Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Holding up a jar, he said, “This little fellow is a sarcophagid fly, but I like to refer to him as a crime reporter. Notice the red boozer eyes and his gray-checked abdomen, which is perfect for hiding food stains. More important, he’s always first to find a corpse…”

Forbes looks at his watch. It’s eleven o’clock. He straightens his tie and tugs at the sleeves of his suit.

“You ready?”

Samira nods.

Flashguns explode and render me blind as I follow Samira to the conference table. Photographers are fighting for position, holding cameras above their heads in a strange jiggling dance.

Forbes holds a chair for Samira, then reaches across the table to a jug of water and pours her a glass. His slightly pockmarked face is bleached by the brightness of the TV lights.

Clearing his throat he begins. “We are investigating the abduction of two newborn babies, a twin boy and girl, born in the early hours of Sunday morning on board a ferry between the Hook of Holland and Harwich. The Stena Britannica docked at 3:36 a.m. GMT and the babies were last seen thirty minutes earlier.”

Flashguns fire in his eyes.

Forbes makes no mention of baby broking or illegal surrogacy. Instead he concentrates on the details of the voyage and abduction. An image of Brendan Pearl is projected onto the screen behind him, along with a detailed description.

“DC Barba was returning from a short stay in Amsterdam when she stumbled upon a people-trafficking operation. She helped deliver the twins but was unable to prevent the babies being taken.

“I want to stress that this is not a domestic dispute and Brendan Pearl is not related to the missing infants. Pearl is on parole after being released as a result of the Good Friday Agreement. He is considered dangerous. We are advising people not to approach him under any circumstances and to call the police if they know his whereabouts. Miss Khan will now make a brief statement.”

He slides the microphone toward Samira. She looks at it suspiciously and unfolds a piece of paper. The flashguns create a wall of light and she stumbles over the first words. Someone shouts for her to speak up. She begins again.

“I wish to thank everyone who has looked after me these past few days, especially Miss Barba for helping me on the ferry when I was having the babies. I am also grateful to the police for all they have done. I ask the man who took the twins to give them back. They are very small and need medical care. Please take them to a hospital or leave them somewhere safe.”

Samira looks up from the page. She’s departing from the script. “I forgive you for this but I do not forgive you for Zala. For this I hope you will suffer eternal agony for every second of every day for the rest of your life.”

Forbes cups his hand over the microphone, trying to stop her. Samira stands to leave. Questions are yelled from the floor.

“Who is Zala?”

“Did you know Brendan Pearl?”

“Why did he take your babies?”

The story has more holes than a Florida ballot card. The reporters sense a bigger story. Decorum breaks down.

“Has there been a ransom demand?”

“How did Pearl get off the ferry with the twins?”

“Do you believe they’re still alive?”

Samira flinches. She’s almost at the door.

“What about names?”

She turns to the questioner, blinking into the flashguns. “A maiden can leave things nameless; a mother must name her children.”

The answer silences the room. People look at one another, wondering what she means. Mothers. Maidens. What does that have to do with anything?

Forbes’s shoulders are knotted with rage.

“That was a fucking disaster,” he mutters as I chase him down the corridor.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“God knows what they’re going to write tomorrow.”

“They’re going to write about the twins. That’s what we want. We’re going to find them.”

He suddenly stops and turns. “That’s only the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to meet someone.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“The funerals are today.”

“It won’t take long.” He glances ahead of us. Samira is waiting near the lift. “I’ll make sure she gets home.”

Twenty minutes later we pull up outside a Victorian mansion block in Battersea, overlooking the park. Twisting branches of Wisteria, naked and gray, frame the downstairs windows. The main door is open. An empty pram is poised, ready for an excursion. I can hear the mother coming down the stairs. She is attractive, in her early forties. A baby—too old to be one of the twins—rests on her hip.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Piper.”

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Forbes. This is DC Barba.”

The woman’s smile fades. Almost imperceptibly she tightens her hold on the child. A boy.

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Eight months.”

“Aren’t you beautiful.” I lean forward. The mother leans away.

“What’s his name?”

“Jack.”

“He looks like you.”

“He’s more like his father.”

Forbes interrupts. “We were hoping to have a brief word.”

“I’m just going out. I have to meet someone.”

“It won’t take long.”

Her gaze flicks from his face to mine. “I think I should call my husband.” Pointedly she adds, “He works for the Home Office.”

“Where did you have your baby?” Forbes asks.

She stutters nervously. “It was a home birth. I’m going upstairs to ring my husband.”

“Why?” asks Forbes. “We haven’t even told you why we’re here, yet you’re anxious about something. Why do you need your husband’s permission to talk to us?”

There is a flaw in the moment, a ripple of disquiet.

Forbes continues: “Have you ever been to Amsterdam, Mrs. Piper? Did you visit a fertility clinic there?”

Backing away toward the stairs, she shakes her head, less in denial than in the vain hope that he’ll stop asking her questions. She is on the stairs. Forbes moves toward her. He’s holding a business card. She won’t take it from him. Instead he leaves it in the pram.

“Please ask you husband to phone me.”

I can hear myself apologizing for bothering her. At the same time I want to know if she paid for a baby. Who did she pay? Who arranged it? Forbes has hold of my arm, leading me down the steps. I imagine Mrs. Piper upstairs on the phone, the tears and the turmoil.

“Their names came up among the files Spijker sent me,” Forbes explains. “They used a surrogate. A girl from Bosnia.”

“Then it’s not their baby.”

“How do we prove that? You saw the kid. Paternity tests, DNA tests, blood samples—every one of them will show that young Jack belongs to the Pipers. And there isn’t a judge in this country who would give us permission to take samples in the first place.”

“We can prove they visited an IVF clinic in the Netherlands. We can prove their embryos were implanted in a surrogate. We can prove that it resulted in a pregnancy and a successful birth. Surely that’s enough.”

“It doesn’t prove that money changed hands. We need one of these couples to give evidence.”

He hands me a list of names and addresses:

Robert Helena PiperAlan Jessica CaseTrevor Toni JuryAnaan Lola SinghNicholas Karin Pederson

“I have interviewed the other four couples. In each case they have called a lawyer and stuck to their story. None of them are going to cooperate—not if it means losing their child.”

“They broke the law!”

“Maybe you’re right, but how many juries are going to convict? If that was your friend back there, holding her baby, would you take it away from her?”