Items related to The Night Ferry
A young policewoman breaks all the rules to get to the bottom of the mysterious death of the best friend she betrayed in this stunning follow-up thriller from the author of Suspect and Lost.
Ali Barba, a Sikh detective with the Metropolitan Police, is recovering from injuries sustained in the line of duty when she receives a letter from her estranged friend, Cate, imploring her to come to their high school reunion. Alarmed by the urgent tone of the note, and eager to make amends for her unforgivable past behavior, Ali goes to the reunion. Cate is pregnant, but before Ali has the chance to congratulate her, Cate hurriedly whispers, “They want to take my baby. You have to stop them.” It is the only hint of Cate’s troubles Ali manages to get. As they are leaving the reunion, Cate and her husband are run down by a car and killed. The mystery darkens when it is discovered that Cate had faked her pregnancy by tying a pillow underneath her dress.
All Ali has to go on is a file in Cate’s desk that contains two ultrasound pictures, letters from a fertility clinic, and various papers that seem to confirm the unborn baby’s existence. As she puts together the pieces, her search takes her to Amsterdam and into the company of some very unsavory people on both sides of the Channel who'll do anything to thwart her investigation.
A gripping thriller and a searing tale of the search for redemption, The Night Ferry is Michael Robotham’s finest novel yet.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
MICHAEL ROBOTHAM is the author of Suspect and Lost. He lives in Sydney, Australia.
1
It was Graham Greene who said a story has no beginning or end. The author simply chooses a moment, an arbitrary point, and looks either forward or back. That moment is now—an October morning—when the clang of a metallic letter flap heralds the first post.
There is an envelope on the mat inside my front door. Inside is a small stiff rectangle of paper that says nothing and everything.
Dear Ali,
I’m in trouble. I must see you. Please come to the reunion.
Love, Cate
Sixteen words. Long enough to be a suicide note. Short enough to end an affair. I don’t know why Cate has written to me now. She hates me. She told me so the last time we spoke, eight years ago. The past. Given long enough I could tell you the month, the day and the hour but these details are unimportant.
All you need to know is the year—1998. It should have been the summer we finished university; the summer we went backpacking across Europe; the summer I lost my virginity to Brian Rusconi and not to Cate’s father. Instead it was the summer she went away and the summer I left home—a summer not big enough for everything that happened.
Now she wants to see me again. Sometimes you know when a story begins...
2
When the day comes that I am asked to recalibrate the calendar, I am going to lop a week off January and February and add them to October, which deserves to be forty days long, maybe more.
I love this time of year. The tourists have long gone and the kids are back at school. The TV schedules aren’t full of reruns and I can sleep under a duvet again. Mostly I love the sparkle in the air, without the pollen from the plane trees so I can open my lungs and run freely.
I run every morning—three circuits of Victoria Park in Bethnal Green, each one of them more than a mile. Right now I’m just passing Durward Street in Whitechapel. Jack the Ripper territory. I once took a Ripper walking tour, a pub crawl with ghost stories. The victim I remember best was his last one, Mary Kelly, who died on the same date as my birthday, November the ninth.
People forget how small an area Jack roamed. Spitalfields, Shoreditch and Whitechapel cover less than a square mile, yet in 1888 more than a million people were crammed into slums, without decent water and sewerage. It is still overcrowded and poor but that's only compared to places like Hampstead or Chiswick or Holland Park. Poverty is a relative state in a rich country where the wealthiest are the first to cry poor.
It is seven years since I last ran competitively, on a September night in Birmingham, under lights. I wanted to get to the Sydney Olympics but only two of us were going to make it. Four–hundredths of a second separated first from fifth; half a meter, a heartbeat, a broken heart.
I don’t run to win anymore. I run because I can and because I'm fast. Fast enough to blur at the edges. That’s why I’m here now, flirting with the ground while perspiration leaks between my breasts, plastering my T–shirt to my stomach.
When I run my thoughts become clearer, or at least concentrated. Mostly I think about work and imagine that today someone will call and offer me my old job back.
A year ago I helped solve a kidnapping and find a missing girl. One of the kidnappers dropped me onto a wall, crushing my spine. After six operations and nine months of physiotherapy I am fit again, with more steel in my spine than England’s back four. Unfortunately, nobody seems to know what to do with me at the Metropolitan Police. I am a wonky wheel on the machine.
As I pass the playground, I notice a man sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. There is no child on the climbing frame behind him and other benches are in sunshine. Why has he chosen the shade?
In his mid–thirties, dressed in a shirt and tie, he doesn't raise his eyes as I pass. He’s studying a crossword. What sort of man does a crossword in a park at this hour of the morning? A man who can't sleep. A man who waits.
Up until a year ago I used to watch people for a living. I guarded diplomats and visiting heads of state, ferrying their wives on shopping trips to Harrods and dropping their children at school. It is probably the most boring job in the Metropolitan Police but I was good at it. During five years with the Diplomatic Protection Group I didn't fire a shot in anger or miss one of the wives' hair appointments. I was like one of those soldiers who sit in the missile silos, praying the phone never rings.
On my second circuit of the park he is still there. His suede jacket is lying across his lap. He has freckles and smooth brown hair, cut symmetrically and parted to the left. A leather briefcase is tucked close to his side.
A gust of wind tears the newspaper from his fingers. Three steps and I reach it first. It wraps around my thigh.
For a moment he wants to retreat, as if he's too close to the edge. His freckles make him look younger. His eyes don't meet mine. Instead he bunches his shoulders shyly and says thank you. The front page is still wrapped around my thigh. For a moment I'm tempted to have some fun. I could make a joke about feeling like tomorrow’s fish–and–chips.
The breeze feels cool on my neck. “Sorry, I’m rather sweaty.”
He touches his nose nervously, nods and touches his nose again.
“Do you run every day?” he asks suddenly.
“I try to.”
“How far?”
“Four miles.”
It’s an American accent. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“I have to keep going. I don’t want to cool down.”
“Okay. Sure. Have a nice day.” It doesn’t sound so trite coming from an American.
On my third circuit of the park the bench is empty. I look for him along the street but there are no silhouettes. Normal service has been resumed.
Farther along the street, just visible on the corner, a van is parked at the curb. As I draw nearer, I notice a white plastic tent over missing paving stones. A metal cage is propped open around the hole. They’ve started work early.
I do this sort of thing—take note of people and vehicles. I look for things that are out of the ordinary; people in the wrong place, or the wrong clothes; cars parked illegally; the same face in different locations. I can’t change what I am.
Unlacing my trainers, I pull a key from beneath the insole and unlock my front door. My neighbor, Mr. Mordecai, waves from his window. I once asked him his first name and he said it should be Yo’man.
“Why’s that?”
“Because that's what my boys call me: ‘Yo man, can I have some money?’ ‘Yo man, can I borrow the car?’ ”
His laugh sounded like nuts falling on a roof.
In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of water and drink it greedily. Then I stretch my quads, balancing one leg on the back of a chair.
The mouse living under my fridge chooses that moment to appear. It is a very ambivalent mouse, scarcely bothering to lift its head to acknowledge me. And it doesn't seem to mind that my youngest brother, Hari, keeps setting mousetraps. Perhaps it knows that I disarm them, taking off the cheese when Hari isn't around.
The mouse finally looks up at me, as though about to complain about the lack of crumbs. Then it sniffs the air and scampers away.
Hari appears in the doorway, bare-chested and barefooted. Opening the fridge, he takes out a carton of orange juice and unscrews the plastic lid. He looks at me, considers his options, and gets a glass from the cupboard. Sometimes I think he is prettier than I am. He has longer lashes and thicker hair.
“Are you going to the reunion tonight?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t tell me you're going! You said you wouldn’t be caught dead.”
“I changed my mind.”
There is a voice from upstairs. “Hey, have you seen my knickers?”
Hari looks at me sheepishly.
“I know I had a pair. They’re not on the floor.”
Hari whispers, “I thought you’d gone out.”
“I went for a run. Who is she?”
“An old friend.”
“So you must know her name.”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl Taylor!” (She’s a bottle blonde who works behind the bar at the White Horse). “She’s older than I am.”
“No, she's not.”
“What on earth do you see in her?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I’m interested.”
“Well, she has assets.”
"Assets?”
“The best.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Phoebe Griggs?”
“Too small.”
“Emma Shipley?”
“Saggy.”
“Mine?”
“Very funny.”
Cheryl is coming down the stairs. I can hear her rummaging in the sitting room. “Found them,” she shouts.
She arrives in the kitchen still adjusting the elastic beneath her skirt.
“Oh, hello,” she squeaks.
“Cheryl, this is my sister, Alisha.”
“Nice to see you again,” she says, not meaning it.
The silence seems to stretch out. I might never talk again. Finally I excuse myself and go upstairs for a shower. With any luck Cheryl will be gone by the time I come down.
Hari has been living with me for the past two months because it’s closer to university. He is supposed to be safeguarding my virtue and helping pay the mortgage but he’s four weeks behind in his rent a...
It was Graham Greene who said a story has no beginning or end. The author simply chooses a moment, an arbitrary point, and looks either forward or back. That moment is now—an October morning—when the clang of a metallic letter flap heralds the first post.
There is an envelope on the mat inside my front door. Inside is a small stiff rectangle of paper that says nothing and everything.
Dear Ali,
I’m in trouble. I must see you. Please come to the reunion.
Love, Cate
Sixteen words. Long enough to be a suicide note. Short enough to end an affair. I don’t know why Cate has written to me now. She hates me. She told me so the last time we spoke, eight years ago. The past. Given long enough I could tell you the month, the day and the hour but these details are unimportant.
All you need to know is the year—1998. It should have been the summer we finished university; the summer we went backpacking across Europe; the summer I lost my virginity to Brian Rusconi and not to Cate’s father. Instead it was the summer she went away and the summer I left home—a summer not big enough for everything that happened.
Now she wants to see me again. Sometimes you know when a story begins...
2
When the day comes that I am asked to recalibrate the calendar, I am going to lop a week off January and February and add them to October, which deserves to be forty days long, maybe more.
I love this time of year. The tourists have long gone and the kids are back at school. The TV schedules aren’t full of reruns and I can sleep under a duvet again. Mostly I love the sparkle in the air, without the pollen from the plane trees so I can open my lungs and run freely.
I run every morning—three circuits of Victoria Park in Bethnal Green, each one of them more than a mile. Right now I’m just passing Durward Street in Whitechapel. Jack the Ripper territory. I once took a Ripper walking tour, a pub crawl with ghost stories. The victim I remember best was his last one, Mary Kelly, who died on the same date as my birthday, November the ninth.
People forget how small an area Jack roamed. Spitalfields, Shoreditch and Whitechapel cover less than a square mile, yet in 1888 more than a million people were crammed into slums, without decent water and sewerage. It is still overcrowded and poor but that's only compared to places like Hampstead or Chiswick or Holland Park. Poverty is a relative state in a rich country where the wealthiest are the first to cry poor.
It is seven years since I last ran competitively, on a September night in Birmingham, under lights. I wanted to get to the Sydney Olympics but only two of us were going to make it. Four–hundredths of a second separated first from fifth; half a meter, a heartbeat, a broken heart.
I don’t run to win anymore. I run because I can and because I'm fast. Fast enough to blur at the edges. That’s why I’m here now, flirting with the ground while perspiration leaks between my breasts, plastering my T–shirt to my stomach.
When I run my thoughts become clearer, or at least concentrated. Mostly I think about work and imagine that today someone will call and offer me my old job back.
A year ago I helped solve a kidnapping and find a missing girl. One of the kidnappers dropped me onto a wall, crushing my spine. After six operations and nine months of physiotherapy I am fit again, with more steel in my spine than England’s back four. Unfortunately, nobody seems to know what to do with me at the Metropolitan Police. I am a wonky wheel on the machine.
As I pass the playground, I notice a man sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. There is no child on the climbing frame behind him and other benches are in sunshine. Why has he chosen the shade?
In his mid–thirties, dressed in a shirt and tie, he doesn't raise his eyes as I pass. He’s studying a crossword. What sort of man does a crossword in a park at this hour of the morning? A man who can't sleep. A man who waits.
Up until a year ago I used to watch people for a living. I guarded diplomats and visiting heads of state, ferrying their wives on shopping trips to Harrods and dropping their children at school. It is probably the most boring job in the Metropolitan Police but I was good at it. During five years with the Diplomatic Protection Group I didn't fire a shot in anger or miss one of the wives' hair appointments. I was like one of those soldiers who sit in the missile silos, praying the phone never rings.
On my second circuit of the park he is still there. His suede jacket is lying across his lap. He has freckles and smooth brown hair, cut symmetrically and parted to the left. A leather briefcase is tucked close to his side.
A gust of wind tears the newspaper from his fingers. Three steps and I reach it first. It wraps around my thigh.
For a moment he wants to retreat, as if he's too close to the edge. His freckles make him look younger. His eyes don't meet mine. Instead he bunches his shoulders shyly and says thank you. The front page is still wrapped around my thigh. For a moment I'm tempted to have some fun. I could make a joke about feeling like tomorrow’s fish–and–chips.
The breeze feels cool on my neck. “Sorry, I’m rather sweaty.”
He touches his nose nervously, nods and touches his nose again.
“Do you run every day?” he asks suddenly.
“I try to.”
“How far?”
“Four miles.”
It’s an American accent. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“I have to keep going. I don’t want to cool down.”
“Okay. Sure. Have a nice day.” It doesn’t sound so trite coming from an American.
On my third circuit of the park the bench is empty. I look for him along the street but there are no silhouettes. Normal service has been resumed.
Farther along the street, just visible on the corner, a van is parked at the curb. As I draw nearer, I notice a white plastic tent over missing paving stones. A metal cage is propped open around the hole. They’ve started work early.
I do this sort of thing—take note of people and vehicles. I look for things that are out of the ordinary; people in the wrong place, or the wrong clothes; cars parked illegally; the same face in different locations. I can’t change what I am.
Unlacing my trainers, I pull a key from beneath the insole and unlock my front door. My neighbor, Mr. Mordecai, waves from his window. I once asked him his first name and he said it should be Yo’man.
“Why’s that?”
“Because that's what my boys call me: ‘Yo man, can I have some money?’ ‘Yo man, can I borrow the car?’ ”
His laugh sounded like nuts falling on a roof.
In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of water and drink it greedily. Then I stretch my quads, balancing one leg on the back of a chair.
The mouse living under my fridge chooses that moment to appear. It is a very ambivalent mouse, scarcely bothering to lift its head to acknowledge me. And it doesn't seem to mind that my youngest brother, Hari, keeps setting mousetraps. Perhaps it knows that I disarm them, taking off the cheese when Hari isn't around.
The mouse finally looks up at me, as though about to complain about the lack of crumbs. Then it sniffs the air and scampers away.
Hari appears in the doorway, bare-chested and barefooted. Opening the fridge, he takes out a carton of orange juice and unscrews the plastic lid. He looks at me, considers his options, and gets a glass from the cupboard. Sometimes I think he is prettier than I am. He has longer lashes and thicker hair.
“Are you going to the reunion tonight?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t tell me you're going! You said you wouldn’t be caught dead.”
“I changed my mind.”
There is a voice from upstairs. “Hey, have you seen my knickers?”
Hari looks at me sheepishly.
“I know I had a pair. They’re not on the floor.”
Hari whispers, “I thought you’d gone out.”
“I went for a run. Who is she?”
“An old friend.”
“So you must know her name.”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl Taylor!” (She’s a bottle blonde who works behind the bar at the White Horse). “She’s older than I am.”
“No, she's not.”
“What on earth do you see in her?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I’m interested.”
“Well, she has assets.”
"Assets?”
“The best.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Phoebe Griggs?”
“Too small.”
“Emma Shipley?”
“Saggy.”
“Mine?”
“Very funny.”
Cheryl is coming down the stairs. I can hear her rummaging in the sitting room. “Found them,” she shouts.
She arrives in the kitchen still adjusting the elastic beneath her skirt.
“Oh, hello,” she squeaks.
“Cheryl, this is my sister, Alisha.”
“Nice to see you again,” she says, not meaning it.
The silence seems to stretch out. I might never talk again. Finally I excuse myself and go upstairs for a shower. With any luck Cheryl will be gone by the time I come down.
Hari has been living with me for the past two months because it’s closer to university. He is supposed to be safeguarding my virtue and helping pay the mortgage but he’s four weeks behind in his rent a...
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- PublisherDoubleday
- Publication date2007
- ISBN 10 0385517904
- ISBN 13 9780385517904
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages384
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