The Night Ferry

11

DI Forbes storms through the house, his face hardened into a mask of fury and cold hatred. Ordering me into the rear garden, he ignores the muddy lawn and paces back and forth.

“You had no right!” he yells. “It was an illegal search.”

“I had reason to believe—”

“What reason?”

“I was following a lead.”

“Which you should have told me about. This is my fucking investigation!”

His rectangular glasses bobble on his nose. I wonder if it annoys him.

“In my professional judgment I made a necessary choice, sir.”

“You don’t even know if it’s one of the twins. There are no birth records or adoption papers.”

“Mrs. Gallagher has confirmed that she is not the biological mother. The baby was delivered to her by a man matching Brendan Pearl’s description.”

“You should have waited.”

“With all due respect, sir, you were taking too long. Shawcroft is free. He’s shredding files, covering his tracks. You don’t want to prosecute him.”

I think he might explode. His voice carries across the neighborhood gardens and mud sucks at his shoes.

“I should have reported you to the PCA when you went to Amsterdam. You have harassed witnesses, abused your authority and disobeyed the orders of a senior officer. You have failed at almost every opportunity to conduct yourself in a professional manner…”

His foot lifts and his shoe remains behind. A sock squelches into the mud up to his ankle. We both pretend it hasn’t happened.

“You’re suspended from duty. Do you understand me? I’m going to personally see that your career is over.”

Social Services have been summoned, a big woman with a backside so large that she appears to be wearing a bustle. Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher are talking to her in the sitting room. They look almost relieved that it’s over. The past few days must have been unbearable, wondering and waiting for a knock on the door. Being frightened of falling in love with a child that might never truly be theirs.

Molly is in her bedroom showing a policewoman how she paints flowers and rests them on the radiator to dry. The baby is sleeping. They called him Jasper. He has a name now.

Forbes has peeled off his sock and thrown it into the rubbish bin. Sitting on the back step, he uses a screwdriver to scrape mud from his shoes.

“How did you know?” he asks, having calmed down.

I explain about the phone calls from the golf club and cross-checking the numbers with the adoption files, looking for a match.

“That’s how I found the Gallaghers.”

“Did he make any other calls?”

“One.”

Forbes waits. “Have I got to arrest you to get any cooperation?”

Any remaining vestiges of comradeship have gone. We’re no longer on the same team.

“I had an interesting conversation with a lawyer this morning,” he says. “He was representing Barnaby Elliot and he alleged that you had a conflict of interest concerning this case.”

“There’s no conflict, sir.”

“Mr. Elliot is contesting his late daughter’s will.”

“He has no legal claim over the twins.”

“And neither do you!”

“I know that, sir,” I whisper.

“If Samira Khan decides that she doesn’t want the babies, they will be taken into care and placed with foster parents.”

“I know. I’m not doing this for me.”

“Are you sure of that?”

It’s an accusation not a question. My motives are under fire again. Perhaps I’m deluding myself. I can’t afford to believe that. I won’t.

My mobile phone is vibrating in my pocket. I flip it open.

“I might have found her,” says Dave. “But there’s a problem.”