The Night Ferry

4

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.”