“Love and pain are not the same,” he says, “but sometimes it feels like they should be. Love is put to the test every day. Pain is not. Yet the two of them are inseparable because true love cannot bear separation.”
His voice sounds far away. I have been in a state of suspended mourning for Cate for the past eight years. Trivial, sentimental, everyday sounds and smells bring back memories—lost causes, jazz shoes, cola slushies, Simply Red songs, a teenager singing into a hairbrush, purple eye shadow…These things make me want to smile or swell painfully in my chest. There it is again—love and pain.
I don’t see the coffins disappear. During the final hymn I slip outside, needing fresh air. On the far side of the parking lot, in the shadows of an arch, I see a familiar silhouette, waiting, tranquil. He’s wearing an overcoat and red muffler. Donavon.
Samira is walking through the rose garden at the side of the chapel. She is going to see him when she clears the corner.
Instinctively, I close the gap. Any witness would say that my body language borders on violence. I grab Donavon’s arm, twisting it behind his back, before shoving him against a wall, pressing his face to the bricks.
“Where are they? What have you done with them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I want him to struggle. I want to hurt him. Samira is behind me, hanging back.
“Do you know this man?”
“No.”
“The Englishman you met at the orphanage. You said he had a cross on his neck.” I pull aside Donavon’s muffler, revealing his tattoo.
She shakes her head. “A gold cross. Here.” She traces the outline on her collar.
Donavon laughs. “Wonderful detective work, yindoo.”
I want to hit him.
“You were in Afghanistan.”
“Serving Queen and country.”
“Spare me the patriotic who-dares-wins crap. You lied to me. You saw Cate before the reunion.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
I let him go and he turns, blinking slowly, his pale eyes a little more bloodshot than I remember. Mourners are leaving the chapel. He glances at the crowd with a mixture of embarrassment and concern. “Not here. Let’s talk somewhere else.”
I let him lead the way. Leaving the cemetery, we walk east along the Harrow Road, which is choked with traffic and a conga line of buses. Sneaking sidelong glances at Donavon, I watch how he regards Samira. He doesn’t seem to recognize her. Instead he keeps his eyes lowered in a penitent’s demeanor, framing answers to the questions that he knows are coming. More lies.
We choose a café with stools at the window and tables inside. Donavon glances at the menu, buying time. Samira slips off her chair and kneels at the magazine rack, turning the pages quickly, as though expecting someone to stop her.
“The magazines are free to read,” I explain. “You’re allowed to look at them.”
Donavon twists the skin on his wrist, leaving a white weal. Blood rushes back to the slackened skin.
“I met Cate again three years ago,” he announces. “It was just before my first tour of Afghanistan. It took me a while to find her. I didn’t know her married name.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see her.”
I wait for something more. He changes the subject. “Have you ever been skydiving?”
“No.”
“What a rush. There’s no feeling like it—standing in the doorway of a plane at 10,000 feet, heart pounding, charged up. Take that last big step and the slipstream sucks you away. Falling—only it doesn’t feel like falling at all. It’s flying. Air presses hollows in your cheeks and screams past your ears. I’ve jumped high altitude, low opening, with oxygen from 25,000 feet. I swear I could open my arms and embrace the entire planet.”
His eyes are shining. I don’t know why he’s telling me this but I let him continue.
“The best thing that ever happened to me was getting booted out of school and joining the Paras. Up until then I was drifting. Angry. I didn’t have any ambition. It changed my life.
“I got a little girl now. She’s three. Her mother doesn’t live with me anymore, they’re in Scotland, but I send ’em money every month and presents on her birthday and at Christmas. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a different person.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand. You think I’m a thug and a bully but I changed. What I did to Cate was unforgivable but she forgave me. That’s why I went looking for her. I wanted to find out how things turned out for her. I didn’t want to think I screwed up her life because of what I did to her.”
I don’t want to believe him. I want to keep hating him because that’s the world according to me. My recorded history.
“Why would Cate agree to see you?”
“She was curious I guess.”
“Where did you meet?”
“We had a coffee in Soho.”
“And?”
“We talked. I said I was sorry. She said it was OK. I wrote her a few letters from Afghanistan. Whenever I was home on leave we used to get together for lunch or a coffee.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Like I said, you wouldn’t understand.”
It’s not a good enough reason. How could Cate forgive Donavon before she forgave me?
“What do you know about the New Life Adoption Center?”
“Cate took me there. She knew Carla couldn’t decide what to do about the baby.”
“How did Cate know about the adoption center?”
He shrugs. “Her fertility specialist is on the adoption panel.”
“Dr. Banerjee. Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Julian Shawcroft and Dr. Banerjee know each other. More lies.
“Did Cate tell you why she went to Amsterdam?”
“She said she was going to have another round of IVF.”
I glance toward Samira. “She paid for a surrogate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are twins.”
Donavon looks dumbfounded. Speechless.
“Where?”
“They’re missing.”
I can see the knowledge register in his mind and match up with other details. News of the twins is already on the radio and in the early editions of the Evening Standard. I have shaken him more than I thought possible.
“What Cate did was illegal,” I explain. “She was going to blow the whistle. That’s why she wanted to talk to me.”
Donavon has regained a semblance of composure. “Is that why they killed her?”
“Yes. Cate didn’t accidentally find Samira. Someone put them together. I’m looking for a man called “Brother”—an Englishman, who came to Samira’s orphanage in Kabul.”
“Julian Shawcroft has been to Afghanistan.”
“How do you know?”
“It came up in conversation. He was asking where I served.”
I flip open my mobile and punch the speed dial. “New Boy” Dave answers on the second ring. I haven’t talked to him since Amsterdam. He hasn’t called. I haven’t called. Inertia. Fear.
“Hello, sweet boy.”
He sounds hesitant. I don’t have time to ask why.
“When you did the background check on Julian Shawcroft, what did you find?”
“He used to be executive director of a Planned Parenthood clinic in Manchester.”
“Before that.”
“He studied theology at Oxford and then joined some sort of religious order.”
“A religious order?”
“He became a Catholic brother.”
There’s the link! Cate, Banerjee, Shawcroft and Samira—I can tie them together.
Dave is no longer on the phone. I can’t remember saying goodbye.
Donavon has been talking to me, aski
ng questions. I haven’t been listening.
“Did they look like Cate?” he asks.
“Who?”
“The twins.”
I don’t know how to answer. I’m not good at describing newborn babies. They all look like Winston Churchill. Why should he care?
3
A silver-colored Lexus pulls into the driveway of a detached house in Wimbledon, South London. It has a personalized number plate: BABYDOC. Sohan Banerjee collects his things from the backseat and triggers the central locking. Lights flash. If only everything in life could be achieved with the press of a button.
“The penalty for people trafficking is fourteen years,” I say.
The doctor wheels around, clutching his briefcase to his stomach like a shield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know the penalty for commercial surrogacy but when you add medical rape and kidnapping I’m sure you’ll be in prison long enough to make new friends.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“And I almost forgot murder. An automatic life sentence.”
“You’re trespassing,” he blusters.
“Call the police.”
He looks toward his house and then at the houses nearby perhaps conscious of what his neighbors might think.
“You knew Cate Beaumont was going to Amsterdam. You gave her a liquid nitrogen canister with her remaining embryos. You told her about the Dutch clinic.”
“No. No.” His chins are wobbling.
“Were you going to deliver the twins?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How well do you know Julian Shawcroft?”
“We have a professional relationship.”
“You were at Oxford together. He was studying theology. You were studying medicine. See how much I know, Dr. Banerjee? Not bad for some uppity Sikh girl who can’t get a husband.”
His briefcase is still resting on the shelf of his stomach. My skin prickles with something more physical than loathing.
“You’re on his adoption panel.”
“An independent body.”
“You told Cate about the New Life Adoption Center. You introduced her to Shawcroft. What did you imagine you were doing? This wasn’t some humanitarian crusade to help the childless. You got into bed with sex traffickers and murderers. Young women have been raped and exploited. People have died.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with any of that. What motive would I have?”
Motive? I still don’t understand why Banerjee would get mixed up in something like this. It can’t be the money. Maybe he was trapped or tricked into doing a “favor.” It takes only one mistake and the hooks are planted.
He looks toward the house again. There is no wife waiting for him inside. No children at the door.
“It’s personal isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer.
Forbes showed me a list of names. They were couples who provided embryos to the IVF clinic in Amsterdam. A surname suddenly stands out—Anaan and Lola Singh from Birmingham.
“Do you have family in the U.K., Dr. Banerjee? A sister, perhaps? Any nieces or nephews?”
He wants to deny it but the truth is imprinted on his features like fingerprints in putty. Mama mentioned that he had a nephew. The good doctor was so proud he told stories about him over Sunday lunch. I take a stab at the rest of the story. His sister couldn’t get pregnant. And not even her very clever brother—a fertility specialist—could help her.
Julian Shawcroft suggested there might be another way. He organized a surrogate mother in the Netherlands and Banerjee delivered the baby. He thought it was a one-off—a family matter—but Shawcroft wanted him to deliver other babies. He couldn’t say no.
“What do you want from me?”
“Give me Julian Shawcroft.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Are you worried about your career, your reputation?”
Banerjee smiles wryly—a defeated gesture. “I have lived in this country for two-thirds of my life, Alisha. I hold master’s and doctoral degrees from Oxford and Harvard. I have published papers, lectured and been a visiting fellow at the University of Toronto.” He glances again at his house, the drawn curtains and empty rooms beyond. “My reputation is all I have.”
“You broke the law.”
“Is it so very wrong? I thought we were helping the childless and offering a new life to asylum seekers.”
“You exploited them.”
“We saved them from orphanages.”
“And forced some of them into brothels.”
His dense eyebrows are knitted together.
“Give me Shawcroft. Make a statement.”
“I must protect my sister and her child.”
“By protecting him?”
“We protect each other.”
“I could have you arrested.”
“I will deny everything.”
“At least tell me where the twins are.”
“I don’t meet the families. Julian arranges that side of things.” His voice changes. “I beg you, leave this alone. Only bad things can come of it.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone. My nephew is a beautiful boy. He’s nearly one.”
“When he grows up are you going to tell him about the medical rape that led to his conception?”
“I’m sorry.”
Everyone is sorry. It must be the times.
4
Forbes shuffles a stack of photographs and lays them out on a desk in three rows as if he’s playing solitaire. Julian Shawcroft’s picture is on the right edge. He looks like a charity boss straight from central casting: warm, smiling, avuncular…
“If you recognize someone I want you to point to the photograph,” the detective says.
Samira hesitates.
“Don’t worry about getting anyone in trouble—just tell me if there is someone here who you’ve met before.”
Her eyes travel over the photographs and suddenly stop. She points to Shawcroft.
“This one.”
“Who is he?”
“Brother.”
“Do you know his real name?”
She shakes her head.
“How do you know him?”
“He came to the orphanage.”
“In Kabul.”
She nods.
“What was he doing there?”
“He brought blankets and food.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“He couldn’t speak Afghani. I translated for him.”
“What did you translate?”
“He had meetings with Mr. Jamal, the director. He said he could arrange jobs for some of the orphans. He wanted only girls. I told him I could not leave without Hassan. He said it would cost more money but I could repay him.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand American dollars for each of us.”
“How were you supposed to repay this money?”
“He said God would find a way for me to pay.”
“Did he say anything about having a baby?”
“No.”
Forbes takes a sheet of paper from a folder. “This is a list of names. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of them.”
Samira’s finger dips down the page and stops. “This girl, Allegra, she was at the orphanage.”
“Where did she go?”
“She left before me. Brother had a job for her.”
The detective smiles tightly. “He certainly did.”
Forbes’s office is on the second floor, opposite a large open-plan incident room. There is a photograph of his wife on a filing cabinet. She looks like a no-nonsense country girl, who has never quite managed to shed the baby pounds.
He asks Samira to wait outside. There’s a drink machine near the lift. He gives her change. We watch her walk away. She looks so young—a woman in progress.
“We have enough for a wa
rrant,” I say. “She identified Shawcroft.”
Forbes doesn’t answer. What is he waiting for? He stacks the photographs, lining up the edges.
“We can’t link him with the surrogacy plot. It’s her word against his.”
“But the other orphans—”
“Have talked about a saintly man who offered to help them. We can’t prove Shawcroft arranged for them to be trafficked. And we can’t prove he blackmailed them into getting pregnant. We need one of the buyers to give evidence, which means incriminating themselves.”
“Could we indemnify them from prosecution?”
“Yes, but we can’t indemnify them against a civil lawsuit. Once they admit to paying for a surrogate baby, the birth mother could reclaim her child.”
I can hear it in his voice—resignation. The task is proving too hard. He won’t give up but neither will he go the extra yard, make the extra call, knock on one more door. He thinks I’m clutching at straws, that I haven’t thought this through. I have never been more certain.
“Samira should meet him.”
“What?”
“She could wear a wire.”
Forbes sucks air through his teeth. “You gotta be kidding! Shawcroft would see right through it. He knows we have her.”
“Yes, but investigations are about building pressure. Right now he thinks we can’t touch him. He’s comfortable. We have to shake him up—take him out of his comfort zone.”
There are strict rules governing the bugging of phones and properties. The surveillance commissioner has to grant permission. But a wire is different—as long as she stays in a public place.
“What would she say?”
“He promised her a job.”
“Is that it?”
“She doesn’t have to say anything. Let’s see what he says.”
Forbes crunches a throat lozenge between his teeth. His breath smells of lemons.
“Is she up for it?”
“I think so.”
5
Any sport can be made to sound ridiculous if you break it down to its basics—stick, ball, hole—but I have never really understood the appeal of golf. The courses are pretty in an artificial sort of way, like Japanese gardens planned down to the last pebble and shrub.
Julian Shawcroft plays every Sunday morning in the same foursome, with a town planner, a car dealer and a local businessman. They tee off just after ten.
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