69236538256563

RACHEL
What happened next was that the attitude of the police towards me tightened, or perhaps I should say
sharpened. It was clear as day to me, even though on the surface they still showed appropriate
concern.
I first realised it when DI Clemo came to see me after the conference and could barely contain his
irritation.
Zhang had brought me yet another cup of tea that I couldn’t drink, and sat my sister and me in a
boxy interview room until my nausea had subsided to a manageable level and I felt ready to travel
home.
When Clemo appeared his eyes were burning. He remained standing, his bulk dominating the
space.
‘Rachel,’ he said, ‘you do understand that things didn’t run entirely to plan at the press
conference?’
He was handling me. I tried to say something, to justify what had happened, but he held up a hand,
even though he’d asked me a question.
‘Let me finish if you will,’ he said. ‘Our primary concern now is that there may be some kind of
backlash against you. We suggest that you keep a very low profile around the press, as low as
possible.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Don’t talk to them. It’s very simple.’
‘It’s for your own protection,’ said Zhang, ‘and Ben’s.’
‘What do you mean by backlash?’ Nicky wanted to know.
‘Precisely that. This is a high-profile case. The press conference was, unfortunately, sensational,
and for all the wrong reasons. The public want to find Ben as much as we do, but unlike us they might
not be looking for evidence before making accusations. Do I make myself clear?’
‘I understand,’ said Nicky. ‘They’re going to say that Rachel did it.’
‘They’re already saying it.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Go home, shut the doors, pull the curtains, don’t speak to any journalists. DC Zhang will drive you
back.’
‘What about Ben?’ I said.
‘We’re going to continue to do everything we can to find him and we’ll keep you posted on our
progress.’ It was a phrase that was as bland and meaningless as a corporate slogan. If I’d ever had a
connection with him, I felt as if it was lost now.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
At home, Nicky and Laura and I watched in silence as the footage from the conference played on
national TV.
I’d been filmed in close-up. I looked as if I’d crawled out of a primitive encampment after a long
siege. The injury on my head was prominent; it drew the eye like a disfigurement, and livid red spots
on my pale cheeks made me look feverish, and deranged. My eyes sagged with grief and exhaustion,
and roved around the room, restless and jumpy. Every flaw and muscle twitch and emotion was
visible on my face, and the moment when I addressed Ben’s abductor was the worst. There wasn’t a