A Broken Tooth, A Trail Of Blood

We found sinister clues where our poor boy died

- Frances Leate

Winking, my stepson Ben, 23, flashed a cheeky grin at a pretty girl walking past the house.

‘Always one eye on the ladies,’ chuckled my hubby Richie, 45, as we stood on the drive chatting.

It was June 2018 and Ben had spent the day at ours.

Cracking jokes, always talking non-stop. He was full of energy. When I’d first got together with Richie, 10 years ago, he’d told me about Ben and his younger brother, Jordan, now 20.

But he’d lost contact with them when they were little.

Only, Ben, then 14, managed to get in touch

48with Richie via Facebook. And, now, the three of them were closer than ever.

The lads lived with their mum Julia, 49, round the corner.

It meant the world to Richie, having his boys backin his life.

Ben was outgoing, made my daughter Lara, then 20, laugh.

He was handy with a spanner, too, just like his dad – forever tinkering away on his bikes.

And he adored his beloved French mastiff Goldie.

One Saturday night, some weeks later, Lara drove Richie to the local Labour Club.

‘I’d come, but I’m shattered,’ I said, and went off to run myself a bath.

But, 20 minutes later, there was a knock on the front door.

‘What’s happened?’ I gasped, opening it to two policemen.

‘Does Richie Priest live here?’ one asked. ‘It’s about his son Ben.’ And just like that, I knew. ‘Ben’s dead isn’t he?’

I croaked.

But they wanted to wait for Richie.

Lara brought him back straight away.