onto Cheltenham Road, abruptly in the city center now, pubs and bars all shut up on either side of us. A pair of homeless men sat on a stoop together, shrouded in blankets. They were sharing a cigarette. They had bulging red alcoholic faces and broken teeth.
“The thing is,” he said, “this is what I said to my wife…”
He wanted to give me his wisdom. Perhaps his wife turned away from him at this point last night, wanting to stick to her own view, perhaps he won her over with it.
“I said to her that if you’ve been called those things, accused like the mother is, you never get over it. That’s the shame of it. If she’s guilty, she deserves it; if she’s innocent, then people have done her wrong.”
We swung around the Bear Pit roundabout, the swift curve of it making my stomach quail, dirty shop windows advertising bridal wear and discount trainers blurring in front of my eyes. Yards ahead, I saw the magistrates’ court and the hospital buildings.
“I’ll get out here,” I said at a red light. “Can you stop?” Desperate to escape him, that kind man, before he saw who I was.
“Are you sure, love?” Eyes in the mirror again, a frown line above them. “Are you OK? Are you sick? You don’t look too well. Sorry, I thought you were visiting somebody, I didn’t know you were sick. Shall I take you to A & E?”
I opened the door while we were at the light, pushed some cash at him, got out. He had to drive on because the light turned green and somebody behind him landed a fist on their horn.
My scarf wound tightly up my face, my hair arranged like a pair of curtains that were mostly shut, in the plate glass outside the hospital entrance my reflection told me I looked like somebody with something to hide.
JIM
Nine o’clock Sunday morning, on Fraser’s instructions, Bennett and I were knocking at a heavy wooden door set in a stone wall on a wide sidewalk in the posh end of Sea Mills and listening to the sound of birdsong while we waited for a reply.
The woman who opened it had the same flaming red hair as Ben’s teaching assistant. She wore an extravagantly colorful kimono over a pair of pajamas and had bare legs and feet. Her toes curled in as the cold hit them. She was polite but perturbed. She was Lucas Grantham’s mother.
“He’s here but he’s still asleep,” she said, when we asked if we could have a word with him. “He got in late last night.”
“Anybody else at home?” Bennett asked her.
“No. Just us. Nobody else lives here.”
The house was unusual, built in the sixties I’d have guessed, single story, wrapped in an L-shape around a large garden. Impenetrable looking from the outside, the interior was flooded with light because almost every wall facing the garden was made of glass.
She asked us to wait in a modest-sized sitting room. There was nothing showy about this home apart from the architecture. The furnishings weren’t new and the walls were lined with shelves in cheap brown wood, which carried hundreds of books. Visible across the garden was a room at the end of the house, which looked like an artist’s studio.
In a far corner of the garden was a very large mound, covered in grass, and at one end of it was a corrugated metal door that you reached by walking down a few steps.
“Do you know what that is?” Bennett said, in a voice that told me he’d quite like to educate me.
“It’s an Anderson shelter,” I said. I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of engaging in his usual one-upmanship. I’d wanted to do this interview with Fraser, but she was still firefighting back at HQ after Emma’s confession. We’d only been out together for half an hour, but already I was tolerating Bennett at best.
When Lucas Grantham appeared, his pale skin was whiter than I remembered, freckles running over it like a nasty rash. He wore a crumpled T-shirt, which looked like he’d slept in it, and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
His mother had dressed herself, and Bennett said, “Make us a cup of coffee, would you, love? While we have a chat with Lucas.”
I winced as I saw pride flicker in her face before she made a calculation and quelled it in the face of our authority. She left us with her son.
The three of us sat down around a low coffee table, and I pulled a photograph from my file and put it down in front of Grantham. It showed his car, crossing the suspension bridge, at 14:30 on Sunday, October 21, time and date clearly printed on the photograph.
“Fuck,” he said. “Oh fuck. I told Sal we shouldn’t have done this, I told her.”
“Done what, son?” said Bennett.
“Now you’re going to think that I’ve done something to Ben Finch. Truth is, I don’t even know him very well! I don’t. He’s a nice kid, he’s good at art, but that’s all I know!”
“Reel it back in, son,” said Bennett. “Reel it back in. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Grantham’s panic was palpable now, hands rubbing up and down along his thighs, clawing at his knees. Eyes darting from Bennett, to me, to the photograph, to the doorway where his mother might reappear.
“Who’s Sal?” I asked him.
“That’s my girlfriend.”
“The one who gave you the alibi?”
“Yeah.”
“The alibi that said that the two of you were at Sal’s flat the afternoon of Sunday, the twenty-first of October?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that true?”
“No.” His face twists.
“Why did you lie, Mr. Grantham?” Bennett again.
“Because I knew what you’d think.”
“What would we think?”
“That it was me that took Ben. Of course you’d think that! I would, anybody would. That’s why Sal helped me get an alibi.”
“And did you? Did you take Ben Finch?” I took back the questioning.
“No!” He shook his head violently.
“Did you hurt Ben Finch?”
“No.”
“Did you see Ben Finch?”
“No! I swear it. I wasn’t even in the same bit of the woods as him.”
“So what were you doing?”
“I was cycling the trails at Ashton Court.”
“With anybody?”
“On my own.”
“What time did you get home?”
“About five o’clock. Sal can confirm that.”
“Sal who helped you fabricate an alibi?”