“Where might you have met them?”
“My charities raised more than half a million pounds last year. I visited orphanages in Afghanistan, Iraq, Albania and Kosovo.”
“How do you know these women are orphans? I didn’t mention that.”
Shawcroft stiffens. I can almost see him silently admonish himself for slipping up.
“So you
“Perhaps.”
“And you know Samira Khan?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At an orphanage in Kabul.”
“Did you talk about her coming to the U.K.?”
“No.”
“Did you offer her a job here?”
“No.” He smiles his blameless smile.
“You introduced her to a man who smuggled her to the Netherlands and then to Britain.”
“No.”
“The cost was five thousand U.S. dollars but it rose to ten thousand by the time she reached Turkey. You told her that God would find a way for her to repay this money.”
“I meet many orphans on my travels, Detective, and I don’t think there has ever been one of them who didn’t want to leave. It’s what they dream about. They tell one another bedtime stories of escaping to the West where even beggars drive cars and dogs are put on diets because there is so much food.”
Forbes places a photograph of Brendan Pearl on the table. “Do you know this man?”
“I can’t recall.”
“He is a convicted killer.”
“I’ll pray for him.”
“What about his victims—will you pray for them?” Forbes is holding a photograph of Cate. “Do you know this woman?”
“She might have visited the adoption center. I can’t be sure.”
“She wanted to adopt?”
Shawcroft shrugs.
“You will have to answer verbally for the tape,” says Forbes.
“I
“Take a closer look.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, Detective.”
“What about your memory?”
Barrett interrupts. “Listen, Dr. Phil, it’s Sunday. I got better things to do than listen to you stroke your pole. How about you tell us what my client is supposed to have done?”
Forbes shows admirable restraint. He places another photograph on the table, this one of Yanus. The questions continue. The answers are the same: “I cannot recall. I do not remember.”
Julian Shawcroft is not a pathological liar (why tell a lie when the truth can serve you better?) but he is a natural deceiver and it comes as easily to him as breathing. Whenever Forbes has him under pressure, he carefully unfurls a patchwork of lies, tissue-thin yet carefully wrought, repairing any flaw in the fabric before it becomes a major tear. He doesn’t lose his temper or show any anxiety. Instead he projects a disquieting calmness and a firm, fixed gaze.
Among the files at the adoption center are the names of at least twelve couples that also appear on paperwork from the IVF clinic in Amsterdam. I relay the information to Forbes via a transmitter. He touches his ear in acknowledgment.
“Have you ever been to Amsterdam, Mr. Shawcroft?” he asks.
“Several times.”
“Have you visited a fertility clinic in Amersfoort?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Surely you would remember this clinic.” Forbes relates the name and address. “I doubt if you visit so many.”
“I am a busy man.”
“Which is why I’m sure you keep diaries and appointment calendars.”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t we found any?”
“I don’t keep my schedule more than a few weeks before throwing it out. I deplore clutter.”
“Can you explain how couples who were screened by your adoption center also appear in the files of an IVF clinic in Amsterdam?”
“Perhaps they were getting IVF treatment. People who want to adopt often try IVF first.”
Barrett is gazing at the ceiling. He’s in danger of getting bored.
“These couples didn’t have IVF treatment,” says Forbes. “They provided embryos that were implanted in the wombs of asylum seekers who were forced to carry pregnancies to term before the babies were taken from them.”
Forbes points to the five photographs on the table. “These women, Mr. Shawcroft, the same women you met at different orphanages, the same women you encouraged to leave. They have identified you. They have provided statements to the police. And each one of them remembers you telling them the same thing: ‘God will find a way for you to repay your debt.’”
Barrett takes hold of Shawcroft’s arm. “My client wishes to exercise his right to silence.”
Forbes gives the textbook reply. “I hope your client is aware that negative inferences can be drawn by the courts if he fails to mention facts that he later relies upon in his defense.”
“My client is aware of this.”
“Your client should also be aware that he has to remain here and listen to my questions, whether he answers them or not.”
Barrett’s small dark eyes are glittering. “You do what you have to, Detective Inspector. All we’ve heard so far is a bunch of fanciful stories masquerading as facts. So what if my client talked to these women? You have no evidence that he organized their illegal entry into this country. And no evidence that he was involved in this Goebbels-like fairy tale about forced pregnancies and stolen babies.”
Barrett is perfectly motionless, poised. “It seems to me, Detective, that your entire case rests on the testimony of five illegal immigrants who would say anything to stay in this country. You want to make a case based on that—bring it on.”
The lawyer gets to his feet, smooths his boot-cut jeans and adjusts his buffalo-skull belt buckle. He glances at Shawcroft. “My advice to you is to remain silent.” He opens the door and swaggers down the corridor, hat in hand. There’s that walk again.
7
“Penny for the Guy.”
A group of boys with spiky haircuts are loitering on the corner. The smallest one has been dressed up as a tramp in oversize clothes. He looks like he’s fallen victim to a shrinking ray.
One of the other boys nudges him. “Show ’em yer teef, Lachie.”
Lachie opens his mouth sullenly. Two of them are blacked out.
“Penny for the Guy,” they chorus again.
“You’re not going to throw him on a bonfire I hope.”
