The Night Ferry (41 page)

“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’l 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.

“Cal 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 wel 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 stil 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 al wrong. I had nothing to do with any of that. What motive would I have?”

Motive? I stil 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 fel ow 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 wil deny everything.”

“At least tel 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 tel 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 tel 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 dol ars 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 tel me if you recognize any of them.” Samira’s finger dips down the page and stops. “This girl, Al egra, 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 warrant,” 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 wil he go the extra yard, make the extra cal , 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 surveil ance 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 smel s 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, bal , hole—but I have never real y 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.

Their club is on the border of Sussex and Surrey, somewhere in the greenbelt and the white stockbroker belt. Brown is a color rarely seen out here unless you take a big divot.

Samira has a battery the size of a matchbox taped to the smal of her back and a thin red fiber threaded under her right armpit to a button-sized microphone taped between her breasts.

Adjusting her blouse, I lift my eyes to hers and smile reassuringly. “You don’t have to go through with this.” She nods.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Another nod.

“If you get frightened, walk away. If you feel threatened, walk away. Any sign of trouble, you understand?”

“Yes.”

Groups of golfers are mil ing outside the locker room and on the practice green, waiting for the starter to cal their names. Shawcroft has the loudest laugh but not the loudest trousers, which belong to one of his playing partners. He takes a practice swing beside the first tee and looks up to see Samira standing at the top of a set of stone steps with the sun behind her.

He shields his eyes.

Without hesitation, she moves toward him, stopping six feet away.

“Can I help you?” asks one of the other golfers.

“I’ve come to see Brother.”

Shawcroft hesitates, looking past her. He is searching for us.

“Nobody cal ed Brother here, lass,” says the car dealer.

Samira points. They turn to Shawcroft, who stutters a denial. “I don’t know who she is.”

Forbes adjusts the volume on the digital recording equipment. We’re watching from eighty yards away, parked beneath the branches of a plane tree, opposite the pro shop.

Samira is a foot shorter than any of the men. Her long skirt flares out in the breeze.

“Maybe she can caddy for you, Julian?” one of them jokes.

“You remember me, Brother,” says Samira. “You told me to come. You said you had a job for me.”

Shawcroft looks at his playing partners apologetical y. Suspicion is turning to anger. “Just ignore her. Let’s play.” Turning his back, he takes a hurried practice swing and then sprays his opening drive wildly to the right where it disappears into trees. He tosses his club to the ground in disgust.

The others tee off. Shawcroft is already at the wheel of a golf cart. It jerks forward and accelerates away.

“I told you he wouldn’t fal for this,” says Forbes.

“Wait. Look.”

Samira floats down the fairway after them, the hem of her skirt growing dark with dew. The carts have separated. Shawcroft is looking for his wayward drive in the rough. He glances up and sees her coming. I hear him yel ing to his partner. “Lost bal . I’l hit another.”

“You haven’t even looked for this one.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He drops another bal and hacks it out, looking more like a woodchopper than a golfer. The cart takes off again. Samira doesn’t break stride.

I feel a lump in my throat. This girl never ceases to amaze me. She fol ows them al the way to the green, skirting the bunkers and crossing a smal wooden bridge over a brook.

Constantly looking over his shoulder, Shawcroft thrashes at the bal and hurries forward.

“She’s going to walk out of range,” says Forbes. “We have to stop her.”

“Wait. Just a little longer.”

The foursome are more than 300 yards away but I can see them clearly enough through binoculars. Samira is standing on the edge of the green, watching and waiting.

Shawcroft final y snaps. “Get off this golf course or I’l have you arrested.”

Waving his club, he storms toward her. She doesn’t flinch.

“Steady on, old boy,” someone suggests.

“Who is she, Julian?” asks another.

“Nobody.”

“She’s a pretty thing. She could be your bal washer.”

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

Samira hasn’t moved. “I paid my debt, Brother.”

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

“You said God would find a way for me to pay. I paid it twice. Twins. I paid for Hassan and for me, but he’s dead. Zala didn’t make it either.” Shawcroft grabs her roughly by the arm and hisses, “I don’t know who sent you here. I don’t know what you want, but I can’t help you.”

“What about the job?”

He is walking her away from the group. One of his partners yel s, “Where are you off to, Julian?”

“I’m going to have her thrown off the course.”

“What about the round?”

“I’l catch up.”

The car dealer mutters, “Not again.”

Another foursome is already halfway down the fairway. Shawcroft marches past them stil holding Samira by the arm. She has to run to keep from fal ing.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Shut up you stupid slut. I don’t know what you’re playing at but it won’t work. Who sent you here?”

“I paid my debt.”

“Fuck the debt! There is no job! This is harassment. You come near me again and I’l have you arrested.”