The Night Ferry

by Michael Robotham

  13

  Wembley Police Station is a brand-new building decked in blue and white on the Harrow Road. The new national stadium is almost a mile away with soaring light towers visible above the rooftops.

  Softell keeps me waiting before taking my statement. His attitude has changed since last night. He has looked up Pearl on the computer and the interest sparks in his eyes like a gas ring igniting. Softell is the sort of detective who goes through an entire career with his head under his armpit, not understanding people’s motives or making any headline arrests. Now he can sense an opportunity.

  The deaths of Cate and Felix Beaumont are a side issue. A distraction. I can see what he’s going to do: he’ll dismiss Cate as a desperate woman with a history of psychiatric problems and a criminal record. Pearl is the man he wants.

  “You have no evidence a baby ever existed,” he says.

  “What about the missing money?”

  “Someone probably ripped her off.”

  “And then killed her.”

  “Not according to the vehicle accident report.”

  Softell hands me a typed statement. I have to sign each page and initial any changes. I look at my words. I have lied about why I was at the house and what happened before the fire. Does my signature make it worse?

  Taking back the statement, he straightens the pages and punches the stapler. “Very fucking professional,” he sneers. “You know it never stops—the lying. Once you start it just keeps getting worse.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d know,” I say, wishing I could think of a put-down that wasn’t so lame. Mostly, I wish I could tear up the statement and start again.

  Ruiz is waiting for me in the foyer.

  “How’s the eye?”

  “The specialist said I should wear an eye patch for a week.”

  “So where is it?”

  “In my pocket.”

  Stepping on a black rubber square, the doors open automatically.

  “Your boyfriend has called six times in the last hour. Ever thought of getting a dog instead?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. That’s why he’s here.”

  I look up and see Dave leaning on Ruiz’s car. He wraps me in a bear hug with his face in my hair. Ruiz turns away as though embarrassed.

  “Are you smelling me, Dave?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s a bit creepy.”

  “Not to me. I’m just glad you’re in one piece.”

  “Only bruises.”

  “I could kiss them better.”

  “Perhaps later.”

  Dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and maroon tie, Dave has tidied up since his promotion, but I notice a brown sauce stain on the tie that he hasn’t managed to sponge away. My mother would recognize a detail like that. Scary.

  My stomach is empty. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.

  We find a café near Wembley Central with a smudged blackboard menu and enough grease in the air to flatten Dave’s hair. It’s an old-fashioned “caff” with Formica tables, paper napkins, and a nervy waitress with a nose stud.

  I order tea and toast. Ruiz and Dave choose the all-day breakfast—otherwise known as the 999 because it’s a heart attack on a plate. Nobody says anything until the food is consumed and tea poured. The DI has milk and sugar.

  “There is a guy I used to play rugby with,” he says. “He never talked about his job, but I know he works for MI5. I called him this morning. He told me an interesting thing about Brendan Pearl.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ruiz takes out a tattered notebook held together with a rubber band. Loose pages tumble through his fingers. A lot of detectives don’t believe in keeping notes. They want their memories to be “flexible” should they ever get in the witness box. Ruiz has a memory like the proverbial steel trap, yet he still backs it up on paper.

  “According to my friend, Pearl was last known to be working as a security consultant for a construction company in Afghanistan. Three foreign contractors were killed in mid-September 2004 in a convoy traveling on the highway leading from the main airport to central Kabul when a suicide bomber drove into them. Pearl was among the wounded. He spent three weeks in a German hospital and then signed himself out. Nobody has heard from him since then.”

  “So what’s he doing here?” asks Dave.

  “And how did Cate meet him?” I add.

  Ruiz gathers the pages and slips the rubber band around them. “Maybe we should check out this New Life Adoption Center.”

  Dave disagrees. “It’s not our investigation.”

  “Not officially,” concedes the DI.

  “Not even unofficially.”

  “It’s an independent investigation.”

  “Unauthorized.”

  “Unconstrained.”

  Interrupting them, I suggest, “You could come with us, Dave.”

  He hesitates.

  Ruiz spies an opening. “That’s what I like about you, Dave. You’re a freethinker. Some people think the modern British detective has become timid and punctilious, but not you. You’re a credit to the Met. You’re not frightened to have an opinion or act on a hunch.”

  It’s like watching a fisherman casting a fly. It curls through the air, settles on the water and drifts downstream, drifting, drifting…

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check it out,” says Dave.

  There are no signs pointing out the New Life Adoption Center, either in the nearest village or at the gates, which are flanked by sandstone pillars. A loose gravel driveway curves through fields and crosses a single-lane stone bridge. Friesians dot the pasture and scarcely stir as we pass.

  Eventually, we pull up in front of a large Adam’s-style house, in the noise shadow of Gatwick Airport. I take Dave’s arm.

  “OK, we’ve been married for six years. It was a big Sikh wedding. I looked beautiful of course. We’ve been trying for a baby for five years but your sperm count is too low.”

  “Does it have to be my sperm count?”

  “Oh, don’t be so soft! Give me your ring.”

  He slides a white gold band from his pinkie and I place it on my ring finger.

  Ruiz has stayed behind in the village pub, chatting with the locals. So far we’ve established that the adoption center is a privately run charity operating out of a former stately home, Followdale House. The founder, Julian Shawcroft, is a former executive director of the Infertility and Planned Parenthood Clinic in Manchester.

  A young woman, barely out of her teens, answers the doorbell. She’s wearing woolly socks and a powder-blue dressing gown that struggles to hide her pregnancy.

  “I can’t really help you,” she confides immediately. “I’m just minding the front desk while Stella has a tinkle.”

  “Stella?”

  “She’s in charge. Well, not really in charge. Mr. Shawcroft is really in charge but he’s often away. He’s here today, which is unusual. He’s the chairman or the managing director. I can never work out the difference. I mean, what does an MD do and what does a chairman do? I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I do that sometimes. My name is Meredith. Do you think Hugh is a nice boy’s name? Hugh Jackman is very cute. I can’t think of any other Hughs.”

  “Hugh Grant,” I suggest.

  “Cool.”

  “Hugh Hefner,” says Dave.

  “Who’s he?” she asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her, glaring at Dave.

  Meredith’s hair is just long enough to pull into a ponytail and her nail polish is chipped where she has picked it off.

  The lobby of the house has two faded Chesterfields on either side of a fireplace. The staircase, with its ornate banister, is sealed off by a blue tasseled rope hung from brass posts.

  She leads us to an office in a side room. Several desks have computers and a photocopier spits out pages as a light slides back and forth beneath the glass.

  There are posters on the wall. One of them shows a couple
swinging an infant between their outstretched hands, except the child is cut out like a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Underneath the caption reads: IS THERE A CHILD-SIZE HOLE IN YOUR LIFE?

  Through French doors I can see a rose garden and what might once have been a croquet lawn.

  “When are you due?” I ask.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Why are you here?”

  She giggles. “This is an adoption center, silly.”

  “Yes, but people come to adopt a baby, not to have one.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

  A woman appears—Stella—apologizing for the delay. She looks very businesslike in a dark polo-neck, black trousers and imitation snakeskin shoes with pointed toes and kitten heels.

  Her eyes survey me up and down, as though taking an inventory. “Nope, the womb is vacant,” I feel like saying. She glances at her diary.

  “We don’t have an appointment,” I explain. “It was rather a spur-of-the-moment decision to come.”

  “Adoption should never be spur-of-the-moment.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that decision. We’ve been talking about it for months. We were in the neighborhood.”

  Dave chips in. “I have an aunt who lives close.”

  “I see.”

  “We want to adopt a baby,” I add. “It’s all we think about.”

  Stella takes down our names. I call myself Mrs. King, which doesn’t sound as weird as it probably should.

  “We’ve been married six years and trying to have a baby for five.”

  “So you’re looking to adopt because you can’t have your own baby?”

  It’s a loaded question. “I come from a big family. I wanted the same. But even though we want our own children, we always talked about adopting.”

  “Are you prepared to take an older child?”

  “We’d like a baby.”

  “Yes, well, that may be so, but there are very few newborn babies put up for adoption in this country. The waiting list is very long.”

  “How long?”

  “Upward of five years.”

  Dave blows air through his cheeks. He’s better at this than I expected. “Surely it can be fast-tracked in some way,” he says. “I mean, even the slowest of wheels can be oiled.”

  Stella seems to resent the suggestion. “Mr. King, we are a nonprofit charity governed by the same rules and regulations as local authority adoption services. The interests of the child come first and last. Oil doesn’t enter into it.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “My husband works in management,” I explain contritely. “He believes that almost any problem can be solved by throwing more people or money at it.”

  Stella nods sympathetically and for the first time seems to consider my skin color. “We do facilitate intercountry adoptions, but there are no children made available from the subcontinent. Most people are choosing to adopt from Eastern Europe.”

  “We’re not fussy,” adds Dave. I kick him under the desk. “We’re not fazed, I mean. It’s not a race thing.”

  Stella is eyeing him cautiously. “There are many bad reasons to adopt. Some people try to save their marriage, or replace a child who has died, or they want a fashion accessory because all their friends have one.”

  “That’s not us,” I say.

  “Good. Well even with intercountry adoptions, the assessment and approval process is exactly the same as for adopting a child in this country. This includes full medicals, home visits, criminal record checks and interviews with social workers and psychologists.”

  She stands and opens a filing cabinet. The form is thirty pages long.

  “I was wondering if Mr. Shawcroft was here today.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. That’s how I heard about the center—through a friend.”

  “And what’s your friend’s name?”

  “Cate Beaumont.”

  I get no sense of whether she’s heard the name before.

  “Mr. Shawcroft is normally very busy fund-raising but fortunately he’s here today. He might be able to spare you a few minutes.”

  She excuses herself and I can hear her walking upstairs.

  “What do you think?” whispers Dave.

  “Watch the door.” Skirting the desk, I open the drawer of the filing cabinet.

  “That’s an illegal search.”

  “Just watch the door.”

  My fingers are moving over the files. Each adoptive family appears to have one but there is no “Beaumont” or “Elliot.” Some folders are marked by colored stickers. There are names typed on the labels. At first glance I think they might be children, but the ages are all wrong. These are young women.

  One name jumps out at me. Carla Donavon. Donavon’s younger sister. His pregnant sister. A coincidence? Hardly.

  “Those files are confidential.” The disembodied voice startles me.

  I look to Dave. He shakes his head. There is an intercom on the desk. I scan the ceiling and spy a small security camera in the corner. I should have seen it earlier.

  “If you want to know something, Mrs. King, you should ask,” says the voice. “I assume that’s your real name or perhaps you have lied about that as well.”

  “Do you always eavesdrop on people?” I say.

  “Do you always illegally search someone’s office and look at highly confidential files? Who exactly are you?”

  Dave answers, “Police officers. I’m Detective Sergeant Dave King. This is Detective Constable Alisha Barba. We are making inquiries about a woman we believe may have been one of your clients.”

  The faint buzzing of the intercom goes silent. A side door opens. A man enters, in his mid-fifties, with a sturdy frame and a broad face that creases momentarily as he smiles disarmingly. His hair, once blond, now gray, has tight curls like wood shavings from a lathe.

  “I’m sure there must be a law against police officers misrepresenting who they are and conducting unauthorized searches.”

  “The drawer was open. I was simply closing it.”

  This triggers a smile. He has every right to be angry and suspicious. Instead he finds it amusing. He makes a point of locking the filing cabinet before addressing us again.

  “Now that we know exactly who we are, perhaps I could give you a guided tour and you could tell me what you’re doing here.”

  He leads us into the lobby and through the French doors onto the terrace. The young woman we saw earlier is sitting on a swing in the garden. Her dressing gown billows as she rocks back and forth, getting higher and higher.

  “Be careful, Meredith,” he calls. And then to us. “She’s a clumsy young thing.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Meredith hasn’t decided what she wants to do. Giving up a baby is a difficult and courageous decision. We help young women like her to decide.”

  “You try to convince her.”

  “On the contrary. We offer love and support. We teach parenting skills so she’ll be ready. And if she decides to give up her baby, we have scholarships that can help her find a flat and get a job. We operate open adoptions.”

  “Open?”

  “The birth mothers and adoptive parents get to know one another and often stay in touch afterward.”

  Shawcroft chooses an unraked gravel path around the southern end of the house. Large bay windows reveal a lounge. Several young women are playing cards in front of a fire.

  “We offer prenatal classes, massage therapy and have quite a good gymnasium,” he explains.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t understand why it’s necessary.”

  Shawcroft has an eye for an opening. It gives him the opportunity to explain his philosophy and he does so passionately, haranguing the historical attitudes that saw young unmarried mothers demonized or treated like outcasts.

  “Single motherhood has become more accept
able but it is still a challenging choice,” he explains. “That’s why I established this center. There are far too many orphans and unwanted children in our society and overseas, with too few options available to improve their lives.

  “Have you any idea how slow, bureaucratic and unfair our adoption system is? We leave it in the hands of people who are under-funded, understaffed and inexperienced—people who play God with the lives of children.”

  Dave has dropped back.

  “I began out of a small office in Mayfair. There was just me. I charged £50 for a two-hour consultancy session. Two years later I had a full-time staff of eight and had completed more than a hundred adoptions. Now we’re here.” He gestures to Followdale House.

  “How can you afford this place?”

  “People have been very generous—new parents and grandparents. Some leave us money as bequests or make donations. We have a staff of fourteen, including social workers, counselors, career advisers, health visitors and a psychologist.”

  In one corner of the garden I notice a golf bag propped beneath an umbrella and a bucket of balls waiting to be hit. There are calluses on his fingers.

  “My one indulgence,” he explains, gazing over the fence into the pasture. “The cows are rather ball-shy. I have developed an incurable slice since my operation.”

  “Operation?”

  “My hip. Old age catching up on me.”

  He picks up a club and swings it gently at a rosebush. A flower dissolves in a flurry of petals. Examining his fingers, he opens and closes his fist.

  “It’s always harder to hold a club in the winter. Some people wear gloves. I like being able to feel the grip.”

  He pauses and turns to face me. “Now, Detective Constable, let’s dispense with the pretense. Why are you here?”

  “Do you know someone called Cate Beaumont?”

  “No.” The answer is abrupt.

  “You don’t need to check your client files?”

  “I remember all of them.”

  “Even those who don’t succeed?”

  “Especially those who don’t succeed.”

  Dave has joined us. He picks a metal-headed driver and eyes a Friesian in the distance before thinking better of it.

  “My friend faked her pregnancy and emptied her bank account. I think she arranged to buy a baby.”