Ben (14 page)

‘You drink too much. You make love to the boys. Yes?’

The girl cried, screamed, ‘No, they raped me!’ but her words were met with stone ears.

At some point the officer left for ten or twenty minutes, as usual with no explanation. He returned with a book of photographs.

‘Look. Find the men.’

That was it. His investigation extended to searching a file of previous occupants of the downstairs cells.

In England, even in the late 1980s, there would have been a female police officer present. There would have been a change of clothes. At the very least there would have been some privacy. But we saw and heard every word of that poor girl’s testimony. At the end, we all looked at each other, the same thoughts running through our minds.

If they can treat a victim of rape so off-handedly, how on earth are they going to treat us?

Dad picked up his glass of water and, ignoring the looks from the officers, took it over. The women had been offered nothing. That told us everything. We were terrified. Absolutely terrified.

On his way back, Dad closed the door. He glared at Bafounis as if to say,
You should have done that
, but the chief of security police didn’t look up. He did, though, when Dad went over to the desk and leant down on it. He was very close to losing his temper.

‘I went to the docks last night,’ Dad said, as calmly as he could manage. ‘Where were your officers? They said they would be there. Where were they?’

There was no clue on Bafounis’s face that he’d understood a word. He picked up a phone and, a moment later, the second of the previous night’s officers appeared. Greek words were exchanged then the officer said, ‘There was an emergency last night. The Albanian gypsies got out of control. We all had to help.’ He looked at Dad’s unimpressed face. ‘I’m sorry.’

Throughout it all Bafounis hadn’t said a word. But, I realised, he’d obviously understood Dad enough to summon his officer. So why wouldn’t he speak to us? Not even to Dad, a man?

It’s fair to say we were losing patience and, with it, respect for the way Bafounis and his team were conducting the investigation. What was the point of them covering every inch of the island with officers – as we assumed they were doing – if they went on to treat us like this? Why tell us to ‘sit’ and then pretend we weren’t there? Would it have hurt Bafounis to at least tell us what he and his team were doing?

Another half-hour passed and then the first of the previous night’s officers returned. He spoke to his chief, nodded at us, then addressed Dad.

‘Your baby is not at the hospital.’

Then he smiled a goodbye and left.

‘Of course he’s not at a hospital,’ I said.

‘So where is he?’ Dad asked.

‘He’ll be here soon. Someone will hand him in. Whoever found him will bring him here soon.’

And then I relaxed back onto the hard bench.

We stayed there for another two hours. Then there was another commotion from the main door. This time it was a voice we all recognised. But why was it coming from the hall?

‘Hello, everyone!’ The irrepressible figure of Xanthippe Aggrelli – Sissy from the beach shop – burst into the room. Sissy was about six foot, slim with dark hair, pretty fair skin for a Kos native, vivid red lips and a high-pitched voice. As usual she was dressed in a suit more fit for a courtroom than a tourist shop. For the first time it didn’t look out of place.

She hugged us all and expressed her condolences, then spoke to Bafounis. A few minutes later another figure entered the room. He was older, in full police uniform with badges and epaulettes. He looked like he was in charge.

‘This is Chief Dakouras,’ Sissy explained. ‘He is the boss.’

We shook his hand and he disappeared in a show of theatrical gestures. Then Sissy said, ‘Mr Bafounis would like to interview you all. I shall be your interpreter.’

The odds of our local shopkeeper just happening to arrive to translate our statements were implausibly long. Under interrogation from us, Sissy eventually revealed that she hadn’t been invited to help at all. She’d seen Monica with Danny and George and had learnt of our tragedy. She’d put a call in to her good friend Dakouras, and offered her services. That was an hour ago. Now here she was, ready to act as our go-between.

Dad went first. He followed Bafounis and Sissy into another room, then emerged half an hour later. Then it was Mum’s turn. For the last six hours, she hadn’t said a word. She’d barely acknowledged Sissy’s arrival, even when she was forced into a hug. Dad helped her to her feet and encouraged her to the door. Sissy was all smiles and sympathy as she escorted Mum into the room.

Another half-hour passed. I don’t know what they got from Mum. She sat down silently and stayed that way as Stephen was
called in. Finally it was my turn. I sat down opposite Bafounis. Sissy was on his left. Bafounis asked a question in Greek, Sissy translated it into basic English and I replied. The first questions were standard identification information: name, address, parents’ information, address in England. Nothing, to my mind, that could help anyone find my son. Finally, they asked me what had happened the day before. I told them what I could, which was very little. As Sissy relayed it to Bafounis he wrote it all down in small, wiry Greek script. My statement barely covered a page. Dad, who knew more than anyone, said his testimony covered just four.

Bafounis showed little interest in anything I said. Only when he asked for Ben’s full name did he look up. Via Sissy, he said, ‘What is the baby’s name?’

‘Ben Stephen Needham.’

He wrote it down and repeated slowly, ‘Ben, Stephen, Needham.’

Then he looked at me, his charcoal eyes burning into me. I sank into my seat. I was frightened. The way he was glaring made me feel guilty – of what, I didn’t know. What was he going to say?

‘Stephen is the father’s name?’

It took me a couple of goes to explain. ‘No, his father is Simon. Simon Ward.’

Bafounis consulted his notes.

‘Your brother is called Stephen.’

‘Yes.’

Something was troubling him. It was written in his face. I wished my dad was with me.

‘Stephen is not his father?’

‘No, Stephen is his middle name. My brother is also called Stephen. It’s a coincidence.’

Sissy explained as best she could. Greek boys usually take their fathers’ names. Bafounis was struggling to comprehend why Ben was named after his uncle and not his dad. I don’t know what was going through his mind, but I did know it wasn’t helping find my son.

Before I left the interview room I asked Sissy, ‘What’s going on? They’re not telling us anything. Where are they searching?’

She spoke to Bafounis and relayed his reply. ‘They’re looking, they’re looking. You must wait.’ Then she smiled and shooed me out.

We sat on the wooden benches for another two hours and nobody told us a thing. Slowly the message got through: there was nothing to tell because they were doing nothing. There wasn’t an army of officers tearing Kos apart. There was no island-wide manhunt. It was a joke. They were just waiting, like us, for someone to hand Ben in. That was their idea of police work.

If I had known they weren’t looking, there’s no way we would have wasted a whole day sitting in the police station: we’d have been out knocking on doors. Asking people, doing something, anything.

Dad snapped first. ‘I’ve had enough of this. They’re doing bugger all. If we want things done, we’ll have to get proper help.’

No one seemed bothered that we were leaving. An officer asked if we’d be at home overnight and Dad said yes. Then we left and drove straight to the Palm Beach Hotel. I wanted to update my friends. Dad wanted to make a phone call.

Manos was happy to let us borrow the phone in reception. Most of the customers were in the restaurant so there wasn’t a problem with noise. After a few minutes’ flicking through the phone books under the desk, Dad dialled a number.

‘Hello, British Embassy.’

Dad spoke to someone for five minutes. He explained everything that was going on, ending on how unsatisfactory the police response had been so far.

The embassy man listened. Then he asked, ‘Have you been interviewed?’

‘Yes,’ Dad said.

‘Was there somebody to translate for you?’

‘Yes. Although she was only a shopkeeper.’

‘Is your daughter by herself?’

‘No, she has me, her mother and brothers. We’re all together.’

There was a pause. Then the man said, ‘Okay, well, it sounds as though everything is being done correctly. There’s nothing we can do.’ He wished us luck and rang off.

Manos spoke very good English but I doubt he knew half the words Dad came out with as he slammed the phone down. The air was blue. I hadn’t seen Dad this livid since my days dodging school.

‘You’re told that the British Embassy is there for you if you get into trouble abroad,’ he raged. ‘Well, that’s a joke. They don’t want to know.’

The man had been brisk, unsympathetic and, in Dad’s opinion given the situation, borderline rude.

Dad reached his arms around all of us. The huddle calmed him down and reassured the rest of us.

‘The police aren’t doing anything and the embassy doesn’t want anything to do with us,’ he said. ‘We’re on our own.’

That was the night I cried.

We were back at the caravan. Ben had been missing for thirty hours. All the rational explanations were being tested to their limit. If he’d been rescued, he should have been handed in to the police by now. If he’d been injured, the hospital should have been alerted. So where was he?

Monica came over to drop Danny off. I’m sure she had questions but one look at our faces told her everything.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

Someone said ‘No.’

‘I thought so. I’ve brought soup.’

No one felt like eating but we needed to. I hadn’t touched a thing since a slice of toast at breakfast. As I broke off a piece of bread to dip, my mind went to the tea towel wrapped around Ben’s neck the previous morning. That was the last time I’d seen him. He was sitting, eating exactly where I was now.

I don’t know what happened to my bowl afterwards. I think Monica must have washed them all up. I know she took Mum in hand. She got her clean and ready for bed. Somebody needed to, but none of us had the strength. We were all barely clinging on ourselves. Monica was a godsend.

It was when she’d gone and I was curled up on the bed that I noticed my pillow getting damp. The tears came and they wouldn’t stop. I hugged my knees in to my chest, shuddering silently under the thin sheet. I didn’t want anyone to hear me. I needed to be strong. For Mum, for my brothers. For Ben.

We all managed to sleep. The next morning I made breakfast for everyone. Only toast again, under the small gas grill. I didn’t mind if it was eaten or not. I was acting on instinct, going through the motions. I just needed to be busy. Mum stayed in bed. It was Day 3.

The sun was already beating down by ten o’clock but no one had any inclination to leave the caravan. Where would we go? What would we do? Then, at eleven, the sound of a vehicle slowing along the short gravel driveway had us all scrambling for a window.

It was a police car.

‘Ben!’

I was off the sofa in a heartbeat and at the door in two. Stephen, Danny and Dad were close behind. I’d moved so quickly the white Citroën was still parking. By the time the driver opened his door I was halfway to it, the short prickly grass that jabbed into my bare feet barely registering. I stopped at the gravel, ignored the driver walking towards us and instead studied his partner, still easing out of the car. The glare of sun on glass meant I couldn’t see in the back of the car. The bead of sweat on my forehead wasn’t due to the temperature – any second now, that policeman would open the rear door and scoop out my baby.

But he didn’t touch the handle. He didn’t even glance behind as he slammed his own door and followed his partner to where we were all gathered, breathless, waiting, looking in his arms,
looking behind him, looking in the car. He seemed oblivious to his audience. If anything, he stared more intently at Stephen’s motorbike than he did us.

‘Where’s Ben?’ I called out. ‘Have you got Ben?’

They both shrugged. The pain in my feet bit. My knees buckled. I sank into my dad’s chest. Elation to emptiness in seconds. If they didn’t have him, why were they here? I felt sick.

‘Has there been an accident? Is he all right?’

The policeman who had been driving raised his hand. ‘We have good news.’

He ushered us to the shaded seats under the canopy. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus.

‘We have had a sighting,’ the officer began. ‘A lady in a cigarette kiosk saw your baby.’

‘Where?’ Five voices at once.

‘At the airport.’

The airport? What would Ben be doing at the airport? My hands were white where they gripped the arms of the plastic chair. It was a joke.
How could he get there? He’s not even two.

Then I heard what the policeman was really saying, and my nightmares started.

They had taken a photograph of Ben to the airport and shown it around. This had been that morning. Not on the 24th, not even yesterday. Still, the lady who ran the cigarette concession had taken one look at the picture and said, ‘He was here.’