The Night Ferry

“Nobody we know has ever been to Poland. Not even our friends Hettie and Jack from the caravanning club, who think they’ve been everywhere.”

“And to Estonia,” her husband adds. “We’ve done 3,264 miles since we left home on August 28.” He strokes the steering wheel. “She’s managed eighteen mile to the gallon, which is pretty bloody good for an old girl, especially after that bad batch of diesel in Gdansk.”

“Gdansk was very dodgy,” agrees his wife.

“It must be cold to be caravanning.”

“Oh, we don’t mind,” she giggles. “A spouse is better than a hot water bottle.”

Mr. Jones nods. “I get pretty good mileage out of this old girl.”

I don’t know if he’s referring to his wife or still talking about the car.

Ahead of us the traffic is moving. Vehicles pull onto the ramp and disappear inside, maneuvered into marked lanes barely wide enough for their axles. Engines are turned off. The caravan is strapped down. Men in fluorescent vests direct us to the air-lock doors, which lead to stairs and lifts.

“Don’t dawdle, pet,” says Mrs. Jones. “The buffet is included in the price. You want to beat the queue.”

Mr. Jones nods. “They do a fine apple crumble and custard.”

A key card is included with my ticket. It corresponds to a cabin on one of the accommodation decks. Deck 8 has signs asking passengers to be quiet because truck drivers are sleeping. Some of them must have boarded hours ago. How am I going to find Samira?

I don’t bother visiting my cabin. I have no luggage to stow. Instead I study the ship’s floor plan, which is bolted to the wall near an emergency exit. There are four vehicle decks which are restricted to authorized personnel during the voyage. Deck 10 is crew only. It must be the bridge.

The corridors between the cabins are just wide enough for two people to pass. I search them, looking for the familiar or the unfamiliar. This used to be my job when I worked for the Diplomatic Protection Group—looking for small changes, trying to sense the presence of someone in a crowd or notice their absence in the instant of looking. It could be a person who doesn’t belong or who tries too hard to belong or who draws the eye for some other reason.

The ship’s engines have started. I can feel the faint vibrations through my feet and they seem to transfer to my nerve endings.

The buffet is being served in the Globetrotter Restaurant. Most of the passengers seem to be truck drivers, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Food is piled high on their plates—congealed curries, cottage pie, vegetarian lasagna. Big engines need refueling.

The Dutch drivers are playing cards, while the British drivers smoke and read tabloids. The ferry has slipped its moorings and pulled out into the river. As the shore lights slide past the window, it feels as though the land is moving and not the ferry. England is five hours away.

Hokke was right. This haystack is too big. I could search the ferry for weeks and not find Samira. She could be locked in a truck or in one of the cabins. She might not even be on board. Perhaps de Souza had no intention of letting me find her and was simply getting me out of the Netherlands.

The cavernous vehicle decks are below me. Some are open to the elements while others are enclosed. I have to search them. How? Do I hammer on the side of each truck, calling her name? Will she answer?

If there’s any chance at all that she’s on board, I have to find her. Running along the gangways and up the stairs, I stop people and show them Samira’s photograph. I’m doubling back on myself, lost in a maze. Have I been down this corridor before? Is that the same passenger I asked earlier? Most of them are in their cabins now, lying down to sleep.

I turn another corner and suddenly I feel it. A shiver in the air. It’s an uncanny sensation, as if I’m prescient. Along a long corridor, a figure with his back to me pauses to unlock a cabin door. I see a quarter profile and suddenly flatten myself against a wall. My phantoms are following me.

14

The ferry shifts and I brace myself. We must have reached open water, or maybe it’s my heart lurching. I am sure it was him. Brendan Pearl. He is here because she is here.

My first reaction is to retreat. I pull back and take a few deep breaths on the stairwell, while contemplating what to do. Taking out my mobile, I check the signal. Nothing. The ferry has moved out of range. I should talk to the captain. He can radio ahead and get a message to Forbes.

A member of the crew is climbing the stairs. Although dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with epaulettes, he looks too young to be at sea. He has a name tag on his chest. Raoul Jakobson.

“Do you have keys to all the cabins?” I ask.

“Is there a problem?”

“There is a man on board who is wanted by the British police. He is staying in cabin 8021.” I point along the passage. His gaze follows my outstretched hand. “I am a British police officer. A detective constable. Is there a passenger list?” I show him my badge.

“Yes, of course.”

He opens a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and retrieves a clipboard, running his finger down the page until he finds the cabin number.

“That cabin is occupied by a Patrick Norris. He is a British driver.”

Pearl has a new identity.

Is it possible to find out what vehicle he drove on board?”

Raoul consults the list again. “V743 LFB. On Deck 5.”

“I need to check this vehicle.”

“Passengers are not authorized to be on that deck.”

“I’m looking for an illegal passenger. She could be locked inside the truck.”

“Perhaps you should talk to the captain.”

“Yes, of course, but there isn’t time right now. You go to the captain. I need him to send a message to this man,” I scribble a phone number on the clipboard. “His name is Detective Inspector Robert Forbes. Mention my name. Tell him that Brendan Pearl is on this ferry.”

“Is that it?”

“He’ll understand.”

Raoul looks at the phone number and glances down the passage toward Pearl’s cabin.

“Is he dangerous, this man?”

“Yes, but nobody is to panic. Let him sleep.” I look at my watch. “We’ll be in Harwich in four hours.” Moving toward the stairwell, I nod goodbye. “Tell the captain. I have to go.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I swing through the landings and reach Deck 5. Hitting the red button, I hear the air hiss out as the seal is broken. The metal door slides open. The noise of the ship’s engines is amplified in the cavernous space and transfers through the floor in pulsing vibrations.

Stepping over the lip of the door, I begin walking down the first line of vehicles. The trucks are parked seven abreast and nose-to-tail, so close together there is just enough room to squeeze between them. I wish I had a torch. The strip lighting can barely cut through the gloom and I have difficulty reading the vehicle numbers.

I walk the length of the deck and back again, following the lanes. When the ferry pitches and rolls in the swell, I brace my hand against a wheel arch or trailer. My imagination puts me inside them. I can picture Hassan and the others, trapped, suffocating. I want to hammer on the metal sides and fling open the doors, filling them with air.

I’m in the second lane on the starboard side when I find it. The rig has a maroon Mercedes cab and a white box trailer. Stepping onto the running board, I grip the side mirror and pull myself up to peer into the cab. Takeaway coffee cups and food wrappers litter the floor.

Stepping down, I slowly circle the trailer. Pressing my ear against the steel skin I listen for a sneeze or a cough or a whisper, any sound at all. Nothing. The rear doors are sealed with a metal rod and cam lock. The barrel