Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“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 umbrella and a bucket of balls waiting to be hit. There are calluses on his fingers.

“My one indulgence,” he explains, gazing over the fence into the pasture. “The cows are rather ball-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 called Cate Beaumont?”

“No.” The answer is abrupt.

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

“I remember all 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 illegal.”

“She had one of your brochures.”

“Which is not illegal.” 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.”

“Selling children is illegal.”

“The baby was not for sale. Every applicant is properly vetted. We require referees and assessment reports. There are group workshops and familiarization. Finally, 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 million. 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 still, 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 tell 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 smallest 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. Hollywood movie stars do it. Government ministers do it. Children can be rescued. Infertile couples can have families.”

“By buying babies.”

“By saving them.”

For all 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 tell 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.”

“All 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 marshalled so skillfully 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.

Stella appears on the terrace and calls to Shawcroft, miming a phone call 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 still in the garden. He motions for her to come inside. It is getting cold.

“New Boy” Dave falls into step beside me and we follow 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 surveillance cameras?”

“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 allows 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.”

I can’t. I won’t. He adds something else. “I did like being married to you.”

Timewise it was even shorter than Britney Spears’s first wedding, but I don’t tell him that.

Nobody answers the door at Donavon’s house. The curtains are drawn and his motorbike isn’t parked outside. A neighbor suggests we try the markets in Whitechapel Road. Donavon has a weekend stall there.

Parking behind the Royal London Hospital, we follow the insurrection of noise, color and movement. Dozens of stalls spill out from the pavement. Everything is for sale—Belgian chocolates from Poland, Greek feta from Yorkshire, Gucci handbags from China and Rolex watches draped inside trench coats.