“I don’t know.”
What would I do in her shoes? I have never been without friends or family or stranded in a foreign country (unless you count Wolver-hampton, which is pretty bloody foreign).
Hari walks into the kitchen looking pleased with himself.
“Samira is going teach me to make fireworks,” he announces, taking a biscuit from Forbes’s plate.
“So you can blow yourself up,” I say.
“I’m very careful.”
“Oh yes. Like the time you filled that copper pipe with black powder and blew a hole in the wooden siding.”
“I was fifteen.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“Sunday is Guy Fawkes Night. We’re going to make a whistling chaser.”
“Which is?”
“A rocket that whistles and has white-and-red stars with a salute at the end.”
“A salute?”
“A big bang.”
Hari has already compiled a list of ingredients: potassium nitrate, sulfur, barium chlorate and copper powder. I have no idea what this stuff does but I can almost see the fireworks exploding in his eyes.
Forbes looks at the list. “Is this stuff legal?”
“We’re only making three-inch shells.”
It doesn’t answer the question but the detective lets it pass.
Although Samira doesn’t mention the twins, I know she must think about them, just as I do. Rarely does a minute pass when my mind doesn’t drift back to them. I can feel their skin against my lips and see their narrow rib cages moving with each breath. The baby girl had trouble breathing. Perhaps her lungs weren’t fully developed. We have to find her.
Forbes has opened the car door and waits for Samira to sit in the rear seat. She is wearing her new clothes —a long woolen skirt and white blouse. She looks so composed. Still. There is a landscape inside her that I will never reach.
“You won’t have to answer questions,” the DI explains. “I’ll help you prepare a statement.”
He drives hunched over the wheel, frowning at the road, as if he hates city traffic. At the same time he talks. With the help of Spijker, he has managed to trace five asylum seekers impregnated at the fertility clinic in Amsterdam who subsequently turned up in the U.K.
“All admit to giving birth and claim the babies were taken from them. They were each given ?500 and told their debt had been repaid.”
“Where did they give birth?”
“A private address. They couldn’t give an exact location. They were taken there in the back of a transit van with blacked-out windows. Two of them talked of planes coming in to land.”
“It’s under a flight path?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Births have to be registered. Surely we can find the babies that way.”
“It’s not as easy as you think. Normally, the hospital or health authority informs the registrar of a birth but not when it happens in a private home or outside of the NHS. Then it’s up to the parents. And how’s this? Mum and Dad don’t even have to turn up at the registry office. They can send along someone else—a witness to the birth or even just the owner of the house.”
“Is that it? What about doctor’s certificates or medical records?”
“Don’t need them. You need more paperwork to register a car than a baby.”
We’re passing the Royal Chelsea Hospital on the Embankment before turning left over Albert Bridge and circling Battersea Park.
“What about Dr. Banerjee?”
“He admits to providing Cate Beaumont with her surplus embryos but claims to have no knowledge of the surrogacy plan. She told him she was transferring to a different fertility clinic with a higher success rate.”
“And you believe him?”
Forbes shrugs. “The embryos belonged to her. She had every right to take them.”
This still doesn’t explain why Banerjee lied to me. Or why he turned up at my father’s birthday party.
“What about Paul Donavon?”
“He did two tours of Afghanistan and six months in Iraq. Won the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. The guy is a bona fide fucking hero.”
Samira hasn’t said a word. Sometimes I feel as if she has turned off or tuned out, or is listening to different voices.
“We are contacting the orphanage in Kabul as well as one in Albania and another in Russia,” says Forbes. “Hopefully they can give us more than just a nickname.”
The conference room is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and globe lights full of scorched moths. This used to be the old National Criminal Intelligence Service building, now refitted and re-branded to suit the new crime-fighting agency with new initials. Despite the headlines and high-tech equipment, SOCA still strikes me as being rather more Loch Ness than Eliot Ness—chasing shadowy monsters who live in dark places.
Radio reporters have taken up the front row, taping their station logos to the microphones. Press reporters slouch in the middle rows and their TV counterparts are at the rear with whiter teeth and better clothes.
When I did my detective training at Bramshill they sent us in groups to see an autopsy. I watched a pathologist working on the body of a hiker who had been dead for a fortnight.
Holding up a jar, he said, “This little fellow is a sarcophagid fly, but I like to refer to him as a crime reporter. Notice the red boozer eyes and his gray-checked abdomen, which is perfect for hiding food stains. More important, he’s always first to find a corpse…”
Forbes looks at his watch. It’s eleven o’clock. He straightens his tie and tugs at the sleeves of his suit.
“You ready?”
Samira nods.
Flashguns explode and render me blind as I follow Samira to the conference table. Photographers are fighting for position, holding cameras above their heads in a strange jiggling dance.
Forbes holds a chair for Samira, then reaches across the table to a jug of water and pours her a glass. His slightly pockmarked face is bleached by the brightness of the TV lights.
Clearing his throat he begins. “We are investigating the abduction of two newborn babies, a twin boy and girl, born in the early hours of Sunday morning on board a ferry between the Hook of Holland and Harwich. The
Flashguns fire in his eyes.
Forbes makes no mention of baby broking or illegal surrogacy. Instead he concentrates on the details of the voyage and abduction. An image of Brendan Pearl is projected onto the screen behind him, along with a detailed description.
“DC Barba was returning from a short stay in Amsterdam when she stumbled upon a people-trafficking operation. She helped deliver the twins but was unable to prevent the babies being taken.
“I want to stress that this is not a domestic dispute and Brendan Pearl is not related to the missing infants. Pearl is on parole after being released as a result of the Good Friday Agreement. He is considered dangerous. We are advising people not to approach him under any circumstances and to call the police if they know his whereabouts. Miss Khan will now make a brief statement.”
He slides the microphone toward Samira. She looks at it suspiciously and unfolds a piece of paper. The flashguns create a wall of light and she stumbles over the first words. Someone shouts for her to speak up. She begins again.
“I wish to thank everyone who has looked after me these past few days, especially Miss Barba for helping me on the ferry when I was having the babies. I am also grateful to the police for all they have done. I ask the man who took the twins to give them back. They are very small and need medical care. Please take them to a hospital or
