Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“Do you have keys to all the cabins?” I ask.

“Is there a problem?”

“There is a man on board who is wanted by the British police. He is staying in cabin 8021.” I point along the passage. His gaze follows my outstretched hand. “I am a British police officer. A detective constable. Is there a passenger list?” I show him my badge.

“Yes, of course.”

He opens a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and retrieves a clipboard, running his finger down the page until he finds the cabin number.

“That cabin is occupied by a Patrick Norris. He is a British driver.”

Pearl has a new identity.

Is it possible to find out what vehicle he drove on board?”

Raoul consults the list again. “V743 LFB. On Deck 5.”

“I need to check this vehicle.”

“Passengers are not authorized to be on that deck.”

“I’m looking for an illegal passenger. She could be locked inside the truck.”

“Perhaps you should talk to the captain.”

“Yes, of course, but there isn’t time right now. You go to the captain. I need him to send a message to this man,” I scribble a phone number on the clipboard. “His name is Detective Inspector Robert Forbes. Mention my name. Tell him that Brendan Pearl is on this ferry.”

“Is that it?”

“He’ll understand.”

Raoul looks at the phone number and glances down the passage toward Pearl’s cabin.

“Is he dangerous, this man?”

“Yes, but nobody is to panic. Let him sleep.” I look at my watch. “We’ll be in Harwich in four hours.” Moving toward the stairwell, I nod goodbye. “Tell the captain. I have to go.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I swing through the landings and reach Deck 5. Hitting the red button, I hear the air hiss out as the seal is broken. The metal door slides open. The noise of the ship’s engines is amplified in the cavernous space and transfers through the floor in pulsing vibrations.

Stepping over the lip of the door, I begin walking down the first line of vehicles. The trucks are parked seven abreast and nose-to-tail, so close together there is just enough room to squeeze between them. I wish I had a torch. The strip lighting can barely cut through the gloom and I have difficulty reading the vehicle numbers.

I walk the length of the deck and back again, following the lanes. When the ferry pitches and rolls in the swell, I brace my hand against a wheel arch or trailer. My imagination puts me inside them. I can picture Hassan and the others, trapped, suffocating. I want to hammer on the metal sides and fling open the doors, filling them with air.

I’m in the second lane on the starboard side when I find it. The rig has a maroon Mercedes cab and a white box trailer. Stepping onto the running board, I grip the side mirror and pull myself up to peer into the cab. Takeaway coffee cups and food wrappers litter the floor.

Stepping down, I slowly circle the trailer. Pressing my ear against the steel skin I listen for a sneeze or a cough or a whisper, any sound at all. Nothing. The rear doors are sealed with a metal rod and cam lock. The barrel is closed and padlocked.

Someone holding a torch is walking toward me. The beam swings from side to side, blinding me momentarily. I edge away from the trailer. Darkness feathers around me.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” says a voice.

At that same moment a hand snakes around my face, cupping my mouth. Smothering all sound away.

I can’t breathe. My feet are off the ground. His fingers are digging into my cheek, tearing at my gums. His other forearm wraps around my neck, searching for my windpipe. I brace my hands against it and kick backward, trying to find his instep or his knee. The blow barely touches him.

He lifts me higher. My toes scrabble at the floor, unable to get leverage. I can hear blood pulsing in my ears. I need to breathe.

Karate training taught me about pressure points. There is one in the soft flesh between the thumb and forefinger, above the webbing. I find the spot. He grunts in pain, releasing his grip on my mouth and nose. I still can’t breathe. My windpipe is being crushed. I keep driving my thumb into his flesh.

A knee snaps into my kidneys. The pain is like a blast of heat. I don’t let go of his right hand but at the same time I can’t see his left fist cocking. The punch is like a punctuation mark. Darkness sweeps away the pain and the memories. I am free of the ferry and the incessant noise of the engines. Free of Cate and Samira. Free of the unborn twins. Free at last.

Slowly the world becomes wider. Lighter. I am suspended for a moment a few inches above my body, staring down at a strange scene My hands are bound with electrical tape behind my back. Another piece of tape covers my mouth, wrapped around my head like a mask, pulling at my split and swollen lip.

There is a weak light from a torch, lying on the floor near my feet. My head is on Samira’s lap. She leans forward and whispers something in my ear. She wants me to lie still. Light catches her pupils. Her fingers are like ice.

My head is pressed to her womb. I feel her babies moving. I can hear the sough and gurgle of the fluid, the melody of their heartbeats. Blood slides back and forth beneath her skin, squeezing into smaller and smaller channels, circulating oxygen.

I wonder if twins are aware of each other’s existence. Do they hear the other’s heartbeat? Do they hold each other or communicate by touch?

Bit by bit the confusion and darkness work their way into some semblance of order. If I stay relaxed, I can breathe through the tape.

Samira’s body suddenly spasms and jackknifes from the waist, squeezing my head against her thighs. Regaining control, she leans back and breathes deeply. I try to lift my head. She wants me to lie still.

I can’t talk with the gag. She hooks her fingers beneath the plastic tape and lifts it away from my lips just enough for me to speak.

“Where are we?”

“In a truck.”

Our whispers are magnified by the hollowness.

“Are you all right?”

She shakes her head. Tears form at the edge of her eyes. Her body convulses again. She’s in labor.

“Who brought me here?”

“Yanus.”

He and Pearl must be working together.

“You have to untie me.”

Her eyes sweep to the closed rear doors and she shakes her head.

“Please.”

“They will kill you.”

They will kill me anyway.

“Help me to sit up.”

She lifts my head and shoulders until I’m leaning with my back against a wall. My inner gyroscope is totally messed up. I may have ruptured an eardrum.

The trailer appears to be full of pallets and crates. Through a square narrow opening I see a crawl space with a mattress and three plastic bottles. Someone has built a false wall to create a secret compartment in the trailer. Customs officers wouldn’t notice the difference unless they measured the outside and inside of the truck.

“When did the contractions start?”

She looks at me helplessly. She has no way of judging time.

“How far are they apart?”

“A minute.”

How long was I unconscious? Raoul will have gone to the ferry’s captain by now. They will telephone Forbes and come looking for me. Forbes will tell them to be careful.

“Undo my hands.”

Samira shakes her head.

Letting go of the tape, she tugs a blanket around my shoulders. She is more worried about me than herself.

“You should not have come.”

I can’t reply. Another contraction contorts her face. Her entire body seems to lock up.

The rear doors swing open. I feel the draft and hear the intake of Samira’s breath.

“I told you not to touch her,” says Yanus, springing into the trailer. He seizes her, smearing his hands over her face as if covering her with filth. Then he peels back her lips, forcing her jaw open and spits into her mouth. She gags and tries to turn away.