69236538256563

RACHEL
In the car on the way to Kenneth Steele House, gobbets of sound blurted out of the police radio on the
dashboard, and the stop and start motions of the commuter traffic made the ride uncomfortable and
slow. Nicky had put on make-up and a perfume that was sickly. I wound down the window a little to
dilute the smell, but the air I let in was dirty and damply cold.
Nicky and Laura had persuaded me to wear a skirt, boots and shirt, so that I would appear
presentable. They hadn’t been able to do anything about my forehead. The gash was too angry and
raw. I didn’t care what I looked like.
None of us had spoken much, just a few murmurs of advice from Laura about how to face a camera
from her college media training, which I hadn’t been able to concentrate on, but had nodded just the
same.
In the kitchen, just before we left, they’d left me alone momentarily, and I saw the notepad Nicky
had been using the night before. It lay face down on the table. I flipped it over, knowing I shouldn’t,
unable to stop myself.
‘Notes’ Nicky had underlined and then she’d jotted down some statistics: ‘532 missing kids UK
2011/12.’
I read on: ‘82% abductions are family kidnappings. Of non-family abductions, 38% kids taken by
friend or long-term acquaintance; 5% by neighbour; 6% by persons of authority; 4% caretaker or
babysitter; 37% by strangers; 8% slight acquaintances.’
There was more: ‘Crime is most often a result of interactions between motivated offenders,
available targets and lack of vigilant guardianship to prevent crime.’
I couldn’t stop reading. I was transfixed by it, carried along by the dry academic tone, and the
horror of the content. The next paragraph began: ‘First law enforcement response is CRITICAL.’
She’d underlined that, two lines drawn so hard that they’d gouged the page. What I started to read
next was worse: ‘When abducted child is killed, killer—’
Before I got further Nicky came back into the room and snatched the notepad from me.
‘Don’t look at that!’ she said. ‘Not now.’ She ripped off the pages of notes and put them in her
handbag. ‘You mustn’t look. We’re not there yet. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it out.’
‘How the hell are you finding this stuff?’ I asked. ‘What is it? Where’s it from? Show me!’ I held
my hand out for the notes, but she wasn’t having any of it.
‘Don’t concern yourself with that. Honestly, Rachel, don’t think about it. Let’s go. It’s time to go.
Let me look at you one more time.’
She held me gently by the shoulders, looked me over, a frown fleetingly crossing her brow when
she looked at my forehead, and all the while I searched her eyes for clues to what she’d read, to how
and where she’d found the information so quickly and to the side of her personality which allowed
her the detachment to look at the darkest side of this in a way that I simply couldn’t contemplate.
At the police station they showed me into the same room as the previous day. Somebody had arranged
four Jammie Dodgers on a plate for us. The centres of the biscuits were crimson and resinous, like
excretions from a wound. The room smelled of stewed tea.
I sat there with Nicky, Zhang and Clemo going over a statement that he wanted me to read out, an
appeal to Ben’s abductor. I looked over the words with a sense of detachment and surrealism. They
didn’t resemble my speech in any way. I felt deeply uneasy.