Dear Ali,
It is a weird thing writing a letter that will only be opened and read upon one’s death. It’s hard to get too sad about it though. And if I am dead, it’s a bit late to fret about spilling that particular pint of white.
My only real concern is you. You’re my one regret. I have wanted to be friends with you ever since we met at Oaklands and you fought Paul Donavon to defend my honor and lost your front tooth. You were the real thing, Ali, not one of the plastics.
I know you’re sorry about what happened with my father. I know it was more his fault than yours. I forgave you a long time ago. I forgave him because, well, you know how it is with fathers. You weren’t the first of his infidelities, by the way, but I guess you worked that out.
The reason I could never tell you this is because of a promise I made to my mother. It was the worst sort of promise. She found out about you and my father. He told her because he thought I would tell her.
My mother made me promise never to see you again; never to talk to you; never to invite you to the house; never to mention your name.
I know I should have ignored her. I should have called. Many times I almost did. I got as far as picking up the phone. Sometimes I even dialed your parents’ number but then I wondered what I’d say to you. We had left it too long. How would we ever get around the silence, which was like an elephant sitting in the room?
I have never stopped thinking about you. I followed your career as best I could, picking up stories from other people. Poor old Felix has been bored silly listening to me talk about our exploits and adventures. He’s heard so much about you that he probably feels like he’s been married to both of us.
Six weeks from now, God willing, I will become a mother after six years of trying. If something happens to me and to Felix—if we die in a flaming plane crash or should suicide bombers ever target Tesco at Willesden Green—we want you to be the guardian of our children.
My mother is going to pass a cow when she learns this but I have kept my promise to her, which didn’t include any clause covering posthumous contact with you.
There are no strings attached. I’m not going to write provisos or instructions. If you want the job it’s yours. I know you’ll love my children as much as I do. And I know you’ll teach them to look after each other. You’ll say the things I would have said to them and tell them about me and about Felix. The good stuff, naturally.
I don’t know what else to tell you. I often think how different my life would have been—how much happier—if you’d been a part of it. One day.
Love, Cate
It is just after five o’clock. The streetlights are smudged with my tears. Faces drift past me. Heads turn away. Nobody asks after a crying woman anymore—not in London. I’m just another of the crazies to be avoided.
On the cab ride to West Acton I catch my reflection in the window. I will be thirty years old on Thursday—closer to sixty than I am to birth. I still look young yet exhausted and feverish, like a child who has stayed up too late at an adult party.
There is a FOR SALE sign outside “New Boy” Dave’s flat. He’s serious about this; he’s going to quit the force and start teaching kids how to sail.
I debate whether to go up. I walk to the front door, stare at the bell and walk back to the road. I don’t want to explain things. I just want to open a bottle of wine, order a pizza and curl up on the sofa with his legs beneath mine and his hands rubbing my toes, which are freezing.
I haven’t seen Dave since Amsterdam. He used to phone me every day, sometimes twice. When I called him after the funerals he sounded hesitant, almost nervous.
The elephant in the room. It can’t be talked about. It can’t be ignored. My patched-up pelvis is like that. People suddenly want to give me children. Is that ironic? I’m never sure with irony; the term is so misused.
I go back to the door. It takes a long while for anyone to answer. It’s a woman’s voice on the intercom. Apologetic. She was in the shower.
“Dave’s not here.”
“It’s my fault. I should have phoned.”
“He’s on his way home. Do you want to come in and wait?”
“No, that’s OK.”
Who is she? What’s she doing here?
“I’ll tell him you dropped by.”
“OK.”
A pause.
“You need to give me your name.”
“Of course. Sorry. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him.”
I walk back to the road, telling myself I don’t care.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
The house is strangely quiet. The TV in the front room is turned down and lights are on upstairs. I slip along the side path and through the back door. Hari is in the kitchen.
“You have to stop her.”
“Who?”
“Samira. She’s leaving. She’s upstairs packing.”
“Why? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you leave her alone?”
“For twenty minutes, I swear. That’s all. I had to drop off a mate’s car.”
Samira is in my bedroom. Her clothes are folded on the bed—a few simple skirts, blouses, a frayed jumper…Hassan’s biscuit tin sits on top of the pile.
“Where are you going?”
She seems to hold her breath. “I am leaving. You do not want me here.”
“What makes you say that? Did Hari do something? Did he say something he shouldn’t have said?”
She won’t look at me, but I see the bruise forming on her cheek, a rough circle beneath her right eye.
“Who did this?”
She whispers, “A man came.”
“What man?”
“The man who talked to you at the church.”
“Donavon?”
“No, the other man.”
She means Barnaby. He came here, spoiling for a fight.
“He was hitting the door—making so much noise. He said you lied to me and you lied to him.”
“I have never lied to you.”
“He said you wanted the babies for yourself and he would fight you and he would fight me.”
“Don’t listen to him.”
“He said I wasn’t welcome in this country. I should go back where I came from—among the terrorists.”
“No.”
I reach toward her. She pulls away.
“Did he hit you?”
“I tried to shut the door. He pushed it.” She touches her cheek.
“He had no right to say those things.”
“Is it true? Do you want the babies?”
“Cate wrote a will—a legal document. She nominated me as the guardian if she had children.”
“What does guardian mean? Do the twins belong to you now?”
“No. You gave birth to them. They might have Cate’s eyes and Felix’s nose, but they grew inside your body. And no matter what anyone says they belong to you.”
“What if I don’t want them?”
My mouth opens but I don’t answer. Something has lodged in my throat, a choking lump of desire and doubt. No matter what Cate wanted, they’re not my babies. My motives are pure.
I put my arm around Samira’s shoulders and pull her close to me. Her breath is warm against my neck and her first sob thuds like a spade hitting wet dirt. Something breaks inside her. She has found her tears.
9
The digital numbers of my alarm clock glow in the darkness. It has just gone four. I won’t sleep again. Samira is curled up next to me, breathing softly.
I am a collector of elephants. Some are soft toys; others are figurines made from cut glass, porcelain, jade or crystal. My favorite is six inches high and made from heavy glass, inlaid with mirrors. Normally it sits beneath my reading light, throwing colored stars on the walls. It’s not there now. I wonder what could have happened to it.
Slipping out of bed quietly, I dress in my running gear and step outside into the darkness of Hanbury Street. There is a
n edge to the breeze. Seasons changing.
Cate used to help me train after school. She rode her bicycle alongside me, speeding up before we reached the hills because she knew I could outrun her on the climbs. When I ran at the national age championships in Cardiff she begged her parents to let her come. She was the only student from Oaklands to see me win. I ran like the wind that day. Fast enough to blur at the edges.
I couldn’t see Cate in the stands but I could pick out my mother who wore a bright crimson sari like a splash of paint against the blue seats and gray spectators.
My father never saw me compete. He didn’t approve.
“Running is not ladylike. It makes a woman sweat,” he told me.
“Mama sweats all the time in the kitchen.”
“It is a different sort of sweat.”
“I didn’t know there were different kinds of sweat.”
“Yes, it is a well-known scientific fact. The sweat of hard work and of food preparation is sweeter than the sweat of vigorous exercise.”
I didn’t laugh. A good daughter respects her father.
Later I heard my parents arguing.
“How is a boy supposed to catch her if she runs so fast?”
“I don’t want boys catching her.”
“Have you seen her room? She has weights. My daughter is lifting barbells.”
“She’s in training.”
“Weights are not feminine. And do you see what she wears? Those brief shorts are like underwear. She’s running in her underwear.”
In darkness I run two circuits of Victoria Park, sticking to the tarmac paths, using the streetlights to navigate.
My mother used to tell me a folktale about a village donkey that was always mocked for being stupid and ugly. One day a guru took pity on the animal. “If you had the roar of a tiger they would not laugh,” he thought. So he took a tiger skin and laid it across the donkey’s back. The donkey returned to the village and suddenly everything changed. Women and children ran screaming. Men cowered in corners. Soon the donkey was alone in the market and feasted on the lovely apples and carrots.
The villagers were terrified and had to be rid of the dangerous “tiger.” A meeting was called and they decided to drive the tiger back to the forest. Drumbeats echoed through the market and the poor bewildered donkey turned this way and that. He ran into the forest but the hunters tracked him down.
“That’s no tiger,” one of them shouted. “Surely it’s only the donkey from the market.”
The guru appeared and calmly lifted the tiger skin from the terrified beast. “Remember this animal,” he said to the people. “He has the skin of a tiger but the soul of a donkey.”
I feel like that now—a donkey not a tiger.
I am just passing Smithfield Market when a realization washes over me. At first it is no more than an inkling. I wonder what prompts such a reaction. Maybe it’s a pattern of footsteps or a sound that is out of place or a movement that triggers a thought. It comes to me now. I know how to find the twins!
Forbes has been concentrating on couples who succeeded in obtaining a child by using a genetic surrogate. They cannot give evidence against Shawcroft without incriminating themselves. Why would they? Science supports them. Nobody can prove they’re not the birth parents.
But whoever has the twins doesn’t have a genetic safety net. DNA tests will expose rather than sustain them. They haven’t had time to fake a pregnancy or set up an elaborate deceit. Right now they must be feeling vulnerable.
At this hour of the morning it isn’t difficult to find a parking spot in Kennington, close to Forbes’s office. Most of the detectives start work at nine, which means the incident room is deserted except for a detective constable who has been working the graveyard shift. He’s about my age and quite handsome in a sulky sort of way. Perhaps I woke him up.
“Forbes asked me to come.” I lie.
He looks at me doubtfully. “The boss has a meeting at the Home Office this morning. He won’t be in the office until later.”
“He wants me to follow up a lead.”
“What sort of lead?”
“Just an idea, that’s all.”
He doesn’t believe me. I call Forbes to get approval.
“This better be fucking important,” he grumbles.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Who’s this?”
“DC Barba.”
“Don’t good morning me.”
“Sorry, sir.”
I can hear Mrs. Forbes in the background telling him to be quiet. Pillow talk.
“I need access to Shawcroft’s phone records.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s about to say no. He doesn’t trust me. I’m bad news or bad luck. Everything I’ve touched has turned to shit. I sense another reason. A nervousness. Ever since he released Shawcroft, the DI has backtracked and made excuses. He must have copped some heat, but that goes with the territory.
“I want you to go home, DC Barba.”
“I have a lead.”
“Give it to the night detective. You’re not part of this investigation.” His voice softens. “Look after Samira.”
Why is he being so negative? And why the briefing at the Home Office? It must be about Shawcroft.
“How is your wife, sir?” I ask.
Forbes hesitates. She’s lying next to him. What can he say?
There is a long pause. I whisper, “We’re on the same side, sir. You didn’t screw me that night so don’t screw me now.”
“Fine. Yes, I can’t see a problem,” he answers. I hand the phone over to the night detective and listen to their yes-sir, no-sir exchange. The phone is handed back to me. Forbes wants a final word.
“Anything you find, you give to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ends. The night detective looks at me and we smile in unison. Waking up a senior officer is one of life’s small pleasures.
The DC’s name is Rod Beckley but everyone calls him Becks. “On account of me being crap at football,” he jokes.
After clearing a desk and finding me a chair, he delivers a dozen ring-bound folders. Every incoming and outgoing call from the New Life Adoption Center is listed, including the numbers, the duration of each call, the time and the date they were made. There are six voice lines and two fax lines, as well as a direct-dial number into Shawcroft’s office.
Further folders cover his mobile phone and home line. Text messages and e-mails have been printed out and stapled together in chronological order.
Taking a marker pen, I begin to group the calls.
Rather than concentrate on the phone numbers, I look at the times. The ferry arrived in Harwich at 3:36 a.m. on Sunday morning. We know that Pearl walked off the ferry just after four. At 10:25 a.m. he bought nappies and baby formula from a motorway service station on the M25 before stealing a car.
I look down the list of calls to Shawcroft’s mobile. There was an incoming call at 10:18 a.m. that lasted less than thirty seconds. I check the number. It appears only once. It could be a wrong number.
DC Beckley is flicking at a keyboard across the office, trying to look busy. I sit on the edge of his desk until he looks up.
“Can we find out who this number belongs to?”
He accesses the Police National Computer and types in the digits. A map of Hertfordshire appears. The details are listed on a separate window. The phone number belongs to a public phone box at Potter’s Bar—a motorway service area near junction 24 on the M25. It’s the same service area where Brendan Pearl was last sighted. He must have phoned Shawcroft for instructions about where to deliver the twins. It is the closest I’ve come to linking the two men, although it’s not conclusive.
Going back to the folders, I strike a dead end. Shawcroft didn’t use his mobile for the next three hours. Surely if his plan was coming apart, he would have called someone.
I try to picture last Sunday morning. Shawcroft wa
s on the golf course. His foursome teed off at 10:05. One of his playing partners said something when Samira interrupted their game and Shawcroft tried to drag her off the course: “Not again.”
It had happened before—a week earlier. After the phone call from Pearl, Shawcroft must have abandoned his round. Where did he go? He needed to let the buyer or buyers know that the twins had arrived. He had to bring the pickup forward. It was too risky using his own mobile so he looked for another phone—one that he thought couldn’t be traced.
I go back to Becks. “Is it possible to find out if there is a public phone located at a golf club in Surrey?”
“Maybe. You got a name?”
“Yes. Twin Bridges Country Club. It could be in a locker room or lounge. Somewhere quiet. I’m interested in outgoing calls timed between 9:20 a.m. and 10:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 29.”
“Is that all?” he asks facetiously.
“No. Then we have to cross-check them with the adoption waiting list at the New Life Adoption Center.”
He doesn’t understand, but he begins the search anyway. “You think we’ll find a match.”
“If we’re lucky.”
10
“New Boy” Dave hears my voice on the intercom and pauses for a moment before pressing the buzzer to unlock the front door. When I reach his flat the door is propped open. He is in the kitchen stirring paint.
“So you’re definitely selling.”
“Yep.”
“Any offers?”
“Not yet.”
There are two cups in the drainer and two cold tea bags solidifying in the sink, alongside a paint roller and a couple of brushes. The ceilings are to be a stowe white. I helped him choose the color. The walls are a misty green, cut back by 50 percent and the skirting boards and frames are full strength.
I follow Dave into the living room. His few pieces of furniture have been pushed to the center and covered in old sheets.
“How is Samira?” he asks.
The question is unexpected. Dave has never met her, but he will have seen the TV bulletins and read the papers.
“I’m worried about her. I’m worried about the twins.”
The Night Ferry Page 34
