Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“You’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with any of that. What motive would I have?”

Motive? I still don’t understand why Banerjee would get mixed up in something like this. It can’t be the money. Maybe he was trapped or tricked into doing a “favor.” It takes only one mistake and the hooks are planted.

He looks toward the house again. There is no wife waiting for him inside. No children at the door.

“It’s personal isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer.

Forbes showed me a list of names. They were couples who provided embryos to the IVF clinic in Amsterdam. A surname suddenly stands out—Anaan and Lola Singh from Birmingham.

“Do you have family in the U.K., Dr. Banerjee? A sister, perhaps? Any nieces or nephews?”

He wants to deny it but the truth is imprinted on his features like fingerprints in putty. Mama mentioned that he had a nephew. The good doctor was so proud he told stories about him over Sunday lunch. I take a stab at the rest of the story. His sister couldn’t get pregnant. And not even her very clever brother—a fertility specialist—could help her.

Julian Shawcroft suggested there might be another way. He organized a surrogate mother in the Netherlands and Banerjee delivered the baby. He thought it was a one-off—a family matter—but Shawcroft wanted him to deliver other babies. He couldn’t say no.

“What do you want from me?”

“Give me Julian Shawcroft.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Are you worried about your career, your reputation?”

Banerjee smiles wryly—a defeated gesture. “I have lived in this country for two-thirds of my life, Alisha. I hold master’s and doctoral degrees from Oxford and Harvard. I have published papers, lectured and been a visiting fellow at the University of Toronto.” He glances again at his house, the drawn curtains and empty rooms beyond. “My reputation is all I have.”

“You broke the law.”

“Is it so very wrong? I thought we were helping the childless and offering a new life to asylum seekers.”

“You exploited them.”

“We saved them from orphanages.”

“And forced some of them into brothels.”

His dense eyebrows are knitted together.

“Give me Shawcroft. Make a statement.”

“I must protect my sister and her child.”

“By protecting him ?”

“We protect each other.”

“I could have you arrested.”

“I will deny everything.”

“At least tell me where the twins are.”

“I don’t meet the families. Julian arranges that side of things.” His voice changes. “I beg you, leave this alone. Only bad things can come of it.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone. My nephew is a beautiful boy. He’s nearly one.”

“When he grows up are you going to tell him about the medical rape that led to his conception?”

“I’m sorry.”

Everyone is sorry. It must be the times.

Forbes shuffles a stack of photographs and lays them out on a desk in three rows as if he’s playing solitaire. Julian Shawcroft’s picture is on the right edge. He looks like a charity boss straight from central casting: warm, smiling, avuncular…

“If you recognize someone I want you to point to the photograph,” the detective says.

Samira hesitates.

“Don’t worry about getting anyone in trouble—just tell me if there is someone here who you’ve met before.”

Her eyes travel over the photographs and suddenly stop. She points to Shawcroft.

“This one.”

“Who is he?”

“Brother.”

“Do you know his real name?”

She shakes her head.

“How do you know him?”

“He came to the orphanage.”

“In Kabul.”

She nods.

“What was he doing there?”

“He brought blankets and food.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“He couldn’t speak Afghani. I translated for him.”

“What did you translate?”

“He had meetings with Mr. Jamal, the director. He said he could arrange jobs for some of the orphans. He wanted only girls. I told him I could not leave without Hassan. He said it would cost more money but I could repay him.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand American dollars for each of us.”

“How were you supposed to repay this money?”

“He said God would find a way for me to pay.”

“Did he say anything about having a baby?”

“No.”

Forbes takes a sheet of paper from a folder. “This is a list of names. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of them.”

Samira’s finger dips down the page and stops. “This girl, Allegra, she was at the orphanage.”

“Where did she go?”

“She left before me. Brother had a job for her.”

The detective smiles tightly. “He certainly did.”

Forbes’s office is on the second floor, opposite a large open-plan incident room. There is a photograph of his wife on a filing cabinet. She looks like a no-nonsense country girl, who has never quite managed to shed the baby pounds.

He asks Samira to wait outside. There’s a drink machine near the lift. He gives her change. We watch her walk away. She looks so young—a woman in progress.

“We have enough for a warrant,” I say. “She identified Shawcroft.”

Forbes doesn’t answer. What is he waiting for? He stacks the photographs, lining up the edges.

“We can’t link him with the surrogacy plot. It’s her word against his.”

“But the other orphans—”

“Have talked about a saintly man who offered to help them. We can’t prove Shawcroft arranged for them to be trafficked. And we can’t prove he blackmailed them into getting pregnant. We need one of the buyers to give evidence, which means incriminating themselves.”

“Could we indemnify them from prosecution?”

“Yes, but we can’t indemnify them against a civil lawsuit. Once they admit to paying for a surrogate baby, the birth mother could reclaim her child.”

I can hear it in his voice—resignation. The task is proving too hard. He won’t give up but neither will he go the extra yard, make the extra call, knock on one more door. He thinks I’m clutching at straws, that I haven’t thought this through. I have never been more certain.

“Samira should meet him.”

“What?”

“She could wear a wire.”

Forbes sucks air through his teeth. “You gotta be kidding! Shawcroft would see right through it. He knows we have her.”

“Yes, but investigations are about building pressure. Right now he thinks we can’t touch him. He’s comfortable. We have to shake him up—take him out of his comfort zone.”

There are strict rules governing the bugging of phones and properties. The surveillance commissioner has to grant permission. But a wire is different—as long as she stays in a public place.

“What would she say?”

“He promised her a job.”

“Is that it?”

“She doesn’t have to say anything. Let’s see what he says.”

Forbes crunches a throat lozenge between his teeth. His breath smells of lemons.

“Is she up for it?”

“I think so.”

Any sport can be made to sound ridiculous if you break it down to its basics—stick, ball, hole—but I have never really understood the appeal of golf. The courses are pretty in an artificial sort of way, like Japanese gardens planned down to the last pebble and shrub.

Julian Shawcroft plays every Sunday morning in the same foursome, with a town planner, a car dealer and a local businessman. They tee off just after ten.

Their club is on the border of Sussex and Surrey, somewhere in the greenbelt and the white stockbroker belt. Brown is a color rarely seen out here unless you take a big divot.