The Night Ferry

by Michael Robotham

  A loose page slips from the center of the brochure.

  “This child could be yours,” it reads. “Born this month: a boy, white, with an unknown father. The mother, 18, is a prostitute and former drug user, now clean. This baby could be yours for a facilitation fee and medical expenses.”

  Returning the documents to the plastic bag, I snap the rubber bands in place.

  The phone number on the back of Samira’s photograph needed a foreign prefix. Cate visited the Netherlands in February. She announced she was twelve weeks pregnant in May.

  I pick up the telephone next to the bed and call international inquiries. It feels wrong to call from the scene of the crime, as though I’m confessing. An operator gives me the country code for the Netherlands. Adding “31” this time, I call the number.

  It connects. The ring tone is long and dull.

  Someone picks up. Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Someone is breathing.

  “I’m trying to reach Samira. Is she there?”

  A guttural voice, bubbling with phlegm, answers me. “Who is calling?”

  The accent might be Dutch. It sounds more East European.

  “A friend.”

  “Your name?”

  “Actually, I’m a friend of a friend.”

  “Your name and your friend’s name?”

  Distrust sweeps over me like a cold shadow. I don’t like this voice. I can feel it searching for me, reaching inside my chest, feeling blindly for my soft center, my soul.

  “Is Samira there?”

  “There is nobody here.”

  I try to sound calm. “I am calling on behalf of Cate Beaumont. I have the rest of the money.”

  I am extrapolating on the known facts, which is just a fancy way of saying that I’m winging it. How much further can I go?

  The phone goes dead.

  Not far enough.

  Putting the receiver back on its cradle, I smooth the bed and pick up my things. As I turn toward the door I hear a tinkling sound. I know what it is. I made just such a sound when I smashed a pane of glass in the French doors.

  Someone is in the house. What are the chances of two intruders on the same night? Slim. None. Tucking the package into the waistband of my jeans, I peer over the banister. There are muffled voices in the hall. At least two. A torch beam passes the bottom of the stairs. I pull back.

  What to do? I shouldn’t be here. Neither should they. Ahead of me are the stairs to the loft. Climbing them quickly, I reach a door that opens on stiff hinges.

  From downstairs: “Did you hear something?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “Nah.”

  “I’ll check upstairs.”

  One of them sounds Irish. It could be Brendan Pearl.

  “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “You notice that?”

  “What?”

  “The windows are covered in plastic. Why would they do that?”

  “Fucked if I know. Just get on with it.”

  The loft seems to be full of odd angles and narrow corners. My eyes are getting used to the dark. I can make out a single bed, a cabinet, a fan on a stand and cardboard boxes of clutter and bric-a-brac.

  Squeezing into a space formed by the cabinet and the sloping roof, I pull boxes in front of me. I need a weapon. The iron bed has heavy brass balls on the bedposts. I unscrew one of them quietly and peel off a sock, slipping the ball inside. It slips down to the toe and I weigh it in my hands. It could break bones.

  Returning to my hiding place, I listen for footsteps on the stairs and watch the door. I have to call the police. If I flip open my phone the screen will light up like a neon sign saying, “Here I am! Come and get me!”

  Shielding it in both hands, I dial 999. An operator answers.

  “Officer in trouble. Intruders on premises.”

  I whisper the address and my badge number. I can’t stay on the line. The phone closes and the screen goes dark. Only my breathing now and the footsteps…

  The door opens. A torch beam flashes and swings across the room. I can’t see the figure behind it. He can’t see me. He stumbles over a box and sends Christmas baubles spilling across the floor. The light finds one of them close to my feet.

  He puts the torch on the bed, facing toward him. It reflects off his forehead. Brendan Pearl. All my weight is on the balls of my feet, ready to fight. What’s he doing?

  There is something in his fist. A box-like can. He presses it and a stream of liquid arcs from the nozzle, shining silver in the torch beam. He presses again, soaking the boxes and drawing patterns on the walls. Fluid splashes across my forehead, leaking into my eyes.

  Red hot wires stab into my brain and the smell catches in the back of my throat. Lighter fluid. Fire!

  The pain is unimaginable, but I mustn’t move. He’s going to set fire to the house. I have to get out. I can’t see. Vibrations on the stairs. He’s gone. Crawling from my hiding place, I reach the door and press my ear against it.

  My eyes are useless. I need water to flush them out. There’s a bathroom on the first floor as well as an en suite in the main bedroom. I can find them but only if Pearl has gone. I can’t afford to wait.

  Something breaks with a crack and topples over downstairs. My vision is blurred but I see a light. Not light. Fire!

  The ground floor is ablaze and the smoke is rising. Clinging to the handrail, I make it down to the landing. Feeling my way along the wall, I reach the en suite and splash water into my eyes. I can see only blurred outlines, shadows instead of sharp detail.

  The smoke is getting thicker. On my hands and knees, I feel my way across the bedroom, smelling the lighter fluid on the carpet. When the fire reaches this floor it will accelerate. The study window is still open. I crawl across the landing, bumping my head against a wall. My fingers find the skirting board. I can feel the heat.

  Finding the window, I lean outside and take deep breaths between spluttering coughs. There is a whooshing sound behind me. Flames sweep past the open door. Hungry. Feeding on the accelerant.

  Climbing onto the window ledge I look down. I can just make out the garden, sixteen feet below. A jump like that will break both my legs. I turn my head toward the downpipe bolted to the wall. My eyes are useless. How far was it? Four feet. Maybe a little more.

  I can feel the heat of the fire on the backs of my legs. A window blows out beneath me. I hear glass scattering through the shrubbery.

  I have to back myself to do this. I have to trust my memory and my instincts. Toppling sideways, I reach out, falling.

  My left hand brushes past the pipe. My right hand hooks around it. Momentum will either pull me loose or rip my shoulder out. Two hands have it now. My hip crashes against the bricks and I hang on.

  Hand below hand, I shimmy toward the ground. Sirens are coming. My feet touch soft earth and I wheel about, stumbling a dozen paces before tripping over a flower bed and sprawling on my face.

  Every window at the rear of the house is lit up. Through my watery eyes it sounds and looks like a university party. The ultimate housewarming.

  12

  Two detectives have turned up. One of them I remember from training college, Eric Softell. The name sounds like a brand of toilet paper, which is why they nicknamed him “Arsewipe” at training college. Not me, of course. Sikh girls don’t risk calling people names.

  “I heard you were off the force,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Still running?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not fast enough from what I hear.” He grins at his partner, Billy Marsh, a detective constable.

  Stories about the camaraderie of police officers are often sadly overstated. I don’t find many of my colleagues particularly lovable or supportive, but at least most of them are honest and some of them are keepers like DI Ruiz.

  A paramedic
has flushed out my eyes with distilled water. I’m sitting on the back ramp of the ambulance, head tilted, while he tapes cotton wool over my left eye.

  “You should see an eye specialist,” he says. “It can sometimes take a week before the full damage is clear.”

  “Permanent damage?”

  “See the specialist.”

  Behind him fire hoses snake across the gleaming road and firemen in reflective vests are mopping up. Structurally, there is still a house on the block, but the insides are gutted and smoking. The loft collapsed under the weight of water.

  I called Hari to come and get me. Now he’s watching the firemen with a mixture of awe and envy. What boy doesn’t want to play with a hose?

  Sensing the animosity between Softell and me, he tries to step in and play the protective brother, which doesn’t really suit him.

  “Listen, punka-wallah, why don’t you run along and fetch us a cup of tea?” says Softell.

  Hari doesn’t understand the insult but he recognizes the tone.

  I should be angry but I’m used to remarks like this from people like Softell. During probationer training a group of us were given riot shields and sent to the parade ground. Another band of recruits were told to attack us verbally and physically. There were no rules, but we weren’t able to retaliate. Softell spat in my face and called me a “Paki whore.” I practically thanked him.

  My left thigh is slightly corked; my knuckles are scraped and raw. There are questions. Answers. The name Brendan Pearl means nothing to them.

  “Explain to me again what you were doing in the house.”

  “I was driving by. I saw a burglary in process. I called it in.”

  “From inside the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you followed them inside?”

  “Yes.”

  Softell shakes his head. “You just happened to be driving past a friend’s house and you saw the same man who was driving the car that ran her down. What do you think, Billy?”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.” Marsh is the one taking notes.

  “How did you get lighter fluid in your eyes?”

  “He was spraying it around.”

  “Yeah, yeah, while you were hiding in the corner.”

  Arsehole!

  Casually, he props his foot on the tray of the ambulance. “If you were just gonna hide in there, why bother going in at all?”

  “I thought there was only one of them.”

  I’m digging myself into a hole.

  “Why didn’t you phone for backup before you went in?”

  Deeper and deeper.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Drops of water have beaded on the polished toe of his shoe.

  “You see how it looks, don’t you?” Softell says.

  “How does it look?”

  “A house burns down. A witness comes forward who is covered in lighter fluid. Rule number one when dealing with arson—nine times out of ten, the person who yells ‘fire’ is the person who starts the fire.”

  “You can’t be serious. Why would I do that?”

  His shoulders lift and drop. “Who knows? Maybe you just like burning shit.”

  The whole street has been woken. Neighbors are standing on the pavement in dressing gowns and overcoats. Children are jumping on a hose and dancing away from a leak that sprays silver under the streetlight.

  A black cab pulls up outside the ring of fire engines. Ruiz emerges. He steps through the ring of rubberneckers, ignoring the constable who is trying to keep them back.

  After pausing to appraise the house, he continues along the road until he reaches me. The white eye patch makes me look like a reverse pirate.

  “Do you ever have a normal day?” he asks.

  “Once. It was a Wednesday.”

  He looks me up and down. I’m putting most of my weight on one leg because of my thigh. Surprisingly, he leans forward and kisses my cheek, an absolute first.

  “I thought you retired,” says Billy Marsh.

  “That’s right, son.”

  “Well, what are you doing here?”

  “I asked him to come,” I explain.

  Ruiz is sizing up the detectives. “Mind if I listen in?”

  It sounds like a question only it isn’t. The DI manages to do that sometimes—turn questions into statements.

  “Just don’t get in the bloody way,” mumbles Softell.

  Marsh is on the phone calling for a Scene of Crime team to sweep the house and garden for clues. The fire brigade will launch its own investigation. I hobble away from the ambulance, which has another call. Ruiz takes my arm.

  Hari is still here. “You can go home now,” I tell him.

  “What about you?”

  “I could be a while.”

  “You want me to stay?”

  “That’s OK.”

  He glances at Softell and whispers, “Do you know that prick?”

  “He’s OK.”

  “No wonder people dislike coppers.”

  “Hey!”

  He grins. “Not you, sis.”

  There are more questions to answer. Softell becomes less interested in what I was doing in the house and more interested in Brendan Pearl.

  “So you think this arson attack is linked to the deaths of the Beaumonts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would Pearl burn down their house?”

  “Perhaps he wanted to destroy evidence—letters, e-mails, phone records—anything that might point to him.”

  I explain about Cate’s fake pregnancy and the money missing from Cate’s account. “I think she arranged to buy a baby, but something went wrong.”

  Marsh speaks: “People adopt foreign kids all the time—Chinese orphans, Romanians, Koreans. Why would you buy a child?”

  “She tried to adopt and couldn’t.”

  “How do you buy one?”

  I don’t have the answers. Softell glances at Billy Marsh. There is a beat of silence and something invisible passes between them.

  “Why didn’t you report any of this earlier?”

  “I couldn’t be sure.”

  “So you went looking for evidence. You broke into the house.”

  “No.”

  “Then you tried to cover your tracks with a can of lighter fluid and a cock-’n’-bull story.”

  “Not true.”

  Ruiz is nearby, clenching and unclenching his fists. For the first time I notice how old he looks in a shapeless overcoat, worn smooth at the elbows.

  “Hey, Detective Sergeant, I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “You want some kitchen-sink, bog-standard example of foul play you can solve by nine o’clock and still make your ballet lesson. This is one of your colleagues, one of your own. Your job is to believe her.”

  Softell puffs up, too stupid to keep his mouth shut. “And who do you think you are?”

  “Godzilla.”

  “Who?”

  Ruiz rolls his eyes. “I’m the monster that’s going to stomp all over your fucking career if you don’t pay this lady some respect.”

  Softell looks like he’s been bitch-slapped. He takes out his mobile and punches in a number. I overhear him talking to his superintendent. I don’t know what he’s told. Ruiz still has a lot of friends in the Met, people who respect what he’s done.

  When the call finishes Softell is a chastened man. A task force investigation has been authorized and a warrant issued for the arrest of Brendan Pearl.

  “I want you at the station by midday to make a statement,” he says.

  “I can go?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruiz won’t let me drive. He takes me home in my car. Squeezed behind the wheel of my hatchback, he looks like a geriatric Noddy.

  “Was it Pearl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  Taking one hand off the wheel, he scratches his chin. His ring finger is severed below the first knuckle, courtesy of
a high-velocity bullet. He likes to tell people his third wife attacked him with a meat cleaver.

  I tell Ruiz about the boarding passes and the brochure for the New Life Adoption Center. We both know stories about stolen and trafficked babies. Most stray into the realm of urban myth—baby farms in Guatemala and runaways snatched from the streets of São Paulo for organ harvesting.

  “Let’s just say you’re right and Cate Beaumont organized some sort of private adoption or to buy a baby. Why go through the pretense of pregnancy?”

  “Perhaps she wanted to convince Felix the baby was his.”

  “That’s a pretty ambitious goal. What if the kid looks nothing like him?”

  “A lot of husbands are happy to believe they’ve fathered a child. History is littered with mistakes.”

  Ruiz raises an eyebrow. “You mean lies.”

  I rise to the bait. “Yes, women can be devious. Sometimes we have to be. We’re the ones who get left changing nappies when some bloke decides he’s not ready to commit or to get rid of his Harley or his porn collection.”

  Silence.

  “Did that sound like a rant?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  “Sorry.”

  Ruiz begins thinking out loud, trawling through his memory. That’s the thing about the DI—nothing is ever forgotten. Other people grimace and curse, trying to summon up the simplest details but Ruiz does it effortlessly, recalling facts, figures, quotes and names.

  “Three years ago the Italian police smashed a ring of Ukrainian human traffickers who were trying to sell an unborn baby. They ran a kind of auction looking for the highest bidder. Someone offered to pay £250,000.”

  “Cate traveled to Amsterdam in February. She could have arranged a deal.”

  “Alone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did they communicate with her?”

  I think back to the fire. “We might never know.”

  He drops me home and arranges to meet me in the morning.

  “You should see an eye specialist.”

  “First I have to make a statement.”

  Upstairs, I pull the phone jack from the wall and turn off my mobile. I have talked to enough people today. I want a shower and a warm bed. I want to cry into a pillow and fall asleep. A girl should be allowed.