Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Samira has a battery the size of a matchbox taped to the small of her back and a thin red fiber threaded under her right armpit to a button-sized microphone taped between her breasts.

Adjusting her blouse, I lift my eyes to hers and smile reassuringly. “You don’t have to go through with this.”

She nods.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Another nod.

“If you get frightened, walk away. If you feel threatened, walk away. Any sign of trouble, you understand?”

“Yes.”

Groups of golfers are milling outside the locker room and on the practice green, waiting for the starter to call their names. Shawcroft has the loudest laugh but not the loudest trousers, which belong to one of his playing partners. He takes a practice swing beside the first tee and looks up to see Samira standing at the top of a set of stone steps with the sun behind her. He shields his eyes.

Without hesitation, she moves toward him, stopping six feet away.

“Can I help you?” asks one of the other golfers.

“I’ve come to see Brother.”

Shawcroft hesitates, looking past her. He is searching for us.

“Nobody called Brother here, lass,” says the car dealer.

Samira points. They turn to Shawcroft, who stutters a denial. “I don’t know who she is.”

Forbes adjusts the volume on the digital recording equipment. We’re watching from eighty yards away, parked beneath the branches of a plane tree, opposite the pro shop.

Samira is a foot shorter than any of the men. Her long skirt flares out in the breeze.

“Maybe she can caddy for you, Julian?” one of them jokes.

“You remember me, Brother,” says Samira. “You told me to come. You said you had a job for me.”

Shawcroft looks at his playing partners apologetically. Suspicion is turning to anger. “Just ignore her. Let’s play.”

Turning his back, he takes a hurried practice swing and then sprays his opening drive wildly to the right where it disappears into trees. He tosses his club to the ground in disgust.

The others tee off. Shawcroft is already at the wheel of a golf cart. It jerks forward and accelerates away.

“I told you he wouldn’t fall for this,” says Forbes.

“Wait. Look.”

Samira floats down the fairway after them, the hem of her skirt growing dark with dew. The carts have separated. Shawcroft is looking for his wayward drive in the rough. He glances up and sees her coming. I hear him yelling to his partner. “Lost ball. I’ll hit another.”

“You haven’t even looked for this one.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He drops another ball and hacks it out, looking more like a woodchopper than a golfer. The cart takes off again. Samira doesn’t break stride.

I feel a lump in my throat. This girl never ceases to amaze me. She follows them all the way to the green, skirting the bunkers and crossing a small wooden bridge over a brook. Constantly looking over his shoulder, Shawcroft thrashes at the ball and hurries forward.

“She’s going to walk out of range,” says Forbes. “We have to stop her.”

“Wait. Just a little longer.”

The foursome are more than 300 yards away but I can see them clearly enough through binoculars. Samira is standing on the edge of the green, watching and waiting.

Shawcroft finally snaps. “Get off this golf course or I’ll have you arrested.”

Waving his club, he storms toward her. She doesn’t flinch.

“Steady on, old boy,” someone suggests.

“Who is she, Julian?” asks another.

“Nobody.”

“She’s a pretty thing. She could be your ball washer.”

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

Samira hasn’t moved. “I paid my debt, Brother.”

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

“You said God would find a way for me to pay. I paid it twice. Twins. I paid for Hassan and for me, but he’s dead. Zala didn’t make it either.”

Shawcroft grabs her roughly by the arm and hisses, “I don’t know who sent you here. I don’t know what you want, but I can’t help you.”

“What about the job?”

He is walking her away from the group. One of his partners yells, “Where are you off to, Julian?”

“I’m going to have her thrown off the course.”

“What about the round?”

“I’ll catch up.”

The car dealer mutters, “Not again.”

Another foursome is already halfway down the fairway. Shawcroft marches past them still holding Samira by the arm. She has to run to keep from falling.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Shut up you stupid slut. I don’t know what you’re playing at but it won’t work. Who sent you here?”

“I paid my debt.”

“Fuck the debt! There is no job! This is harassment. You come near me again and I’ll have you arrested.”

Samira doesn’t give up. God, she’s good.

“Why did Hassan die?”

“It’s called life. Stuff happens.”

I don’t believe it. He’s quoting Donald Rumsfeld. Why doesn’t stuff happen to people like Shawcroft?

“It took me a long while to find you, Brother. We waited in Amsterdam for you to come or to send word. In the end we couldn’t wait any longer. They were going to send us back to Kabul. Hassan came alone. I wanted to go with him but he said I should wait.” Her voice is breaking. “He was going to find you. He said you had forgotten your promise. I told him you were honorable and kind. You brought us food and blankets at the orphanage. You wore the cross…”

Shawcroft twists her wrist, trying to make her stop.

“I had the babies. I paid my debt.”

“Will you shut up!”

“Someone killed Zala—”

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

They’re nearing the clubhouse. Forbes is out of the car, moving toward them. I hang back. Shawcroft flings Samira into a flower bed. She bangs her knee and cries out.

“That qualifies as assault.”

Shawcroft looks up and sees the detective. Then he looks past him and spies me.

“You have no right! My lawyer will hear about this.”

Forbes hands him an arrest warrant. “Fine. For your sake I hope he’s not playing golf today.”

Shawcroft regards himself as an intellectual and a textbook lawyer, although he seems to have mixed up the Crimes Act and the Geneva convention as he yells accusations of inhuman treatment from his holding cell.

Intellectuals show off too much and wise people are just plain boring. (My mother is forever telling me to save money, go to bed early and not to lend things.) I prefer clever people who hide their talents and don’t take themselves too seriously.

A dozen officers are going through the files and computer records of the New Life Adoption Center. Others are at Shawcroft’s house in Hayward’s Heath. I don’t expect them to find a paper trail leading to the twins. He’s too careful for that.

There is, however, a chance that prospective buyers initially came to the center looking to adopt legally. At our first meeting I asked him about the brochure I found at Cate’s house, which advertised a baby boy born to a prostitute. Shawcroft was adamant that all adopting parents were properly screened. This should mean interviews, psych reports and criminal background checks. If he was telling me the truth then whoever has the twins could once have been on a waiting list at the adoption center.

It is four hours since we arrested him. Forbes arranged to bring him through the front door, past the public waiting area. He wanted to cause maximum discomfort and embarrassment. Although experienced, I sense that Forbes is not quite in the same league as Ruiz, who knows exactly when to be hard-nosed and when to let someone sweat for another hour in a holding cell, alone with their demons.