“Welcome aboard,” she announces, thrusting out her hand. “I’m Bridget Jones. Not the fat one from the movies—the fatter one from Cardiff. This is Bryce, my husband.”
The Range Rover is packed to the gunwales with suitcases, shopping bags and duty-free: Dutch cheeses, French sausage, two cases of Stella Artois, a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream and assorted souvenirs.
They are very cute. A twee couple, with matching lumbar cushions and traveling mugs. Mr. Jones is wearing driving gloves with cut-off fingers and she has road maps, color-coded in a pocket on the dashboard.
“We’ve been to Poland,” she announces.
“Really?”
“Nobody we know has ever been to Poland. Not even our friends Hettie and Jack from the caravanning club, who think they’ve been everywhere.”
“And to Estonia,” her husband adds. “We’ve done 3,264 miles since we left home on August 28.” He strokes the steering wheel. “She’s managed eighteen mile to the gallon, which is pretty bloody good for an old girl, especially after that bad batch of diesel in Gdansk.”
“Gdansk was very dodgy,” agrees his wife.
“It must be cold to be caravanning.”
“Oh, we don’t mind,” she giggles. “A spouse is better than a hot water bottle.”
Mr. Jones nods. “I get pretty good mileage out of this old girl.”
I don’t know if he’s referring to his wife or still talking about the car.
Ahead of us the traffic is moving. Vehicles pull onto the ramp and disappear inside, maneuvered into marked lanes barely wide enough for their axles. Engines are turned off. The caravan is strapped down. Men in fluorescent vests direct us to the air-lock doors, which lead to stairs and lifts.
“Don’t dawdle, pet,” says Mrs. Jones. “The buffet is included in the price. You want to beat the queue.”
Mr. Jones nods. “They do a fine apple crumble and custard.”
A key card is included with my ticket. It corresponds to a cabin on one of the accommodation decks. Deck 8 has signs asking passengers to be quiet because truck drivers are sleeping. Some of them must have boarded hours ago. How am I going to find Samira?
I don’t bother visiting my cabin. I have no luggage to stow. Instead I study the ship’s floor plan, which is bolted to the wall near an emergency exit. There are four vehicle decks which are restricted to authorized personnel during the voyage. Deck 10 is crew only. It must be the bridge.
The corridors between the cabins are just wide enough for two people to pass. I search them, looking for the familiar or the unfamiliar. This used to be my job when I worked for the Diplomatic Protection Group—looking for small changes, trying to sense the presence of someone in a crowd or notice their absence in the instant of looking. It could be a person who doesn’t belong or who tries too hard to belong or who draws the eye for some other reason.
The ship’s engines have started. I can feel the faint vibrations through my feet and they seem to transfer to my nerve endings.
The buffet is being served in the Globetrotter Restaurant. Most of the passengers seem to be truck drivers, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Food is piled high on their plates—congealed curries, cottage pie, vegetarian lasagna. Big engines need refueling.
The Dutch drivers are playing cards, while the British drivers smoke and read tabloids. The ferry has slipped its moorings and pulled out into the river. As the shore lights slide past the window, it feels as though the land is moving and not the ferry. England is five hours away.
Hokke was right. This haystack is too big. I could search the ferry for weeks and not find Samira. She could be locked in a truck or in one of the cabins. She might not even be on board. Perhaps de Souza had no intention of letting me find her and was simply getting me out of the Netherlands.
The cavernous vehicle decks are below me. Some are open to the elements while others are enclosed. I have to search them. How? Do I hammer on the side of each truck, calling her name? Will she answer?
If there’s any chance at all that she’s on board, I have to find her. Running along the gangways and up the stairs, I stop people and show them Samira’s photograph. I’m doubling back on myself, lost in a maze. Have I been down this corridor before? Is that the same passenger I asked earlier? Most of them are in their cabins now, lying down to sleep.
I turn another corner and suddenly I feel it. A shiver in the air. It’s an uncanny sensation, as if I’m prescient. Along a long corridor, a figure with his back to me pauses to unlock a cabin door. I see a quarter profile and suddenly flatten myself against a wall. My phantoms are following me.
14
The ferry shifts and I brace myself. We must have reached open water, or maybe it’s my heart lurching. I am sure it was him. Brendan Pearl. He is here because she is here.
My first reaction is to retreat. I pull back and take a few deep breaths on the stairwell, while contemplating what to do. Taking out my mobile, I check the signal. Nothing. The ferry has moved out of range. I should talk to the captain. He can radio ahead and get a message to Forbes.
A member of the crew is climbing the stairs. Although dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with epaulettes, he looks too young to be at sea. He has a name tag on his chest. Raoul Jakobson.
“Do you have keys to all the cabins?” I ask.
“Is there a problem?”
“There is a man on board who is wanted by the British police. He is staying in cabin 8021.” I point along the passage. His gaze follows my outstretched hand. “I am a British police officer. A detective constable. Is there a passenger list?” I show him my badge.
“Yes, of course.”
He opens a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and retrieves a clipboard, running his finger down the page until he finds the cabin number.
“That cabin is occupied by a Patrick Norris. He is a British driver.”
Pearl has a new identity.
Is it possible to find out what vehicle he drove on board?”
Raoul consults the list again. “V743 LFB. On Deck 5.”
“I need to check this vehicle.”
“Passengers are not authorized to be on that deck.”
“I’m looking for an illegal passenger. She could be locked inside the truck.”
“Perhaps you should talk to the captain.”
“Yes, of course, but there isn’t time right now. You go to the captain. I need him to send a message to this man,” I scribble a phone number on the clipboard. “His name is Detective Inspector Robert Forbes. Mention my name. Tell him that Brendan Pearl is on this ferry.”
“Is that it?”
“He’ll understand.”
Raoul looks at the phone number and glances down the passage toward Pearl’s cabin.
“Is he dangerous, this man?”
“Yes, but nobody is to panic. Let him sleep.” I look at my watch. “We’ll be in Harwich in four hours.” Moving toward the stairwell, I nod goodbye. “Tell the captain. I have to go.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, I swing through the landings and reach Deck 5. Hitting the red button, I hear the air hiss out as the seal is broken. The metal door slides open. The noise of the ship’s engines is amplified in the cavernous space and transfers through the floor in pulsing vibrations.
Stepping over the lip of the door, I begin walking down the first line of vehicles. The trucks are parked seven abreast and nose-to-tail, so close together there is just enough room to squeeze between them. I wish I had a torch. The strip lighting can barely cut through the gloom and I have difficulty reading the vehicle numbers.
I walk the length of the deck and back again, following the lanes. When the ferry pitches and rolls in the swell, I brace my hand against a wheel arch or trailer. My imagination puts me inside them. I can picture Hassan and the others, trapped, suffocating. I want to hammer on the metal sides and fling open the doors, filling them with air.
I’m in the second lane on the starboard side when I find it. The rig has a
maroon Mercedes cab and a white box trailer. Stepping onto the running board, I grip the side mirror and pull myself up to peer into the cab. Takeaway coffee cups and food wrappers litter the floor.
Stepping down, I slowly circle the trailer. Pressing my ear against the steel skin I listen for a sneeze or a cough or a whisper, any sound at all. Nothing. The rear doors are sealed with a metal rod and cam lock. The barrel is closed and padlocked.
Someone holding a torch is walking toward me. The beam swings from side to side, blinding me momentarily. I edge away from the trailer. Darkness feathers around me.
“You’re not supposed to be down here,” says a voice.
At that same moment a hand snakes around my face, cupping my mouth. Smothering all sound away.
I can’t breathe. My feet are off the ground. His fingers are digging into my cheek, tearing at my gums. His other forearm wraps around my neck, searching for my windpipe. I brace my hands against it and kick backward, trying to find his instep or his knee. The blow barely touches him.
He lifts me higher. My toes scrabble at the floor, unable to get leverage. I can hear blood pulsing in my ears. I need to breathe.
Karate training taught me about pressure points. There is one in the soft flesh between the thumb and forefinger, above the webbing. I find the spot. He grunts in pain, releasing his grip on my mouth and nose. I still can’t breathe. My windpipe is being crushed. I keep driving my thumb into his flesh.
A knee snaps into my kidneys. The pain is like a blast of heat. I don’t let go of his right hand but at the same time I can’t see his left fist cocking. The punch is like a punctuation mark. Darkness sweeps away the pain and the memories. I am free of the ferry and the incessant noise of the engines. Free of Cate and Samira. Free of the unborn twins. Free at last.
Slowly the world becomes wider. Lighter. I am suspended for a moment a few inches above my body, staring down at a strange scene My hands are bound with electrical tape behind my back. Another piece of tape covers my mouth, wrapped around my head like a mask, pulling at my split and swollen lip.
There is a weak light from a torch, lying on the floor near my feet. My head is on Samira’s lap. She leans forward and whispers something in my ear. She wants me to lie still. Light catches her pupils. Her fingers are like ice.
My head is pressed to her womb. I feel her babies moving. I can hear the sough and gurgle of the fluid, the melody of their heartbeats. Blood slides back and forth beneath her skin, squeezing into smaller and smaller channels, circulating oxygen.
I wonder if twins are aware of each other’s existence. Do they hear the other’s heartbeat? Do they hold each other or communicate by touch?
Bit by bit the confusion and darkness work their way into some semblance of order. If I stay relaxed, I can breathe through the tape.
Samira’s body suddenly spasms and jackknifes from the waist, squeezing my head against her thighs. Regaining control, she leans back and breathes deeply. I try to lift my head. She wants me to lie still.
I can’t talk with the gag. She hooks her fingers beneath the plastic tape and lifts it away from my lips just enough for me to speak.
“Where are we?”
“In a truck.”
Our whispers are magnified by the hollowness.
“Are you all right?”
She shakes her head. Tears form at the edge of her eyes. Her body convulses again. She’s in labor.
“Who brought me here?”
“Yanus.”
He and Pearl must be working together.
“You have to untie me.”
Her eyes sweep to the closed rear doors and she shakes her head.
“Please.”
“They will kill you.”
They will kill me anyway.
“Help me to sit up.”
She lifts my head and shoulders until I’m leaning with my back against a wall. My inner gyroscope is totally messed up. I may have ruptured an eardrum.
The trailer appears to be full of pallets and crates. Through a square narrow opening I see a crawl space with a mattress and three plastic bottles. Someone has built a false wall to create a secret compartment in the trailer. Customs officers wouldn’t notice the difference unless they measured the outside and inside of the truck.
“When did the contractions start?”
She looks at me helplessly. She has no way of judging time.
“How far are they apart?”
“A minute.”
How long was I unconscious? Raoul will have gone to the ferry’s captain by now. They will telephone Forbes and come looking for me. Forbes will tell them to be careful.
“Undo my hands.”
Samira shakes her head.
Letting go of the tape, she tugs a blanket around my shoulders. She is more worried about me than herself.
“You should not have come.”
I can’t reply. Another contraction contorts her face. Her entire body seems to lock up.
The rear doors swing open. I feel the draft and hear the intake of Samira’s breath.
“I told you not to touch her,” says Yanus, springing into the trailer. He seizes her, smearing his hands over her face as if covering her with filth. Then he peels back her lips, forcing her jaw open and spits into her mouth. She gags and tries to turn away.
Then he confronts me, ripping off the gag. It feels like half my face is torn off with it.
“Who knows you’re here?”
My voice is slurred: “The captain. The crew…they’re radioing ahead.”
“Liar!”
Another figure is standing in the open end of the trailer. Brendan Pearl. He can’t have been there for more than a few seconds yet I have the sensation that he’s been watching me for a long time.
The light behind him washes out his features, but I can see how he’s changed his appearance since I saw him last. His hair is shorter and he’s wearing glasses. The walking stick is a nice touch. He’s holding it upside down. Why? It’s not a walking stick. It has a curved hook like a fishing gaff or a marlin spike. I remember what Ruiz called him—the Shankhill Fisherman.
Yanus kicks me in the stomach. I roll once and he places a shoe on my neck, forcing it down, concentrating his weight on the point where my spine joins my skull. Surely it must snap.
Samira cries out, her body wracked by another contraction. Pearl says something and Yanus lifts his foot. I can breathe. He circles the empty trailer and returns, putting his heel on my neck again.
I force my arms out, pointing toward Samira. She is staring at her hands in horror. Liquid stains her skirt and pools beneath her knees.
Pearl pushes Yanus aside.
“Her water has broken.” Desperately, I choke the words out.
“She pissed herself,” sneers Yanus.
“No. She’s having the babies.”
“Make them stop,” says Pearl.
“I can’t. She needs a doctor.”
Another contraction arrives, stronger than before. Her scream echoes from the metal walls. Pearl loops the barbed hook around her neck. “She makes another sound like that and I’ll take out her throat.”
Samira shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hands.
Pearl pulls me into a sitting position and cuts the electrical tape away from my wrists. He pauses for a moment, chewing at his cheek like a cud.
“She don’t look so healthy does she?” he says, in an Irish lilt.
“She needs a doctor.”
“Can’t have no doctors.”
“But she’s having twins!”
“I don’t care if she’s having puppies. You’ll have to deliver them.”
“I don’t know how to deliver a baby!”
“Then you better learn quick.”
“Don’t be stupid—”
The stave of the marlin spike strikes my jaw. When the pain passes, I count teeth with my tongue. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
&
nbsp; “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“Know that, do you?”
Samira’s hand shoots out and grips my wrist. Her knuckles are white and the pain is etched on her face. She wants help. She wants the pain to go away. I glance at Pearl and nod.
“That’s grand as grand can be.” He stands and stretches, twirling the spike in his fist.
“We can’t do it here,” I say. “We need to get her to a cabin. I need light. Clean sheets. Water.”
“No.”
“Look at this place!”
“She stays here.”
“Then she dies! And her babies die! And whoever is paying you will get nothing.”
I think Pearl is going to hit me again. Instead he weighs the wooden stave in both hands before swinging it down until the metal hook touches the floor and he leans on it like a walking stick. He and Yanus converse in whispers. Decisions have to be made. Their plan is unraveling.
“You have to try to hold on,” I tell Samira. “It’s going to be OK.”
She nods, far calmer than I am.
Why hasn’t anyone come looking for me? Surely they will have called Forbes by now. He’ll tell them what to do.
Pearl comes back.
“OK, we move her.” He raises his shirt to show me a pistol tucked into his belt. “No fuckin’ tricks. You escape and Yanus here will cut the babies out of her. He’s a frustrated fuckin’ surgeon.”
The Irishman collects Samira’s things—a small cotton bag and a spare blanket. Then he helps her to stand. She cups her hands beneath her pregnancy as though taking the weight. I wrap the blanket around her shoulders. Her damp gray skirt sticks to her thighs.
Yanus has gone ahead to check the stairs. I can picture crew members waiting for him. He’ll be overpowered. Pearl will have no choice but to surrender.
He lifts Samira down from the trailer. I follow, stumbling slightly as I land. Pearl pushes me out of the way and closes the rear doors, sliding the barrel lock into place. Something is different about the truck. The color. It’s not the same.
My stomach turns over. There are two trucks. Yanus and Pearl must have each driven a vehicle on board. Glancing toward the nearest stairwell, I see the glowing exit sign. We’re on a different deck. They don’t know where to look for me.
The Night Ferry Page 26
