The Night Ferry (48 page)

Samira adjusts her breast pads and buttons her blouse. Four times a day she expresses milk for the twins, which is couriered to the foster family. She gets to see them every afternoon for three hours under supervision. I have watched her careful y, looking for some sign that she is drawing closer to them. She feeds, bathes and nurses them, giving the impression that she is far more accomplished and comfortable with motherhood than I could ever imagine myself being. At the same time her movements are almost mechanical, as though she is doing what’s expected of her rather than what she wants.

She has developed a strange affectation around the twins. Whether expressing milk, changing nappies or dressing them, she uses only her right hand. When she picks one of them up, she slides the hand between their legs, along their spine and scoops them in a single motion, supporting the head with the palm of her hand. And when she feeds them, she tucks a bottle under her chin or lays the baby along her thighs.

I thought for a while that it might be a Muslim thing, like only eating with the right hand. When I asked her, she raised her eyes dismissively. “One hand is enough to sin. One hand is enough to save.”

“What does that mean?”

“What it says.”

Hari is downstairs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’m sure.”

“I could hold up an umbrel a.”

“It’s not raining.”

“They do it for the film stars who don’t want to be photographed—hold up umbrel as. Their bodyguards do it.”

“You’re not a bodyguard.”

He’s a lovesick puppy. University has broken up for Christmas and he’s supposed to be helping his brothers at the garage but he keeps finding excuses to spend time with Samira.

She’l even be alone with him, but only in the garden shed when they’re working on some pyrotechnic project. The fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night were supposed to be a one-off but Hari has kept that particular fuse burning, for obvious reasons.

“New Boy” Dave is waiting outside for us.

“You’re not wearing black?”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“You look good in red.”

I whisper, “You should see my underwear.”

Samira pul s on her overcoat, which has toggles instead of buttons. It used to belong to Hari and the cuffs have to be folded twice because the sleeves are so long. Her hands find the pockets and hibernate there.

The day is growing brighter, climbing toward noon. Dave negotiates the traffic and parks a block away from Southwark Crown Court, ready to run the gauntlet. Ahead of us, on the pavement, TV cameras and photographers are waiting.

The charges against Julian Shawcroft are merely a sideshow to the main event—the custody battle for the twins—which has everything the tabloids crave: sex, a beautiful “virgin” and stolen babies.

Flashguns fire around us. Samira lowers her head and keeps her hands in her pockets. Dave pushes a path through the scrum, not afraid to drop his shoulder into someone who won’t move out of the way. These are tactics from the rugby field, not a sailing school.

Southwark Crown Court is a soul ess modern precinct with less charm than the Old Bailey. We pass through the metal detectors and make our way upstairs. I recognize some of the people holding meetings in the corridors, discussing last-minute tactics with counsel. Dr. Sohan Banerjee has hired his own Queen’s Counsel in expectation of being charged. He and Shawcroft stil haven’t turned on each other but the finger-pointing is only a matter of time according to Forbes.

Shawcroft’s barrister is a woman, five foot ten in two-inch dagger heels, with white-blond hair and drop pearl earrings that swing back and forth as she talks.

The prosecutor, Francis Hague, QC, is older and grayer, with glasses perched on top of his head. He is talking to Forbes, making notes on a long pad. DS Softel has also turned up, perhaps hoping for some clue in the search for Brendan Pearl, who seems to have vanished completely. I wonder how many different identities he’s stolen.

Samira is nervous. She knows that people are looking at her, court staff and reporters. I have tried to reassure her that the publicity wil stop once the twins are home. Nobody wil be al owed to identify them.

We take a seat in the public gal ery at the rear of the courtroom with Samira sitting in between us. She shrinks inside her overcoat, keeping her hands in the pockets. I spy Donavon slipping into the row behind us. His eyes scan the courtroom and rest on mine for a moment before moving on.

Soon the press box is ful and there are no seats in the public gal ery. The court clerk, an Asian woman of indeterminate age, enters and takes a seat, tapping at a keyboard.

Feet shuffle and everyone stands for the judge, who is surprisingly young and quite handsome in a stuffy sort of way. Within minutes, Shawcroft emerges via a stairway leading directly into the dock. Dressed in a neat suit, speckled tie and polished shoes, he turns and smiles at the gal ery, soaking up the atmosphere as though this were a performance being laid on for his benefit.

“You wish to make an application for bail?” asks the judge.

Shawcroft’s QC, Margaret Curil o, is already on her feet, introducing herself in plummy obsequious tones. Francis Hague, QC, plants his hands on the table and raises his buttocks several inches from his chair, mumbling an introduction. Perhaps he feels that everyone knows him already or at least should.

The door of the court opens quietly and a man enters. Tal and thin, with an effeminate air, he nods distractedly at the bench and barely raises his polished shoes from the carpet as he glides toward the bar table. Bending, he whispers something to Hague, who cocks his head.

Mrs. Curil o has begun her submission, outlining the many “outstanding achievements” of her client in a “lifetime of service to the community.” The prosecutor rises ful y to his feet this time.

“Your Honor, I must apologize for interrupting my learned friend but I wish to request a short adjournment.”

“We’ve only just started.”

“I need to seek further instructions, Your Honor. Apparently, the director of public prosecutions is reviewing details of the case.”

“With what aim?”

“I’m not in a position to say at this point.”

“How long do you require?”

“If it pleases, Your Honor, perhaps we could re-list this matter for three o’clock this afternoon.”

The judge stands abruptly, causing a chain reaction in the courtroom. Shawcroft is already being led back downstairs. I look at Dave, who shrugs. Samira is watching us, waiting for an explanation. Outside, in the corridor, I look for Forbes, who seems to have disappeared, along with Softel . What on earth is happening?

For the next two hours we wait. Cases are cal ed for different courts. Lawyers have meetings. People come and go. Samira is sitting with her shoulders hunched, stil wearing her overcoat.

“Do you believe in Heaven?” she asks.

It is such an unexpected question that I feel my mouth fal open. Consciously, I close it again. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you think Hassan and Zala are in Heaven?”

“I don’t know.”

“My father believed we should live our lives over and over, getting better each time. Only when we’re completely happy should we get into Heaven.”

“I don’t know whether I’d like to live the same life over and over.”

“Why?”

“It would diminish the consequences. I already put things off until another day. Imagine putting them off until another life.” Samira wraps her arms around herself. “Afghanistan is leaving me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am forgetting things. I cannot remember what sort of flowers I planted on my father’s grave. I once pressed the same flowers between the pages of his Koran and made him very angry. He said I was dishonoring Al ah. I said I was praising Al ah with flowers. He laughed at that. My father could never stay angry with me.” We have afternoon tea in the cafeteria, avoiding the reporters whose ranks are starting to thin. Francis Hague and Shawcroft’s barrister stil haven’t surfaced and neither has Forbes.

Perhaps they’ve gone Christmas shopping.

Shortly before three, a Crown Solicitor finds us. Counsel wants to talk to Samira. I should come too.

“I’l wait for you here,” says Dave.

We climb a flight of stairs and are shown through a door marked COURT STAFF ONLY. A long corridor is flanked by offices. A lone potted palm sits at one end alongside a rather annoyed-looking woman waiting on a chair. Her black-stockinged legs are like burned matchsticks sticking out from beneath a fur coat.

The solicitor knocks gently on a door. It opens. The first person I see is Spijker, who looks depressingly somber even by his standards. He takes my hand, kissing my cheeks three times, before bowing slightly to Samira.

Shawcroft’s barrister is at the far end of the table, sitting opposite Francis Hague. Beside them is another man, who seems pressed for time. It could be his wife waiting outside, expecting to be somewhere else.

“My name is Adam Greenburg, QC,” he says, standing and shaking Samira’s hand. “I am the deputy director of public prosecutions at the Crown Prosecution Service.” He apologizes for the stuffiness of the room and almost makes a running gag of his Jewishness, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Let me explain my job to you, Miss Khan. When someone is arrested for a criminal offense, they don’t automatical y go to court and then to prison. The police first have to gather evidence and the job of the Crown Prosecution Service is to examine that evidence and to make sure that the right person is prosecuted for the right offense and that al relevant facts are given to the court. Do you understand?”

Samira looks at me and back to Greenburg. An elephant is sitting on my chest.

The only person who hasn’t introduced himself is the man who entered the courtroom and interrupted the bail hearing. Standing by the window in a Savile Row suit, he has a raptor’s profile and oddly inexpressive eyes, yet something about his attitude suggests he knows a secret about everyone in the room.

Mr. Greenburg continues: “There are two stages in the decision to prosecute. The first stage is the evidential test. Crown prosecutors must be satisfied there is enough evidence to provide a realistic prospect of conviction against each defendant on each charge.

“The second stage is the public-interest test. We must be satisfied there is a public interest to be served in prosecuting. The CPS wil only start or continue a prosecution when a case has passed both these tests no matter how important or serious it might be.”

Mr. Greenburg is about to cut to the chase. Spijker won’t look at me. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on the table.

“The CPS has decided not to proceed with the prosecution of Mr. Shawcroft because it does not pass the public-interest test and because he has agreed to cooperate ful y with the police and has given certain assurances about his future conduct.”

For a moment the shock takes my breath away and I can’t respond. I look at Spijker, hoping for support. He stares at his hands.

“A case such as this raises serious moral and ethical issues,” explains Greenburg. “Fourteen infants, born as a result of il egal surrogacy, have been identified. These children are now living with their biological parents in stable loving families.

“If we prosecute Mr. Shawcroft these families wil be torn apart. Parents wil be charged as co-conspirators and their children wil be taken into care, perhaps permanently. In prosecuting one individual, we risk destroying the lives of many many more.

“The Dutch authorities face a similar dilemma involving six children from surrogate mothers. The German authorities have identified four births and the French could have as many as thirteen.

“I am as shocked and appal ed by this evil trade as anyone else, but we have to make decisions here today that wil decide what legacy remains afterward.” I find my voice. “You don’t have to charge the couples.”

“If we choose to proceed, Mr. Shawcroft’s counsel has indicated that she wil subpoena al the couples involved who are legal y and ethical y raising children who belong to someone else.

“That is the situation we face. And the question we have to answer is this: Do we draw a line beneath this, or do we proceed and upset the lives of innocent children?” Samira sits passively in her overcoat. She hasn’t stirred. Everything is done with such politeness and decorum that there is a sense of unreality about it al .

“He murdered innocent people.” My voice sounds hol ow.

Mrs. Curil o protests. “My client denies al involvement in any such crimes and has not been charged in relation to any such event.”

“What about Cate and Felix Beaumont? What about Hassan Khan and Zala?”

Greenburg raises his hand, wanting me to be silent.

“In return for the dropping of al charges, Mr. Shawcroft has provided police with the whereabouts of Brendan Pearl, an al eged people trafficker and wanted felon, who is stil on parole for offenses committed in Northern Ireland. Mr. Shawcroft has given a statement saying that he had no involvement in the deaths of the Beaumonts, al eging that Brendan Pearl acted alone. He also maintains that he played no part in the trafficking operation that led to the unfortunate deaths at Harwich International Port in October. A criminal gang took advantage of his naïveté. He admits to commercial surrogacy, but says that Brendan Pearl and his associates took over the scheme and blackmailed him into participating.”

“This is ridiculous! He’s the architect! He forced women to get pregnant! He took their babies!” I can’t hear myself yel ing, but no other voices are raised. Focusing my anger on Greenburg, I use words like “justice” and “fairness” while he counters with terms like “common sense” and “public interest.” My language is disintegrating. I cal him gutless and corrupt. Growing tired of my tantrum, he threatens to have me removed.

“Mr. Pearl wil be extradited to the Netherlands where he wil face charges related to prostitution, people smuggling and murder,” he explains. “In addition, Mr. Shawcroft has agreed to relinquish al involvement in his charities, including the New Life Adoption Center—effective immediately. The center’s license to oversee adoptions has been revoked. The Charities Commission is drafting a press release. Early retirement seems to be the agreed terminology. The CPS wil also make a statement saying the charges are being dropped due to lack of evidence.”