The Night Ferry (42 page)

Samira doesn’t give up. God, she’s good.

“Why did Hassan die?”

“It’s cal ed life. Stuff happens.”

I don’t believe it. He’s quoting Donald Rumsfeld. Why doesn’t stuff happen to people like Shawcroft?

“It took me a long while to find you, Brother. We waited in Amsterdam for you to come or to send word. In the end we couldn’t wait any longer. They were going to send us back to Kabul. Hassan came alone. I wanted to go with him but he said I should wait.” Her voice is breaking. “He was going to find you. He said you had forgotten your promise. I told him you were honorable and kind. You brought us food and blankets at the orphanage. You wore the cross…”

Shawcroft twists her wrist, trying to make her stop.

“I had the babies. I paid my debt.”

“Wil you shut up!”

“Someone kil ed Zala—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They’re nearing the clubhouse. Forbes is out of the car, moving toward them. I hang back. Shawcroft flings Samira into a flower bed. She bangs her knee and cries out.

“That qualifies as assault.”

Shawcroft looks up and sees the detective. Then he looks past him and spies me.

“You have no right! My lawyer wil hear about this.”

Forbes hands him an arrest warrant. “Fine. For your sake I hope he’s not playing golf today.”

6

Shawcroft regards himself as an intel ectual and a textbook lawyer, although he seems to have mixed up the Crimes Act and the Geneva convention as he yel s accusations of inhuman treatment from his holding cel .

Intel ectuals show off too much and wise people are just plain boring. (My mother is forever tel ing me to save money, go to bed early and not to lend things.) I prefer clever people who hide their talents and don’t take themselves too seriously.

A dozen officers are going through the files and computer records of the New Life Adoption Center. Others are at Shawcroft’s house in Hayward’s Heath. I don’t expect them to find a paper trail leading to the twins. He’s too careful for that.

There is, however, a chance that prospective buyers initial y came to the center looking to adopt legal y. At our first meeting I asked him about the brochure I found at Cate’s house, which advertised a baby boy born to a prostitute. Shawcroft was adamant that al adopting parents were properly screened. This should mean interviews, psych reports and criminal background checks. If he was tel ing me the truth then whoever has the twins could once have been on a waiting list at the adoption center.

It is four hours since we arrested him. Forbes arranged to bring him through the front door, past the public waiting area. He wanted to cause maximum discomfort and embarrassment. Although experienced, I sense that Forbes is not quite in the same league as Ruiz, who knows exactly when to be hard-nosed and when to let someone sweat for another hour in a holding cel , alone with their demons.

Shawcroft is waiting for his lawyer, Eddie Barrett. I could have guessed he would summon the “Bul dog,” an old-fashioned ambulance chaser with a reputation for courting the media and getting right up police noses. He and Ruiz are old adversaries, sharing a mutual loathing and grudging respect.

Wolf whistles and howls of laughter erupt in the corridor. Barrett has arrived, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid shirt and a ten-gal on hat.

“Look it’s Wil ie Nelson!” someone cal s.

“Is that a six-shooter in your pocket, Eddie, or are you just dawg-gone pleased to see me?”

Someone breaks into a hoedown. Eddie tucks his thumbs into his belt and gives them a few boot-scootin’ moves. He doesn’t seem to mind them taking the mickey out of him.

Normal y it’s the other way round and he makes police look foolish during interviews or in court.

Barrett is a strange-looking man with an upside-down body (short legs and a long torso), and he walks just like George W. Bush with his arms held away from his body, his back unnatural y straight and his chin in the air. Maybe it’s a cowboy thing.

One of the uniforms escorts him to an interview room. Shawcroft is brought upstairs. Forbes slips a plastic plug into his ear—a receiver that wil al ow us to talk to him during the interrogation. He takes a bundle of files and a list of questions. This is about
looking
prepared as much as
being
prepared.

I don’t know if the DI is nervous but I can feel the tension. This is about the twins. Unless Shawcroft cracks or cooperates we may never find them.

The charity boss is stil wearing his golfing clothes. Barrett sits next to him, placing his cowboy hat on the table. The formalities are dispensed with—names, the location and time of interview. Forbes then places five photographs on the table. Shawcroft doesn’t bother looking at them.

“These five asylum seekers al ege that you convinced them to leave their homelands and il egal y enter the U.K.”

“No.”

“You deny knowing them?”

“I may have met them. I don’t recal .”

“Perhaps if you looked at their faces.”

Barrett interrupts. “My client has answered your question.”

“Where might you have met them?”

“My charities raised more than half a mil ion pounds last year. I visited orphanages in Afghanistan, Iraq, Albania and Kosovo.”

“How do you know these women are orphans? I didn’t mention that.”

Shawcroft stiffens. I can almost see him silently admonish himself for slipping up.

“So you
do
know these women?”

“Perhaps.”

“And you know Samira Khan?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“At an orphanage in Kabul.”

“Did you talk about her coming to the U.K.?”

“No.”

“Did you offer her a job here?”

“No.” He smiles his blameless smile.

“You introduced her to a man who smuggled her to the Netherlands and then to Britain.”

“No.”

“The cost was five thousand U.S. dol ars but it rose to ten thousand by the time she reached Turkey. You told her that God would find a way for her to repay this money.”

“I meet many orphans on my travels, Detective, and I don’t think there has ever been one of them who didn’t want to leave. It’s what they dream about. They tel one another bedtime stories of escaping to the West where even beggars drive cars and dogs are put on diets because there is so much food.” Forbes places a photograph of Brendan Pearl on the table. “Do you know this man?”

“I can’t recal .”

“He is a convicted kil er.”

“I’l pray for him.”

“What about his victims—wil you pray for them?” Forbes is holding a photograph of Cate. “Do you know this woman?”

“She might have visited the adoption center. I can’t be sure.”

“She wanted to adopt?”

Shawcroft shrugs.

“You wil have to answer verbal y for the tape,” says Forbes.

“I
can’t
recal .”

“Take a closer look.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, Detective.”

“What about your memory?”

Barrett interrupts. “Listen, Dr. Phil, it’s Sunday. I got better things to do than listen to you stroke your pole. How about you tel us what my client is supposed to have done?” Forbes shows admirable restraint. He places another photograph on the table, this one of Yanus. The questions continue. The answers are the same: “I cannot recal . I do not remember.”

Julian Shawcroft is not a pathological liar (why tel a lie when the truth can serve you better?) but he is a natural deceiver and it comes as easily to him as breathing. Whenever Forbes has him under pressure, he careful y unfurls a patchwork of lies, tissue-thin yet careful y wrought, repairing any flaw in the fabric before it becomes a major tear. He doesn’t lose his temper or show any anxiety. Instead he projects a disquieting calmness and a firm, fixed gaze.

Among the files at the adoption center are the names of at least twelve couples that also appear on paperwork from the IVF clinic in Amsterdam. I relay the information to Forbes via a transmitter. He touches his ear in acknowledgment.

“Have you ever been to Amsterdam, Mr. Shawcroft?” he asks.

I speak it here, it comes out there—like magic.

“Several times.”

“Have you visited a fertility clinic in Amersfoort?”

“I don’t recal .”

“Surely you would remember this clinic.” Forbes relates the name and address. “I doubt if you visit so many.”

“I am a busy man.”

“Which is why I’m sure you keep diaries and appointment calendars.”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t we found any?”

“I don’t keep my schedule more than a few weeks before throwing it out. I deplore clutter.”

“Can you explain how couples who were screened by your adoption center also appear in the files of an IVF clinic in Amsterdam?”

“Perhaps they were getting IVF treatment. People who want to adopt often try IVF first.”

Barrett is gazing at the ceiling. He’s in danger of getting bored.

“These couples didn’t have IVF treatment,” says Forbes. “They provided embryos that were implanted in the wombs of asylum seekers who were forced to carry pregnancies to term before the babies were taken from them.”

Forbes points to the five photographs on the table. “These women, Mr. Shawcroft, the same women you met at different orphanages, the same women you encouraged to leave. They have identified you. They have provided statements to the police. And each one of them remembers you tel ing them the same thing: ‘God wil find a way for you to repay your debt.’” Barrett takes hold of Shawcroft’s arm. “My client wishes to exercise his right to silence.”

Forbes gives the textbook reply. “I hope your client is aware that negative inferences can be drawn by the courts if he fails to mention facts that he later relies upon in his defense.”

“My client is aware of this.”

“Your client should also be aware that he has to remain here and listen to my questions, whether he answers them or not.” Barrett’s smal dark eyes are glittering. “You do what you have to, Detective Inspector. Al we’ve heard so far is a bunch of fanciful stories masquerading as facts. So what if my client talked to these women? You have no evidence that he organized their il egal entry into this country. And no evidence that he was involved in this Goebbels-like fairy tale about forced pregnancies and stolen babies.”

Barrett is perfectly motionless, poised. “It seems to me, Detective, that your entire case rests on the testimony of five il egal immigrants who would say anything to stay in this country.

You want to make a case based on that—bring it on.”

The lawyer gets to his feet, smooths his boot-cut jeans and adjusts his buffalo-skul belt buckle. He glances at Shawcroft. “My advice to you is to remain silent.” He opens the door and swaggers down the corridor, hat in hand. There’s that walk again.

7

“Penny for the Guy.”

A group of boys with spiky haircuts are loitering on the corner. The smal est one has been dressed up as a tramp in oversize clothes. He looks like he’s fal en victim to a shrinking ray.

One of the other boys nudges him. “Show ’em yer teef, Lachie.”

Lachie opens his mouth sul enly. Two of them are blacked out.

“Penny for the Guy,” they chorus again.

“You’re not going to throw him on a bonfire I hope.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” I give them a pound.

Samira has been watching. “What are they doing?”

“Col ecting money for fireworks.”

“By begging?”

“Not exactly.”

Hari has explained to her about Guy Fawkes Night. That’s why the two of them have spent the past two days in my garden shed, dressed like mad scientists in cotton clothes, stripped of anything that might create static electricity or cause a spark.

“So this Guy Fawkes, he was a terrorist?”

“Yes, I suppose he was. He tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament with barrels of gunpowder.”

“To kil the King?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He and his coconspirators weren’t happy with the way the King was treating Catholics.”

“So it was about religion.”

“I guess.”

She looks at the boys. “And they celebrate this?”

“When the plot failed, people set off fireworks in celebration and burned effigies of Guy Fawkes. They stil do.” Never let anyone tel you that Protestants don’t hold a grudge.

Samira silently contemplates this as we make our way toward Bethnal Green. It’s almost six o’clock and the air is already heavy with the smel of smoke and sulfur. Bonfires are dotted across the grass with families clustered around them, rugged up against the cold.

My entire family has come to see the fireworks. Hari is in his element, having emerged from the back shed carrying an old ammunition box containing the fruits of his labor and Samira’s expertise. I don’t know how he managed to source what she needed: the various chemicals, special salts and metal ic powders. The most important ingredient, black powder, came from a hobby shop in Notting Hil , or more specifical y from model rocket motors that were careful y disassembled to obtain the solid fuel propel ant.

Torches dance across the grass and smal fireworks are being lit: stick rockets, Roman candles, flying snakes, crackle dragons and bags of gold. Children are drawing in the air with sparklers and every dog in London is barking, keeping every baby awake. I wonder if the twins are among them. Perhaps they are too young to be frightened by the noise.

I hook my arm through Bada’s and we watch Samira and Hari plant a heavy plastic tube in the earth. Samira has pul ed her skirt between her legs and wrapped it tightly around her thighs. Her headscarf is tucked beneath the col ar of her coat.

“Who would give him such knowledge?” says Bada. “He’l blow himself up.”

“He’l be fine.”

Hari has always been a favorite among equals. As the youngest, he has had my parents to himself for the past six years. I sometimes think he’s their last link to middle age.

Shielding a pale tapered candle in the palm of her hand, Samira crouches close to the ground. One or two seconds elapses. A rocket whizzes into the air and disappears. One, two, three seconds pass until it suddenly explodes high above us, dripping stars that melt into the darkness. Compared with the fireworks that have come before, it is higher, brighter and louder. People stop their own displays to watch.