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us that. He came to our house and we sat in the kitchen together and Ben stared at the table while Clemo talked and when he’d finished Ben left the room without a word and went upstairs to his room and began to build with his Lego. It’s what he does when he doesn’t want to talk about things. He makes amazing contraptions. I don’t know if Ben took in the detective’s words or not. Clemo and I were left alone at the table. Ben had not made eye contact with either of us. Afterwards, I watched Clemo get back in his car, and his head fell onto his hands and his shoulders shook, but I couldn’t feel sympathy, because all of me must be dedicated to Ben, to his recovery. So I turned away and went upstairs. I sat beside my boy while he built. I didn’t speak, I just hoped to reassure him with my presence. I waited for him to finish so that he could explain to me what he’d made, and how it worked, so that he could show me how creative he’d been. Clemo emailed me shortly afterwards, from a home email address. He sent me an extract from a poem by W. B. Yeats: Verse from ‘To a Child Dancing in the Wind’ by W. B. Yeats Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn’d? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned, I could have warned you, but you are young, So we speak a different tongue. You couldn’t have saved him from her, Clemo wrote. There was nothing you could have done. If you’d tried to warn him of dangers this extreme, you’d have ruined his childhood. Nobody could have predicted this situation. I know how much you love him. I saw that. I hope he believed me when I told him that. I thought the email was sad, and painful, and kind too. I also suspected that Clemo was seeking reassurance for himself as much as he was offering it to me, and I wondered if he was having some kind of breakdown. I wanted to reply, but I didn’t know how to help him. I wanted to offer him solace, but I couldn’t find the words. Because I have only one job to do, and it requires all my focus. I must be patient as I hope for my son to come back to me, to come home in mind as well as in body and to do so completely. And so I struggle my way through the blackness, and I wait. And I hope to do that in private. And that is all anybody needs to know.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am hugely grateful to the following people: Emma Beswetherick, my brilliant editor, whose enthusiasm, support, guidance and suggestions have improved this book beyond measure. Thank you. Caroline Kirkpatrick, Grace Menary-Winefield, Kate Doran and Victoria Gilder. Thank you so much to you all, and also to everybody else who has worked wonders on the book at Little, Brown, especially Sean Garrehy for the brilliant cover design. Nelle Andrew, my fabulous agent, who has a very big heart. A massive thank you for taking a punt on a bit of a dodgy first draft and for contributing so much to help me turn it into something better. Big thanks too to Rachel Mills, Alexandra Cliff and Marilia Savvides at PFD. Abbie Ross, my writing partner. Thank you so much for reading and re-reading, for tirelessly offering your comments and for the friendship along the way. Philippa Lowthorpe. Thank you for the lengthy dog walks, for all the encouragement, and for the advice on storytelling and much more that I couldn’t have done without. My two retired detectives. Thank you for so kindly giving up your time for coffees and a very long chat about all things police and procedure related. It was invaluable. Any errors in the book are all mine! My parents, Jonathan and Cilla Paget. Thank you for filling my childhood home with books and encouraging me to read them. Jules Macmillan. Thank you for all the spaghetti carbonara, and plot suggestions, for being Jim Clemo’s biggest fan and for backing the book all the way. Rose, Max and Louis Macmillan. You’ve been brilliant, because I couldn’t have done it without your support. Thank you for that, but most of all for making me smile every day.
- Page 286 and 287: ‘Cool,’ my avatar said. ‘New
- Page 288 and 289: me wants you here to run the invest
- Page 290 and 291: I behaved in an arrogant and disgus
- Page 292 and 293: RACHEL I logged on to Furry Footbal
- Page 294 and 295: ‘I know it was him,’ I said. Th
- Page 296 and 297: Her handbag was on the seat between
- Page 298 and 299: so that my toes were already numb.
- Page 300 and 301: ‘It’s what Miss May said, about
- Page 302 and 303: He sat back down. ‘Again,’ he s
- Page 304 and 305: JIM Nicky Forbes was disturbed by m
- Page 306 and 307: RACHEL It took me twenty-five minut
- Page 308 and 309: here. And then I saw something else
- Page 310 and 311: JIM Nicky Forbes’s expression was
- Page 312 and 313: RACHEL They prised me up off the ca
- Page 314 and 315: Operator: OK. They’re a few minut
- Page 316 and 317: RECORD OF EVIDENCE: AVON AND SOMERS
- Page 318 and 319: RACHEL Bristol Children’s Hospita
- Page 320 and 321: ‘Is the child all right?’ Mrs M
- Page 322 and 323: RACHEL I approached my son’s beds
- Page 324 and 325: EPILOGUE CHRISTMAS 2013 - ONE YEAR,
- Page 326 and 327: RACHEL A few weeks ago, somebody as
- Page 328 and 329: that he loved so much in return. Th
- Page 330 and 331: JIM Addendum to DI James Clemo’s
- Page 332 and 333: JC: Yes. FM: Have you seen her sinc
- Page 334 and 335: RACHEL We might never have closure,
- Page 338: BIBLIOGRAPHY The following websites
us that.<br />
He came to our house and we sat in the kitchen together and Ben stared at the table while Clemo<br />
talked and when he’d finished Ben left the room without a word and went upstairs to his room and<br />
began to build with his Lego. It’s what he does when he doesn’t want to talk about things. He makes<br />
amazing contraptions. I don’t know if Ben took in the detective’s words or not. Clemo and I were left<br />
alone at the table. Ben had not made eye contact with either of us.<br />
Afterwards, I watched Clemo get back in his car, and his head fell onto his hands and his shoulders<br />
shook, but I couldn’t feel sympathy, because all of me must be dedicated to Ben, to his recovery. So I<br />
turned away and went upstairs. I sat beside my boy while he built. I didn’t speak, I just hoped to<br />
reassure him with my presence. I waited for him to finish so that he could explain to me what he’d<br />
made, and how it worked, so that he could show me how creative he’d been.<br />
Clemo emailed me shortly afterwards, from a home email address. He sent me an extract from a<br />
poem by W. B. Yeats:<br />
Verse from ‘To a Child Dancing in the Wind’ by W. B. Yeats<br />
Has no one said those daring<br />
Kind eyes should be more learn’d?<br />
Or warned you how despairing<br />
The moths are when they are burned,<br />
I could have warned you, but you are young,<br />
So we speak a different tongue.<br />
You couldn’t have saved him from her, Clemo wrote. There was nothing you could have done. If<br />
you’d tried to warn him of dangers this extreme, you’d have ruined his childhood. Nobody could<br />
have predicted this situation. I know how much you love him. I saw that. I hope he believed me<br />
when I told him that.<br />
I thought the email was sad, and painful, and kind too.<br />
I also suspected that Clemo was seeking reassurance for himself as much as he was offering it to<br />
me, and I wondered if he was having some kind of breakdown.<br />
I wanted to reply, but I didn’t know how to help him. I wanted to offer him solace, but I couldn’t<br />
find the words.<br />
Because I have only one job to do, and it requires all my focus. I must be patient as I hope for my<br />
son to come back to me, to come home in mind as well as in body and to do so completely. And so I<br />
struggle my way through the blackness, and I wait.<br />
And I hope to do that in private.<br />
And that is all anybody needs to know.
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