69236538256563

RACHEL
They took John and me to different places.
I was interviewed in a low-ceilinged room that was windowless and oppressive. I was met there
by a tall young woman, who introduced herself as DC Emma Zhang. She wore a smart, slim-fitting
business suit. She had beautiful caramel-coloured skin, and thick black hair tied neatly into a ponytail,
deep, dark eyes that were almond-shaped and beautiful, and a warm smile.
She shook my hand and told me that she would be my family liaison officer and she sat down
beside me on an uncomfortable sofa with boxy arms and adjusted her skirt.
‘We’re going to do everything we can to find Ben,’ she said. ‘Please be assured of that. His welfare
will be our absolute priority, and my role is to keep you informed about what’s happening as the
investigation and the search for Ben progresses. And you must feel free to come to me with any
queries, or anything at all for that matter, because I’m here to make sure you feel looked after too.’
I felt reassured by DC Zhang, by her apparent competence and her easy, approachable manner. It
gave me a modicum of hope.
There was nothing to look at in the room except for a matching pair of armchairs, a meanly
proportioned beech coffee table and three bland landscape prints on the wall opposite. The carpet
was industrial grey. On one of the armchairs a lone purple cushion sagged as if it had been punched.
A door was labelled EXA MI N ATION R O O M.
A man arrived. He was tall, well built and closely shaven, with thick, dark-brown hair, cut in a
neat short back and sides, and hazel eyes. He had large hands and he put a tray down on the table
clumsily: the stacked cups slid dramatically to one end, the spout of the pot let free a slug of hot
liquid. DC Zhang leaned forward to try to save everything but there was no need. The cups wobbled
but didn’t fall.
The man sat down in the armchair beside me and extended his hand to me. ‘DI Jim Clemo,’ he said.
‘I’m so sorry about Ben.’ He had a firm handshake.
‘Thank you.’
Clemo cleared his throat. ‘Two things we need from you as soon as possible are the contact details
for Ben’s GP and his dentist. Do you have those to hand?’
I took my phone from my pocket, gave him what he wanted.
‘Does Ben have any medical conditions that we should be aware of?’
‘No.’
He made notes in a notebook that had a soft acid yellow cover. It was an incongruously lovely
object.
‘And do you have a copy of Ben’s birth certificate?’
My paperwork was disorganised but I did keep a file of Ben’s important documents.
‘Why?’
‘It’s procedure.’
‘Am I having to prove he existed or something?’
Clemo gave me a poker face, and I realised I was right. It was my first inkling that I was involved
in a process where I didn’t know the rules, and where nobody trusted anybody, because what we
were dealing with was too serious for that.
Clemo’s questions were thorough and he wanted detail. As I talked, I sat with my arms wrapped
around myself. He moved a lot, leaning forward at some moments, sitting back and crossing his legs