The Night Ferry

For the next hour he dissects my personal life, my friends and associates. Over and over I make the same point. I have no idea how my name and address were sewn into the clothes of Hassan Khan.

“Is it my color?” I ask him eventually.

His countenance falls. “Why do people always do that? Play the race card. Whenever someone from a minority background is questioned I can guarantee it’s coming. This has nothing to do with your color or your religion or where you were born. Your name and address were sewn into a dead kid’s clothes. An illegal. That’s what makes you a person of interest.”

I wish I could take the question back.

He takes out a half packet of cigarettes and counts them, rationing himself. “Have you any idea how big it is—people trafficking?” He puts the packet away, clicking his tongue as though admonishing himself.

“More than 400,000 people were trafficked into Western Europe last year. The Italian Mafia, the Russians, the Albanians, the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Snakeheads—they’re all involved. And beneath the big syndicates are thousands of smaller freelance gangs that operate with nothing more than a couple of mobile phones, a speed boat and a transit van. They corrupt border guards, politicians, police and customs officers. They are bottom- feeding scum who prey on human misery. I hate them. I really do.”

His eyes are locked on mine. His tongue is making that sound again. I suddenly realize what he reminds me of: the roadrunner. Wile E. Coyote was always trying to catch that arrogant, beeping bird, coming up with ridiculous booby traps and snares. Just once I wanted the coyote to win. I wanted the hundred- pound barbell or the bundle of dynamite or the slingshot to work, so he could ring that scrawny bird’s neck.

As if on cue there is a beep beep from Forbes’s pager. He makes a phone call on the far side of the cafeteria. Something must have been said during the call because his demeanor changes.

“I’m sorry for keeping you so long, DC Barba.”

“So I can leave?”

“Yes, of course, but it’s very late. Accommodation has been arranged in town. The pub looks quite nice. I can have you driven back to London in the morning.”

He tugs nervously at the cuffs of his jacket, as though worried the sleeves might be shrinking. I wonder who called. Sikh girls don’t have friends in high places.

The pub is quaint and rustic, although I’ve never been exactly sure what “rustic” means. The restaurant annex has low ceilings with fishing nets strung from the beams and a harpoon bolted above the bar.

Forbes invites me to dinner. “I’m a detective inspector but you don’t have to consider it an order,” he says, trying to be charming.

I can smell the kitchen. My stomach rumbles. Perhaps I can find out more about Hassan Khan.

Shrugging off his gray jacket, Forbes stretches his legs beneath the table and makes a fuss over ordering and tasting the wine.

“This is very good,” he comments, holding his glass up to the light. “Are you sure you won’t have some?” Without waiting for me to answer he pours himself another glass.

I have been calling him Mr. Forbes or sir. He says I should call him Robert. I don’t give him permission but he calls me Alisha anyway. He asks if I’m married.

“You know that already.”

“Yes, of course.”

He has pale Nordic eyes and his bottom teeth are crooked but he has a pleasant smile and an easy laugh. The clicking sound seems to go away when he relaxes. Perhaps it’s a nervous thing, like a stutter.

“So what about your family?” he asks. “When did they come to Britain?”

I tell him about my grandfather who was born in a small village in Gujarat and joined the British Army at fourteen where he became a kitchen hand and then a chef. After the war a major in the Royal Artillery brought him back to England to cook for his family. My grandfather traveled on a steamer that took three weeks to get from Bombay to England. He came alone. That was in 1947.

He earned three pounds a week, but still managed to save enough for my grandmother to join him. They were the first Indians in Hertfordshire but they later moved to London.

My only memory of my grandparents is a story they told me about their first winter in England. They had never seen snow and said it looked like a scene from a Russian fairy tale.

I don’t always understand irony, but my grandfather spent his entire life trying to become white only to be crushed by an overturned coal truck on Richmond Hill that painted him as black as soot.

Forbes has finished a second bottle of wine and grown melancholy.

“I have to use the bathroom,” he says.

I watch him weave between tables, leading with his left shoulder and then his right. On his way back he orders a brandy. He talks about growing up in Milton Keynes, a planned town that didn’t exist before the 1960s. Now he lives in London. He doesn’t mention a wife but I know there’s one at home.

I want to talk to him about the illegals before he gets too drunk. “Have you managed to trace the truck?” I ask.

“Shipping containers have codes. They can be tracked anywhere in the world.”

“Where did it come from?”

“The truck left a factory on the outskirts of Amsterdam early yesterday. The locks are supposed to be tamperproof.”

“How did you know Hassan Khan’s name?”

“He had papers. We found a cloth bag tied around his waist. According to the Dutch police, he arrived in Holland nineteen months ago from Afghanistan. He and a group of asylum seekers were living above a Chinese restaurant in Amsterdam.”

“What else was in the bag?”

Forbes lowers his eyes. “Drawings and photographs. I could show them to you…” He pauses. “We could go to my room.”

“Alternatively, you could bring the bag downstairs,” I suggest.

He runs his socked foot up my calf and gives me his bad little boy smile.

I want to say something disagreeable but can’t find the words. I’m never good at put-downs. Instead I smile politely and tell him to quit while he’s ahead.

He frowns. He doesn’t understand.

For the love of God, you’re not even attractive. Call your wife and wish her good night.

Forbes stumbles as he climbs the stairs. “I guess we hit the old vino pretty hard, eh?”

“One of us did.”

He fumbles in his pocket for his key and makes several unsuccessful attempts to find the keyhole. I take it from him. He collapses on the bed and rolls over, spread-eagled like a sacrifice to the demon god of drink.

I take off his shoes and hang his jacket over the chair. The calico bag is on the bedside table. As I leave I slide the security bar across the door frame so that the door doesn’t close completely.

Back in my room I call Ruiz and “New Boy” Dave. Dave wants to come and get me. I tell him to stay put. I’ll call him in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later I go back to Forbes’s room. The door is still ajar and he’s snoring. I cross the floor, listening for a change in his breathing. My fingers close around the calico bag. He doesn’t stir.

Suddenly, there’s another sound. A singsong ring tone.

I drop to the floor and crouch between the radiator and the curtain.

If Forbes turns on the lamp he’ll see me or he’ll notice that the bag is missing.

Rolling half out of bed, he reaches for his jacket, fumbling with his mobile.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, babe, I should have called. I got in late and I didn’t want to wake you or the kids…No, I’m fine, not drunk. Just a few glasses…No, I didn’t see the news tonight…That’s really great…Yeah…OK…I’ll call you in the morning…Go to sleep now…Love you too.”

He tosses the phone aside and stares at the ceiling. For a moment I think he’s falling back to sleep until he groans and rolls out of bed. The bathroom light blinks on. Behind him, my hiding place is neatly framed by the radiance. He drops his boxers and urinates.

Sliding out of the light, I cross the floor and ease the door shut behind me. Dizzy and trembling, I have