The Night Ferry (15 page)

“We’ve been married six years and trying to have a baby for five.”

“So you’re looking to adopt because you can’t have your own baby?”

It’s a loaded question. “I come from a big family. I wanted the same. But even though we want our own children, we always talked about adopting.”

“Are you prepared to take an older child?”

“We’d like a baby.”

“Yes, wel , that may be so, but there are very few newborn babies put up for adoption in this country. The waiting list is very long.”

“How long?”

“Upward of five years.”

Dave blows air through his cheeks. He’s better at this than I expected. “Surely it can be fast-tracked in some way,” he says. “I mean, even the slowest of wheels can be
oiled
.” Stel a seems to resent the suggestion. “Mr. King, we are a nonprofit charity governed by the same rules and regulations as local authority adoption services. The interests of the child come
first
and
last
.
Oil
doesn’t enter into it.”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“My husband works in management,” I explain contritely. “He believes that almost any problem can be solved by throwing more people or money at it.” Stel a nods sympathetical y and for the first time seems to consider my skin color. “We do facilitate intercountry adoptions, but there are no children made available from the subcontinent. Most people are choosing to adopt from Eastern Europe.”

“We’re not fussy,” adds Dave. I kick him under the desk. “We’re not fazed, I mean. It’s not a race thing.”

Stel a is eyeing him cautiously. “There are many
bad
reasons to adopt. Some people try to save their marriage, or replace a child who has died, or they want a fashion accessory because al their friends have one.”

“That’s not us,” I say.

“Good. Wel even with intercountry adoptions, the assessment and approval process is exactly the same as for adopting a child in this country. This includes ful medicals, home visits, criminal record checks and interviews with social workers and psychologists.”

She stands and opens a filing cabinet. The form is thirty pages long.

“I was wondering if Mr. Shawcroft was here today.”

“Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation. That’s how I heard about the center—through a friend.”

“And what’s your friend’s name?”

“Cate Beaumont.”

I get no sense of whether she’s heard the name before.

“Mr. Shawcroft is normal y very busy fund-raising but fortunately he’s here today. He might be able to spare you a few minutes.” She excuses herself and I can hear her walking upstairs.

“What do you think?” whispers Dave.

“Watch the door.” Skirting the desk, I open the drawer of the filing cabinet.

“That’s an il egal search.”

“Just
watch
the door.”

My fingers are moving over the files. Each adoptive family appears to have one but there is no “Beaumont” or “El iot.” Some folders are marked by colored stickers. There are names typed on the labels. At first glance I think they might be children, but the ages are al wrong. These are young women.

One name jumps out at me. Carla Donavon. Donavon’s younger sister. His
pregnant
sister. A coincidence? Hardly.

“Those files are confidential.” The disembodied voice startles me.

I look to Dave. He shakes his head. There is an intercom on the desk. I scan the ceiling and spy a smal security camera in the corner. I should have seen it earlier.

“If you want to know something, Mrs. King, you should ask,” says the voice. “I assume that’s your real name or perhaps you have lied about that as wel .”

“Do you always eavesdrop on people?” I say.

“Do you always il egal y search someone’s office and look at highly confidential files? Who exactly are you?” Dave answers, “Police officers. I’m Detective Sergeant Dave King. This is Detective Constable Alisha Barba. We are making inquiries about a woman we believe may have been one of your clients.”

The faint buzzing of the intercom goes silent. A side door opens. A man enters, in his mid-fifties, with a sturdy frame and a broad face that creases momentarily as he smiles disarmingly. His hair, once blond, now gray, has tight curls like wood shavings from a lathe.

“I’m sure there must be a law against police officers misrepresenting who they are and conducting unauthorized searches.”

“The drawer was open. I was simply closing it.”

This triggers a smile. He has every right to be angry and suspicious. Instead he finds it amusing. He makes a point of locking the filing cabinet before addressing us again.

“Now that we know exactly who we are, perhaps I could give you a guided tour and you could tel me what you’re doing here.” He leads us into the lobby and through the French doors onto the terrace. The young woman we saw earlier is sitting on a swing in the garden. Her dressing gown bil ows as she rocks back and forth, getting higher and higher.

“Be careful, Meredith,” he cal s. And then to us. “She’s a clumsy young thing.”

“Why is she here?”

“Meredith hasn’t decided what she wants to do. Giving up a baby is a difficult and courageous decision. We help young women like her to decide.”

“You try to convince her.”

“On the contrary. We offer love and support. We teach parenting skil s so she’l be ready. And if she decides to give up her baby, we have scholarships that can help her find a flat and get a job. We operate open adoptions.”

“Open?”

“The birth mothers and adoptive parents get to know one another and often stay in touch afterward.”

Shawcroft chooses an unraked gravel path around the southern end of the house. Large bay windows reveal a lounge. Several young women are playing cards in front of a fire.

“We offer prenatal classes, massage therapy and have quite a good gymnasium,” he explains.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t understand why it’s necessary.”

Shawcroft has an eye for an opening. It gives him the opportunity to explain his philosophy and he does so passionately, haranguing the historical attitudes that saw young unmarried mothers demonized or treated like outcasts.

“Single motherhood has become more acceptable but it is stil a chal enging choice,” he explains. “That’s why I established this center. There are far too many orphans and unwanted children in our society and overseas, with too few options available to improve their lives.

“Have you any idea how slow, bureaucratic and unfair our adoption system is? We leave it in the hands of people who are under-funded, understaffed and inexperienced—people who play God with the lives of children.”

Dave has dropped back.

“I began out of a smal office in Mayfair. There was just me. I charged £50 for a two-hour consultancy session. Two years later I had a ful -time staff of eight and had completed more than a hundred adoptions. Now we’re here.” He gestures to Fol owdale House.

“How can you afford this place?”

“People have been very generous—new parents and grandparents. Some leave us money as bequests or make donations. We have a staff of fourteen, including social workers, counselors, career advisers, health visitors and a psychologist.”

In one corner of the garden I notice a golf bag propped beneath an umbrel a and a bucket of bal s waiting to be hit. There are cal uses on his fingers.

“My one indulgence,” he explains, gazing over the fence into the pasture. “The cows are rather bal -shy. I have developed an incurable slice since my operation.”

“Operation?”

“My hip. Old age catching up on me.”

He picks up a club and swings it gently at a rosebush. A flower dissolves in a flurry of petals. Examining his fingers, he opens and closes his fist.

“It’s always harder to hold a club in the winter. Some people wear gloves. I like being able to
feel
the grip.” He pauses and turns to face me. “Now, Detective Constable, let’s dispense with the pretense. Why are you here?”

“Do you know someone cal ed Cate Beaumont?”

“No.” The answer is abrupt.

“You don’t need to check your client files?”

“I remember al of them.”

“Even those who don’t succeed?”

“
Especially
those who don’t succeed.”

Dave has joined us. He picks a metal-headed driver and eyes a Friesian in the distance before thinking better of it.

“My friend faked her pregnancy and emptied her bank account. I think she arranged to buy a baby.”

“Which is il egal.”

“She had one of your brochures.”

“Which is
not
il egal.” Shawcroft doesn’t take offense or become defensive. “Where is your friend now?”

“She’s dead. Murdered.”

He repeats the word with renewed respect. His hands are unfailingly steady.

“The brochure contained an advertisement for a baby boy whose mother was a prostitute and a former drug addict. It mentioned a facilitation fee and medical expenses.” Shawcroft lets his palm glide over his cheek, giving himself time. For a moment something struggles inside him. I want a denial. There isn’t one.

“The facilitation fee is to cover paperwork such as visas and birth certificates.”

“Sel ing children is il egal.”

“The baby was not for sale. Every applicant is properly vetted. We require referees and assessment reports. There are group workshops and familiarization. Final y, there is an adoption panel that must approve the adopter before a child can be matched to them.”

“If these adoptions are aboveboard, why are they advertised using post box numbers?”

He gazes straight ahead as if plotting the distance of his next shot.

“Do you know how many children die in the world every year, Alisha? Five mil ion. War, poverty, disease, famine, neglect, land mines and predators. I have seen children so malnourished they don’t have the energy to swat flies away and starving women holding babies to their withered breasts, desperate to feed them. I have seen them throw their babies over the fences of rich people’s houses or, worse stil , into the River Ganges because they can’t afford to look after them. I have seen AIDS orphans, crack babies and children sold into slavery for as little as £15. And what do we do in this country? We make it
harder
for people to adopt. We tel them they’re too old, or the wrong color, or the wrong religion.” Shawcroft makes no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice. “It takes courage for a country to admit it can’t take care of its smal est and weakest. Many countries who are not so brave would prefer to see abandoned children starve than to leave for a better life.

“The system is unfair. So, yes, I sometimes cut corners. In some countries contracts can be signed with birth mothers. Hol ywood movie stars do it. Government ministers do it.

Children can be rescued. Infertile couples can have families.”

“By
buying
babies.”

“By
saving
them.”

For al his avuncular charm and geniality, there is steel in this man’s nature and something vaguely dangerous. A mixture of sentimentality and spiritual zeal that fortifies the hearts of tyrants.

“You think that what I’m doing is immoral. Let me tel you what’s more immoral. Doing
nothing
. Sitting back in your comfortable chair in your comfortable home thinking that just because you sponsor a child in Zambia you’re doing enough.”

“It shouldn’t mean breaking the law.”

“Every family that adopts here is vetted and approved by a panel of experts.”

“You’re profiting from their desperation.”

“Al payments go back into the charity.”

He begins listing the number of foreign adoptions the center has overseen and the diplomatic hurdles he has had to overcome. His arguments are marshal ed so skil ful y that I have no line of reasoning to counter them. My objections sound mean-spirited and hostile. I should apologize.

“Your friend’s death is very unfortunate, DC Barba, but I would strongly counsel you against making any rash or unfounded claims about what we do here. Police knocking on doors, asking questions, upsetting families, that would be very unfortunate.”

He has made his first mistake. I can accept his passionate beliefs and his rationale for them, but I don’t appreciate emotional blackmail.

Stel a appears on the terrace and cal s to Shawcroft, miming a phone cal with her hand.

“I have to go,” he says, smiling tiredly. “The baby you referred to was born in Washington four weeks ago. A boy. A young couple from Oxford are adopting him.” I watch him return along the path, gravel rasping beneath his soft-soled shoes. Meredith is stil in the garden. He motions for her to come inside. It is getting cold.

“New Boy” Dave fal s into step beside me and we fol ow the path in the opposite direction toward the car park, passing a statue of a young girl holding an urn and another of a Cupid with a missing penis.

“So what do you think?” he asks.

“What sort of adoption center has surveil ance cameras?”

14

“Finding Donavon” sounds like the title of an Irish art-house movie directed by Neil Jordan. “Deconstructing Donavon” is another good title and that’s exactly what I plan to do when I find him.

Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe it’s not a coincidence, but I don’t like the way that his name keeps popping up whenever I trace Cate’s movements. Donavon claims to know when someone is lying. That’s because he’s an expert on the subject—a born deceiver.

On the drive back to London we go over the details of our meeting with Shawcroft. Ruiz doesn’t see a problem with adoption having a financial element if couples are vetted properly.

Too much control al ows black markets to flourish. Perhaps he’s right, but a zealot like Shawcroft can turn compassion into a dangerous crusade.

“New Boy” Dave has work to do. We drop him at the Harrow Road police station and I make him promise to run a check on Shawcroft. He kisses my cheek and whispers, “Leave this alone.”