‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘There’s no news on Benedict’s whereabouts just yet, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to have a word with you about Nicola Forbes.’
He regained his composure impressively well. The man had nerves of steel. By the time his wife had reached the bottom of the stairs in the hallway behind him, wrapping a white dressing gown around herself, he had pulled the door open further and invited me in graciously.
RACHEL
Nicky opened the door. It was mid-morning, and DI Clemo was standing on the doorstep with Zhang.
‘Is there news?’ Nicky asked. It was all any of us ever seemed to say to each other. It was starting to sound pathetic to me, as if we would be punished just a little bit more each time we asked it, as if there were a vengeful God somewhere up there, counting each display of misplaced optimism.
There wasn’t any news. Clemo said that they were here to ‘have a chat’, though something in his tone of voice suggested otherwise. It made me feel wary, but Nicky seemed oblivious to it.
‘I could have used a little bit of notice,’ she said, ‘to get properly prepared for you, but I’m delighted you’ve made time to talk. We’re so very grateful. We’ve got so much to ask.’
She pulled some papers together, and tapped at her laptop, looking for a document.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a list here. It’s roughly broken into two categories: questions we have about the investigation, and suggested actions to help in the search for Ben. Do you have a preference for which we should start with? And how would you like your tea? Or would you prefer coffee?’
I was watching Clemo and Zhang. He was waiting for Nicky to finish. Zhang looked at her notebook, which she’d laid neatly on the table in front of her, then glanced sideways at Clemo. Whatever they were here to say, he was going to be the one to say it, and I was becoming certain that it wasn’t to discuss Nicky’s wish list.
‘Coffee, please,’ he said. Zhang wanted some too.
As Nicky filled a cafetière with boiling water and set it down in front of us, Clemo watched her in a way that made frost settle on my skin.
‘From our point of view,’ she said, ‘this is so valuable. I’ve been doing some research, as you can see -’ she smiled at them – ‘and everywhere it says that there’s a much higher chance of success in finding the child if there’s a close relationship between law enforcement and the family. So – thank you. So much. Help yourselves to milk and sugar.’ She set down a sugar bowl and a small china jug. Steam rose from its contents. She’d warmed the milk.
DI Clemo opened his notebook and had a quick look inside it. He closed it again. Nicky finally heard the silence.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m gabbling, aren’t I? Sorry.’ She pulled out a chair, sat down and looked attentively at Clemo and Zhang.
Clemo cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Do either of you know of a couple called Andrew and Naomi Bowness?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Nicky?’ he asked my sister.
Her face had emptied of colour, instantly. It was extraordinary.
‘Oh God no,’ she said, and the tendons on her neck appeared stretched and odd as she looked first at me and then back at Clemo, searching our faces for something. She stood up abruptly but didn’t seem to know what to do then.
‘This will be easier if you can sit down and talk it through with us,’ said Clemo.
‘No,’ said Nicky. ‘Don’t do this.’ Her hands were clasped together, the edges of her fingers white from the pressure of her grasp.
‘Please sit,’ Clemo insisted.
She didn’t sit; she crumpled back into her chair, as if he’d sunk his fist into her stomach.
‘What about their son, Charlie Bowness?’ asked Clemo in a tone that seemed carefully controlled to sound light. He adjusted his chair, moving it just a little closer to Nicky. She wouldn’t look at him.
‘Nicky?’ he asked. ‘You know who they are, don’t you?’
‘You know I do,’ she whispered.
‘And you?’ he asked me. ‘Do you know?’
‘I’ve never heard of them,’ I said.
I was transfixed at the sight of my sister so vulnerable and defenceless. I was aware that I should probably move, and go to her, but there was a ghastly momentum in the room now, and it felt unstoppable.
‘She doesn’t know,’ said my sister. ‘She hasn’t got a clue and that’s the way it should be.’ Hatred had crept into her voice, and it was directed at Clemo.
He persisted. ‘And what about Alice and Katy Bowness? Do you know who they are?’
Nicky began to shake her head violently.
‘Alice and Katy Bowness,’ he repeated. ‘Do you know who they are?’ He spoke slowly, giving each word space and a weight, as if it were a rock being dropped into water.
She looked right at him, and it seemed to cost her an enormous effort to do that. Defiance and defeat waged war in her expression. She spoke her next words quietly. ‘I know who they are.’
‘Have you heard of them?’ he asked me.
‘No!’ I said. ‘Who the hell are they? Have they got Ben?’
‘Are you sure you haven’t heard of them?’
‘No! She hasn’t! She’s telling the truth,’ said my sister.
Clemo remained impassive. He contemplated me, and then my sister, in turn. I felt my chest tighten.
‘Will you tell her, or will I?’ he said to Nicky.
‘You bastard.’
Zhang started to speak but Clemo held a hand up to silence her.
‘Careful,’ he said to Nicky.
‘You’re frightening me,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand.’
Nicky turned towards me. I was sitting at right angles to her, at the head of the table. She wanted to take my hand and I let her.
‘Who are these people?’ I said.
‘Andrew and Naomi Bowness…’ said Nicky. It was hard for her to go on. A sob escaped her. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel,’ she said. Her gaze flicked back to Clemo and he nodded at her, willing her to continue. She placed one trembling hand upon the other, so that my hand was buried beneath both of hers. I saw in her eyes that some kind of battle was lost.
‘Rachel,’ she said, ‘Andrew and Naomi Bowness are our parents. Our mum and dad.’
‘What do you mean? No they’re not. That’s not what our parents are called.’ I tried to pull my hand away but Nicky was gripping it now.
‘It is. Those are the real names of our parents,’ my sister said. Her eyes were begging me to understand but I didn’t, not really, not yet.
‘And Charlie Bowness?’ I said.
‘He…’ She was welling up again, but she got herself under control. ‘He was our brother.’
‘Brother?’ I’d never had a brother. ‘And the others? I suppose they’re our sisters are they?’
‘Tell her everything,’ said Clemo.
He’d broken Nicky, drained the fight out of her. In her expression I saw terrible suffering, terrible vulnerability and, most frightening of all, what looked like a plea for forgiveness.
‘Alice and Katy Bowness are us. Those were our names before they were changed. We were, we are, Alice and Katy Bowness.’
Clemo briskly pulled something from between the pages of his notebook. It was a newspaper cutting.
If he hadn’t showed it to me there and then I’m not sure that I’d have believed any of them. I’d always been told that my parents died in a car accident. You could tell the story in an instant and I’d been doing that for years: our parents died in a head-on collision with a lorry. It had been nobody’s fault, just a tragic accident. The steering on the lorry was proved to be faulty. My parents were cremated and their ashes scattered. There was no headstone. End of story.
Except that apparently it wasn’t.
I wasn’t who I thought I was, and nor was Nicky.
Clemo handed me a photocopy of a newspaper article from 30 March 1982, thirty years ago. There was a photograph of a couple that I recognised as my parents. My Aunt Esther had had one photograph of them on her mantelpiece and this grainy image showed the same two people. The difference was that in this image they were with three children.