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‘Have you had any incidents at work where patients or their families have been unhappy with you?
Could somebody be bearing a grudge against you?’
He didn’t reply to my question immediately, it took him a moment or two to consider it.
‘There are always unhappy outcomes, inevitably, and some families don’t take it well. I have been
the subject of legal action once or twice, but that’s normal in my line of work. The hospital will be
able to supply you with details.’
‘You can’t remember them?’
‘I remember the names of the children, but not their parents. I try not to get too involved. You learn
not to dwell on the failures, Inspector. The death of a child is a terrible thing to bear, even if the
responsibility isn’t ultimately yours, because you did everything you could.’
Even through his fatigue, the look he gave me was sharp, and I felt as though there might be a
warning in his words somewhere.
I drove out to the woods after the interview. I wanted to see the scene for myself. I took a pool car.
The drive gave me a chance to get out of the city for a bit, and think about the interviews, get my
thoughts straight. My impressions were that the parents were both private people, though John Finch
was possibly more complicated than Rachel, and certainly more proud. They were both intelligent,
and articulate, a classic middle-class profile. It didn’t mean that they were whiter than white though.
We had to remember that.
In forensic terms the scenes at the woods were carnage. The combination of shocking weather,
multiple people, animals and vehicles had churned up the paths and especially the parking area. I took
a walk to the rope swing where Ben was alleged to have gone missing and regretted forgetting to
bring wellington boots. It was a damp site, with trees crowded round it. It gave me a creepy, sinister
feeling like you get in fairy tales, and in some way that was more unsettling than some of the rankest
urban crime scenes I’ve visited.
I talked to the scenes of crime officers. They were nice guys, cheerfully pessimistic about their
chances of finding anything that might be useful to the investigation.
‘If I’m honest it’s not looking good,’ one of them said, stepping over the crime scene tape. It was
bright yellow and hung limply across the pathway that led to the rope swing. He pulled a plastic
glove from his hand so that he could shake mine. ‘The conditions are atrocious. But if there’s anything
to be found we’ll find it.’
I gave him my card. ‘Will you—’
He interrupted me. ‘Call you if we find anything? Of course.’
We had our first full team briefing with Fraser at 16.00 back at Kenneth Steele House. We gathered
around the table, everybody ready to work, tense and serious, trying not to think about where this case
could go. A missing kid is the kind of case you do your job for. Nobody wants a kid to be harmed.
You could see it on every face there.
‘First things first,’ said DCI Fraser. ‘Codename for this case is Operation Huckleberry. We’re
hunting for two people: Ben Finch, eight years old, and whoever has abducted him. They may or may
not be together. The abductor may be a member of his family, or he or she may be an acquaintance or
indeed a complete stranger. They may be holed up with Ben or they may be living normally on the
surface and returning to Ben occasionally. They may already have harmed or murdered Ben. We need
to keep open minds.’
She cast her eye around the table. She had everybody’s attention.