Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“What do you mean?”

“You have to tilt your head to the right or left so you don’t bang noses. We’re not Eskimos.”

She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and pulled me close. Cupping my face, she pressed her lips against mine. I could feel her heart beating and the blood pulsing beneath her skin. Her tongue brushed along my lips and danced over my teeth. We were breathing the same air. My eyes stayed closed. It was the most amazing feeling.

“Wow, you’re a fast learner,” she said.

“You’re a good teacher.”

My heart was racing.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do that again.”

“It did feel a bit weird.”

“Yeah. Weird.”

I rubbed my palms down the front of my nightdress.

“Yeah, well, now you know how to do it,” said Cate, picking up a magazine.

She had kissed a lot of boys, even at fifteen, but she didn’t brag about it. Many more followed—pearls and pebbles strung around her neck—and as each one came and went there was scarcely a shrug of resignation or sadness.

I brush my fingers over the photograph and contemplate whether to take it with me. Who would know? At the same moment an answer occurs to me. Retracing my steps to the study, I open the desk drawer and spy the cigarette lighter. When we were kids and I stayed the night with Cate, she would sneak cigarettes upstairs and lean out the window so her parents didn’t smell the smoke.

Tearing the plastic sheet from the sash window, I slide the lower pane upward and brace my hands on the sill as I lean outside, sixteen feet above the garden.

In the darkness I follow the line of a rainwater pipe that is fixed to the bricks with metal brackets. I need more light. Risking the torch, I direct the beam onto the pipe. I can just make out the knotted end of a thin cord, looped over the nearest bracket, beyond reach.

What did she use?

I look around the study. At the back of the desk, hard against the wall, is a wire coat hanger stretched to create a diamond shape with a hook on one end. Back at the window, I lean out and snag the loop of cord on the hook, pulling it toward me. The cord runs across the wall and over a small nail before dropping vertically. As I pull it a paint can emerges from the foliage of the garden. It rises toward me until I can lean out and grab it.

Pulling it inside, I use a coin to lever open the lid. Inside is half a packet of cigarettes and a larger package wrapped in plastic and held together with rubber bands. Retrieving it, I close the lid of the paint can and let the nylon cord slip through my fingers as I lower it back into the shrubs.

Returning to the main bedroom, I slip off the rubber bands from the package and unfold what turns out to be a plastic bag with documents pressed into the bottom corner. I spread the contents on the duvet: two airline boarding passes, a tourist map of Amsterdam and a brochure.

The boarding passes are for a British Midlands flight from Heathrow to Schiphol Airport in the Netherlands on the ninth of February, returning on the eleventh.

The tourist map has a picture of the Rijksmuseum on the front cover and is worn along the folds. It seems to cover the heart of Amsterdam where the canals and streets follow a concentric horseshoe pattern. The back of the map has bus, tram and train routes, flanked by a list of hotels. One of them is circled: the Red Tulip Hotel.

I pick up the brochure. It appears to promote a charity—the New Life Adoption Center, which has a phone number and a post box address in Hayward’s Heath, West Sussex. There are pictures of babies and happy couples, along with a quote: “Isn’t it nice to know when you’re not ready to be a mother, somebody else is?”

Unfolding the brochure there are more photographs and testimonials.

“HOPING TO ADOPT? If you are looking for a safe, successful adoption we can help! Since 1995 we have helped hundreds of couples adopt babies. Our select group of caring professionals can make your dream of a family come true.”

On the opposite page is a headline: ARE YOU PREGNANT AND CONSIDERING WHAT TO DO?

“We can help you! We offer assistance and encouragement during and after your pregnancy and can provide birthparent scholarships. Open adoption means YOU make the choices.”

Underneath is a photograph of a child’s hand clinging to the finger of an adult.

Someone called Julie writes: “Thank you for turning my unexpected pregnancy into a gift from God to all involved.”

On the opposite page are further testimonials, this time from couples.

“Choosing adoption brought us a beautiful daughter and made our lives complete.”

A loose page slips from the center of the brochure.

“This child could be yours,” it reads. “Born this month: a boy, white, with an unknown father. The mother, 18, is a prostitute and former drug user, now clean. This baby could be yours for a facilitation fee and medical expenses.”

Returning the documents to the plastic bag, I snap the rubber bands in place.

The phone number on the back of Samira’s photograph needed a foreign prefix. Cate visited the Netherlands in February. She announced she was twelve weeks pregnant in May.

I pick up the telephone next to the bed and call international inquiries. It feels wrong to call from the scene of the crime, as though I’m confessing. An operator gives me the country code for the Netherlands. Adding “31” this time, I call the number.

It connects. The ring tone is long and dull.

Someone picks up. Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello, can you hear me?”

Someone is breathing.

“I’m trying to reach Samira. Is she there?”

A guttural voice, bubbling with phlegm, answers me. “Who is calling?”

The accent might be Dutch. It sounds more East European.

“A friend.”

“Your name?”

“Actually, I’m a friend of a friend.”

“Your name and your friend’s name?”

Distrust sweeps over me like a cold shadow. I don’t like this voice. I can feel it searching for me, reaching inside my chest, feeling blindly for my soft center, my soul.

“Is Samira there?”

“There is nobody here.”

I try to sound calm. “I am calling on behalf of Cate Beaumont. I have the rest of the money.”

I am extrapolating on the known facts, which is just a fancy way of saying that I’m winging it. How much further can I go?

The phone goes dead.

Not far enough.

Putting the receiver back on its cradle, I smooth the bed and pick up my things. As I turn toward the door I hear a tinkling sound. I know what it is. I made just such a sound when I smashed a pane of glass in the French doors.

Someone is in the house. What are the chances of two intruders on the same night? Slim. None. Tucking the package into the waistband of my jeans, I peer over the banister. There are muffled voices in the hall. At least two. A torch beam passes the bottom of the stairs. I pull back.

What to do? I shouldn’t be here. Neither should they. Ahead of me are the stairs to the loft. Climbing them quickly, I reach a door that opens on stiff hinges.

From downstairs: “Did you hear something?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“Nah.”

“I’ll check upstairs.”

One of them sounds Irish. It could be Brendan Pearl.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“You notice that?”

“What?”

“The windows are covered in plastic. Why would they do that?”

“Fucked if I know. Just get on with it.”

The loft seems to be full of odd angles and narrow corners. My eyes are getting used to the dark. I can make out a single bed, a cabinet, a fan on a stand and cardboard boxes of clutter and bric-a-brac.