“I was fifteen.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“Sunday is Guy Fawkes Night. We’re going to make a whistling chaser.”
“Which is?”
“A rocket that whistles and has white-and-red stars with a salute at the end.”
“A salute?”
“A big bang.”
Hari has already compiled a list of ingredients: potassium nitrate, sulfur, barium chlorate and copper powder. I have no idea what this stuff does but I can almost see the fireworks exploding in his eyes.
Forbes looks at the list. “Is this stuff legal?”
“We’re only making three-inch shells.”
It doesn’t answer the question but the detective lets it pass.
Although Samira doesn’t mention the twins, I know she must think about them, just as I do. Rarely does a minute pass when my mind doesn’t drift back to them. I can feel their skin against my lips and see their narrow rib cages moving with each breath. The baby girl had trouble breathing. Perhaps her lungs weren’t fully developed. We have to find her.
Forbes has opened the car door and waits for Samira to sit in the rear seat. She is wearing her new clothes—a long woolen skirt and white blouse. She looks so composed. Still. There is a landscape inside her that I will never reach.
“You won’t have to answer questions,” the DI explains. “I’ll help you prepare a statement.”
He drives hunched over the wheel, frowning at the road, as if he hates city traffic. At the same time he talks. With the help of Spijker, he has managed to trace five asylum seekers impregnated at the fertility clinic in Amsterdam who subsequently turned up in the U.K.
“All admit to giving birth and claim the babies were taken from them. They were each given £500 and told their debt had been repaid.”
“Where did they give birth?”
“A private address. They couldn’t give an exact location. They were taken there in the back of a transit van with blacked-out windows. Two of them talked of planes coming in to land.”
“It’s under a flight path?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Births have to be registered. Surely we can find the babies that way.”
“It’s not as easy as you think. Normally, the hospital or health authority informs the registrar of a birth but not when it happens in a private home or outside of the NHS. Then it’s up to the parents. And how’s this? Mum and Dad don’t even have to turn up at the registry office. They can send along someone else—a witness to the birth or even just the owner of the house.”
“Is that it? What about doctor’s certificates or medical records?”
“Don’t need them. You need more paperwork to register a car than a baby.”
We’re passing the Royal Chelsea Hospital on the Embankment before turning left over Albert Bridge and circling Battersea Park.
“What about Dr. Banerjee?”
“He admits to providing Cate Beaumont with her surplus embryos but claims to have no knowledge of the surrogacy plan. She told him she was transferring to a different fertility clinic with a higher success rate.”
“And you believe him?”
Forbes shrugs. “The embryos belonged to her. She had every right to take them.”
This still doesn’t explain why Banerjee lied to me. Or why he turned up at my father’s birthday party.
“What about Paul Donavon?”
“He did two tours of Afghanistan and six months in Iraq. Won the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. The guy is a bona fide fucking hero.”
Samira hasn’t said a word. Sometimes I feel as if she has turned off or tuned out, or is listening to different voices.
“We are contacting the orphanage in Kabul as well as one in Albania and another in Russia,” says Forbes. “Hopefully they can give us more than just a nickname.”
The conference room is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and globe lights full of scorched moths. This used to be the old National Criminal Intelligence Service building, now refitted and re-branded to suit the new crime-fighting agency with new initials. Despite the headlines and high-tech equipment, SOCA still strikes me as being rather more Loch Ness than Eliot Ness—chasing shadowy monsters who live in dark places.
Radio reporters have taken up the front row, taping their station logos to the microphones. Press reporters slouch in the middle rows and their TV counterparts are at the rear with whiter teeth and better clothes.
When I did my detective training at Bramshill they sent us in groups to see an autopsy. I watched a pathologist working on the body of a hiker who had been dead for a fortnight.
Holding up a jar, he said, “This little fellow is a sarcophagid fly, but I like to refer to him as a crime reporter. Notice the red boozer eyes and his gray-checked abdomen, which is perfect for hiding food stains. More important, he’s always first to find a corpse…”
Forbes looks at his watch. It’s eleven o’clock. He straightens his tie and tugs at the sleeves of his suit.
“You ready?”
Samira nods.
Flashguns explode and render me blind as I follow Samira to the conference table. Photographers are fighting for position, holding cameras above their heads in a strange jiggling dance.
Forbes holds a chair for Samira, then reaches across the table to a jug of water and pours her a glass. His slightly pockmarked face is bleached by the brightness of the TV lights.
Clearing his throat he begins. “We are investigating the abduction of two newborn babies, a twin boy and girl, born in the early hours of Sunday morning on board a ferry between the Hook of Holland and Harwich. The Stena Britannica docked at 3:36 a.m. GMT and the babies were last seen thirty minutes earlier.”
Flashguns fire in his eyes.
Forbes makes no mention of baby broking or illegal surrogacy. Instead he concentrates on the details of the voyage and abduction. An image of Brendan Pearl is projected onto the screen behind him, along with a detailed description.
“DC Barba was returning from a short stay in Amsterdam when she stumbled upon a people-trafficking operation. She helped deliver the twins but was unable to prevent the babies being taken.
“I want to stress that this is not a domestic dispute and Brendan Pearl is not related to the missing infants. Pearl is on parole after being released as a result of the Good Friday Agreement. He is considered dangerous. We are advising people not to approach him under any circumstances and to call the police if they know his whereabouts. Miss Khan will now make a brief statement.”
He slides the microphone toward Samira. She looks at it suspiciously and unfolds a piece of paper. The flashguns create a wall of light and she stumbles over the first words. Someone shouts for her to speak up. She begins again.
“I wish to thank everyone who has looked after me these past few days, especially Miss Barba for helping me on the ferry when I was having the babies. I am also grateful to the police for all they have done. I ask the man who took the twins to give them back. They are very small and need medical care. Please take them to a hospital or leave them somewhere safe.”
Samira looks up from the page. She’s departing from the script. “I forgive you for this but I do not forgive you for Zala. For this I hope you will suffer eternal agony for every second of every day for the rest of your life.”
Forbes cups his hand over the microphone, trying to stop her. Samira stands to leave. Questions are yelled from the floor.
“Who is Zala?”
“Did you know Brendan Pearl?”
“Why did he take your babies?”
The story has more holes than a Florida ballot card. The reporters sense a bigger story. Decorum breaks down.
“Has there been a ransom demand?”
“How did Pearl get off the ferry with the twins?”
“Do you believe they’re still alive?”
Samira flinches. She’s almost at the door.
“What about names?”
She turns to the questi
oner, blinking into the flashguns. “A maiden can leave things nameless; a mother must name her children.”
The answer silences the room. People look at one another, wondering what she means. Mothers. Maidens. What does that have to do with anything?
Forbes’s shoulders are knotted with rage.
“That was a fucking disaster,” he mutters as I chase him down the corridor.
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“God knows what they’re going to write tomorrow.”
“They’re going to write about the twins. That’s what we want. We’re going to find them.”
He suddenly stops and turns. “That’s only the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to meet someone.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“The funerals are today.”
“It won’t take long.” He glances ahead of us. Samira is waiting near the lift. “I’ll make sure she gets home.”
Twenty minutes later we pull up outside a Victorian mansion block in Battersea, overlooking the park. Twisting branches of Wisteria, naked and gray, frame the downstairs windows. The main door is open. An empty pram is poised, ready for an excursion. I can hear the mother coming down the stairs. She is attractive, in her early forties. A baby—too old to be one of the twins—rests on her hip.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Piper.”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Forbes. This is DC Barba.”
The woman’s smile fades. Almost imperceptibly she tightens her hold on the child. A boy.
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Eight months.”
“Aren’t you beautiful.” I lean forward. The mother leans away.
“What’s his name?”
“Jack.”
“He looks like you.”
“He’s more like his father.”
Forbes interrupts. “We were hoping to have a brief word.”
“I’m just going out. I have to meet someone.”
“It won’t take long.”
Her gaze flicks from his face to mine. “I think I should call my husband.” Pointedly she adds, “He works for the Home Office.”
“Where did you have your baby?” Forbes asks.
She stutters nervously. “It was a home birth. I’m going upstairs to ring my husband.”
“Why?” asks Forbes. “We haven’t even told you why we’re here, yet you’re anxious about something. Why do you need your husband’s permission to talk to us?”
There is a flaw in the moment, a ripple of disquiet.
Forbes continues: “Have you ever been to Amsterdam, Mrs. Piper? Did you visit a fertility clinic there?”
Backing away toward the stairs, she shakes her head, less in denial than in the vain hope that he’ll stop asking her questions. She is on the stairs. Forbes moves toward her. He’s holding a business card. She won’t take it from him. Instead he leaves it in the pram.
“Please ask you husband to phone me.”
I can hear myself apologizing for bothering her. At the same time I want to know if she paid for a baby. Who did she pay? Who arranged it? Forbes has hold of my arm, leading me down the steps. I imagine Mrs. Piper upstairs on the phone, the tears and the turmoil.
“Their names came up among the files Spijker sent me,” Forbes explains. “They used a surrogate. A girl from Bosnia.”
“Then it’s not their baby.”
“How do we prove that? You saw the kid. Paternity tests, DNA tests, blood samples—every one of them will show that young Jack belongs to the Pipers. And there isn’t a judge in this country who would give us permission to take samples in the first place.”
“We can prove they visited an IVF clinic in the Netherlands. We can prove their embryos were implanted in a surrogate. We can prove that it resulted in a pregnancy and a successful birth. Surely that’s enough.”
“It doesn’t prove that money changed hands. We need one of these couples to give evidence.”
He hands me a list of names and addresses:
Robert Helena Piper
Alan Jessica Case
Trevor Toni Jury
Anaan Lola Singh
Nicholas Karin Pederson
“I have interviewed the other four couples. In each case they have called a lawyer and stuck to their story. None of them are going to cooperate—not if it means losing their child.”
“They broke the law!”
“Maybe you’re right, but how many juries are going to convict? If that was your friend back there, holding her baby, would you take it away from her?”
2
The funerals are at two o’clock. I am dressed in a black vest, black jacket, black trousers and black shoes. The only splash of color is my lipstick.
Samira uses the bathroom after me. It’s hard to believe that she’s just given birth. There are stretch marks across her belly but elsewhere her skin is flawless. Occasionally, I notice a tic or twitch of pain when she moves, but nothing else betrays her discomfort.
She is laying out her clothes on the bed, taking care not to crease her blouse.
“You don’t have to come,” I tell her, but she has already decided. She met Cate only twice. They spoke through Yanus in stilted sentences rather than having a proper conversation. Yet they shared a bond like no other. Unborn twins.
We sit side by side in the cab. She is tense, restless, as if at any moment she might unfurl a set of hidden wings and take flight. In the distance a chimney belches a column of white smoke like a steam train going nowhere.
“The police are going to find the twins,” I announce, as if we’re deep in conversation.
She doesn’t answer.
I try again. “You do want to find them?”
“My debt is paid,” she whispers, chewing at her lower lip.
“You owe these people nothing.”
Again she doesn’t answer. How can I make her understand? Without warning she offers an answer, placing her words in careful sentences.
“I have tried not to love them. I thought it would be easier to give them up if I did not love them. I have even tried to blame them for what happened to Hassan and Zala. This is unfair, yes? What else can I do? My breasts leak for them. I hear them crying in my dreams. I want the sound to stop.”
Twin hearses are parked outside the chapel at the West London Crematorium. A carpet of artificial grass leads to a ramp where a small black sign with movable white letters spells out Felix and Cate’s names.
Samira walks with surprising grace along the gravel path—not an easy thing to do. She pauses to look at the marble and stone crypts. Gardeners lean on their shovels and watch her. She seems almost alien. Otherworldly.
Barnaby Elliot is welcoming people and accepting condolences. Ruth Elliot is next to him in her wheelchair, dressed in mourning clothes that make her skin seem bloodless and brittle.
She sees me first. Her mouth twists around my name. Barnaby turns and walks toward me. He kisses me on each cheek and I smell the sharp alcohol scent of his aftershave.
“Who did you see in Amsterdam?” he asks.
“A detective. Why did you lie about Cate’s computer?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he raises his eyes to the trees, some of which are clinging to the yellow-and-gold remnants of autumn.
“I feel you should know that I have instructed a lawyer to gain custody of the twins. I want both of them.”
I look at him incredulously.
“What about Samira?”
“They’re our grandchildren. They belong with us.”
“Not according to the law.”
“The law is an ass.”
I glance across at Samira, who is hanging back, perhaps sensing trouble. Barnaby shows no such discretion. “Does she even want them?” he says, too loudly.
I have to unclench my jaw to speak. “You stay away from her.”
“Listen to me—”
“No! You listen
! She has been through enough. She has lost everything.”
Glaring at me with a sudden crazed energy, he lashes out at a hedge with his fist. His coat sleeve snags and he jerks it violently, tearing the fabric, which billows and flaps. Just as quickly he regains his composure. It’s like watching a deep-breathing exercise for anger management. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a business card.
“The trustee of Felix and Cate’s will is having a meeting in chambers at Gray’s Inn on Monday afternoon at three. He wants you there.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. This is the address.”
I take the card and watch Barnaby return to his wife. Reaching for his hand, she cocks her head into his palm, holding it against her cheek. I have never seen them share a moment—not like this. Maybe it takes one tragedy to mend another.
The chapel is softly lit with red lights flickering behind glass. Flowers cover the coffins and spill out down the center aisle almost to Ruth Elliot’s wheelchair. Barnaby is beside her, alongside Jarrod. All three of them are holding hands, as if steeling one another.
I recognize other family and friends. The only person missing is Yvonne. Perhaps she didn’t think she could cope with a day like this. It must be like losing a daughter.
On the other side of the church are Felix’s family, who look far more Polish than Felix ever did. The women are short and square, with veils on their heads and rosary beads in their fingers.
The funeral director is holding his top hat across his folded arm. His son, dressed identically, mimics his pose, although I notice a wad of chewing gum behind his ear.
A hymn strikes up, “Come Let Us Join Our Friends Above,” which is not really Cate’s cup of tea. Then again, it must be hard to find something appropriate for a person who once pledged her undying love to a photograph of Kurt Cobain.
Reading from the Bible, Reverend Lunn intones something about the Resurrection and how we’re all going to rise together on the same day and live as God’s children. At the same time, he rubs a finger along the edge of Cate’s coffin as if admiring the workmanship.
The Night Ferry Page 30
