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told him to fuck off. ‘Tell Fraser,’ I said to Emma. ‘Or I will.’ ‘Jim.’ ‘You need to go and do the right thing or this could hang us all. Now.’ I started up the car and eased back into the traffic. I couldn’t look at her. In the rear-view mirror I could see a vast mural covering the side of an office building: a mother and child. It was a pure image, made of black lines and a white background, the mother’s lips as sensual as Emma’s. I thumped the dashboard again, felt the pain again, and then I took the car in the direction of Kenneth Steele House. On the way, we didn’t speak at all. When we parked at Kenneth Steele House, Emma got out of the car without a word and I watched her walk across the car park, and climb the steps to the entrance, slowly, straight-backed. I gave it a full twenty minutes before I followed her. Twenty minutes of gazing through the windscreen at the sharp-tipped silvered-metal railings that encircled the car park and wondering whether she was doing the right thing in there. When I finally got out of the car, my body was protesting with fatigue, and I checked my face in the wing mirror to be sure I wasn’t wearing the whole episode for anybody to read. Inside, I said my normal hello to Lesley who was on Reception, and she smiled at me, and I hoped she didn’t notice that I felt like I was wading through shit.

RACHEL With Zhang not answering her phone, and somebody in the incident room telling me that Clemo and Fraser were unavailable too, I had to turn to John. Or, as the papers would have it, the unimpeachable Mr John Finch, Consultant Paediatric General Surgeon and proud owner of a lovely new wife. He answered the phone with the same haste with which I jumped on every call I received. To give him credit he quickly managed the disappointment he obviously felt when I said I didn’t have news, took me seriously when I explained about the pictures in the book and didn’t demur when I asked him to drive me, and the book, to the police station. Heading up the steps of Kenneth Steele House, I realised I could barely even remember our arrival nearly a week before. The receptionist told us that if we’d like to leave the book with her then she’d ensure that it was taken up to the incident room. I said that I’d like to speak to somebody in person. I mentioned DC Zhang, and DI Clemo. She asked us to sit and we perched side by side on the same sofa we’d occupied on Monday morning. She made some hushed calls, head down, covering her mouth as if we could lip-read. Then she crossed the foyer, heels clipping the floor noisily, and said, ‘Someone will be down to see you soon. If you wouldn’t mind being patient.’ She brought us hot tea in plastic cups so thin you could burn your fingers. John passed the time by looking through Ben’s book methodically, page by page, over and over again. I could barely sit down; I was pulsating with impatience, and after what felt like an interminable wait I approached the desk again. ‘Somebody’s coming, they’re rather busy up there this morning,’ I was told. ‘Can we interrupt them, this is very important?’ ‘They know you’re here, they’re just in a meeting.’ ‘Can I just speak to DC Zhang?’ ‘Please be patient, Mrs Finch.’ ‘My name is Jenner.’ ‘Sorry, Ms Jenner. DC Zhang and DI Clemo have only recently arrived themselves and I’ve rung the incident room but they’re both tied up just at the moment. If you can try to be patient one of them will be down before long, I assure you.’ ‘Please.’ ‘I would ask you to sit down again if possible.’ I sat, my knees jigging, hands wringing. John said, ‘Perhaps it’s best if we just leave the books here.’ ‘What if they can’t read Ben’s writing?’ ‘Rachel…⁠’ ‘No. I want to hand them over myself, explain them.’ After another ten minutes I felt my patience snap. I took the book from John and said, ‘If they’re not coming down here I’m bloody well going to go up there.’ ‘No, don’t do that,’ John said, but he was too slow to stop me. I marched to reception, propelled forward by my certainty, and my outrage that nobody had come to listen to us. ‘Where are they?’ I said to the receptionist. ‘Mrs Jenner, if you can just be a bit more patient—’

told him to fuck off.<br />

‘Tell Fraser,’ I said to Emma. ‘Or I will.’<br />

‘Jim.’<br />

‘You need to go and do the right thing or this could hang us all. Now.’<br />

I started up the car and eased back into the traffic. I couldn’t look at her. In the rear-view mirror I<br />

could see a vast mural covering the side of an office building: a mother and child. It was a pure<br />

image, made of black lines and a white background, the mother’s lips as sensual as Emma’s. I<br />

thumped the dashboard again, felt the pain again, and then I took the car in the direction of Kenneth<br />

Steele House. On the way, we didn’t speak at all.<br />

When we parked at Kenneth Steele House, Emma got out of the car without a word and I watched<br />

her walk across the car park, and climb the steps to the entrance, slowly, straight-backed. I gave it a<br />

full twenty minutes before I followed her. Twenty minutes of gazing through the windscreen at the<br />

sharp-tipped silvered-metal railings that encircled the car park and wondering whether she was doing<br />

the right thing in there.<br />

When I finally got out of the car, my body was protesting with fatigue, and I checked my face in the<br />

wing mirror to be sure I wasn’t wearing the whole episode for anybody to read. Inside, I said my<br />

normal hello to Lesley who was on Reception, and she smiled at me, and I hoped she didn’t notice<br />

that I felt like I was wading through shit.

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