Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

I let him lead the way. Leaving the cemetery, we walk east along the Harrow Road, which is choked with traffic and a conga line of buses. Sneaking sidelong glances at Donavon, I watch how he regards Samira. He doesn’t seem to recognize her. Instead he keeps his eyes lowered in a penitent’s demeanor, framing answers to the questions that he knows are coming. More lies.

We choose a café with stools at the window and tables inside. Donavon glances at the menu, buying time. Samira slips off her chair and kneels at the magazine rack, turning the pages quickly, as though expecting someone to stop her.

“The magazines are free to read,” I explain. “You’re allowed to look at them.”

Donavon twists the skin on his wrist, leaving a white weal. Blood rushes back to the slackened skin.

“I met Cate again three years ago,” he announces. “It was just before my first tour of Afghanistan. It took me a while to find her. I didn’t know her married name.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see her.”

I wait for something more. He changes the subject. “Have you ever been skydiving?”

“No.”

“What a rush. There’s no feeling like it—standing in the doorway of a plane at 10,000 feet, heart pounding, charged up. Take that last big step and the slipstream sucks you away. Falling—only it doesn’t feel like falling at all. It’s flying. Air presses hollows in your cheeks and screams past your ears. I’ve jumped high altitude, low opening, with oxygen from 25,000 feet. I swear I could open my arms and embrace the entire planet.”

His eyes are shining. I don’t know why he’s telling me this but I let him continue.

“The best thing that ever happened to me was getting booted out of school and joining the Paras. Up until then I was drifting. Angry. I didn’t have any ambition. It changed my life.

“I got a little girl now. She’s three. Her mother doesn’t live with me anymore, they’re in Scotland, but I send ’em money every month and presents on her birthday and at Christmas. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a different person.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand. You think I’m a thug and a bully but I changed. What I did to Cate was unforgivable but she forgave me. That’s why I went looking for her. I wanted to find out how things turned out for her. I didn’t want to think I screwed up her life because of what I did to her.”

I don’t want to believe him. I want to keep hating him because that’s the world according to me. My recorded history.

“Why would Cate agree to see you?”

“She was curious I guess.”

“Where did you meet?”

“We had a coffee in Soho.”

“And?”

“We talked. I said I was sorry. She said it was OK. I wrote her a few letters from Afghanistan. Whenever I was home on leave we used to get together for lunch or a coffee.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t understand.”

It’s not a good enough reason. How could Cate forgive Donavon before she forgave me?

“What do you know about the New Life Adoption Center?”

“Cate took me there. She knew Carla couldn’t decide what to do about the baby.”

“How did Cate know about the adoption center?”

He shrugs. “Her fertility specialist is on the adoption panel.”

“Dr. Banerjee. Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Julian Shawcroft and Dr. Banerjee know each other. More lies.

“Did Cate tell you why she went to Amsterdam?”

“She said she was going to have another round of IVF.”

I glance toward Samira. “She paid for a surrogate.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are twins.”

Donavon looks dumbfounded. Speechless.

“Where?”

“They’re missing.”

I can see the knowledge register in his mind and match up with other details. News of the twins is already on the radio and in the early editions of the Evening Standard. I have shaken him more than I thought possible.

“What Cate did was illegal,” I explain. “She was going to blow the whistle. That’s why she wanted to talk to me.”

Donavon has regained a semblance of composure. “Is that why they killed her?”

“Yes. Cate didn’t accidentally find Samira. Someone put them together. I’m looking for a man called “Brother”—an Englishman, who came to Samira’s orphanage in Kabul.”

“Julian Shawcroft has been to Afghanistan.”

“How do you know?”

“It came up in conversation. He was asking where I served.”

I flip open my mobile and punch the speed dial. “New Boy” Dave answers on the second ring. I haven’t talked to him since Amsterdam. He hasn’t called. I haven’t called. Inertia. Fear.

“Hello, sweet boy.”

He sounds hesitant. I don’t have time to ask why.

“When you did the background check on Julian Shawcroft, what did you find?”

“He used to be executive director of a Planned Parenthood clinic in Manchester.”

“Before that.”

“He studied theology at Oxford and then joined some sort of religious order.”

“A religious order?”

“He became a Catholic brother.”

There’s the link! Cate, Banerjee, Shawcroft and Samira—I can tie them together.

Dave is no longer on the phone. I can’t remember saying goodbye.

Donavon has been talking to me, asking questions. I haven’t been listening.

“Did they look like Cate?” he asks.

“Who?”

“The twins.”

I don’t know how to answer. I’m not good at describing newborn babies. They all look like Winston Churchill. Why should he care?

A silver-colored Lexus pulls into the driveway of a detached house in Wimbledon, South London. It has a personalized number plate: BABYDOC. Sohan Banerjee collects his things from the backseat and triggers the central locking. Lights flash. If only everything in life could be achieved with the press of a button.

“The penalty for people trafficking is fourteen years,” I say.

The doctor wheels around, clutching his briefcase to his stomach like a shield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know the penalty for commercial surrogacy but when you add medical rape and kidnapping I’m sure you’ll be in prison long enough to make new friends.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And I almost forgot murder. An automatic life sentence.”

“You’re trespassing,” he blusters.

“Call the police.”

He looks toward his house and then at the houses nearby perhaps conscious of what his neighbors might think.

“You knew Cate Beaumont was going to Amsterdam. You gave her a liquid nitrogen canister with her remaining embryos. You told her about the Dutch clinic.”

“No. No.” His chins are wobbling.

“Were you going to deliver the twins?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How well do you know Julian Shawcroft?”

“We have a professional relationship.”

“You were at Oxford together. He was studying theology. You were studying medicine. See how much I know, Dr. Banerjee? Not bad for some uppity Sikh girl who can’t get a husband.”

His briefcase is still resting on the shelf of his stomach. My skin prickles with something more physical than loathing.

“You’re on his adoption panel.”

“An independent body.”

“You told Cate about the New Life Adoption Center. You introduced her to Shawcroft. What did you imagine you were doing? This wasn’t some humanitarian crusade to help the childless. You got into bed with sex traffickers and murderers. Young women have been raped and exploited. People have died.”