The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Read Free Book Online

got nothing on this guy.”
    “He was traveling too fast.”
    “He says they stepped out in front of him. He couldn’t stop.”
    “Did you examine the car?”
    “At the scene.”
    “Where is it now?”
    He sighs. “Let me explain the facts of life to you, Detective Constable. You see that yard out there?” He motions to an open rol er door leading to a wal ed yard. “There are sixty-eight vehicles—every one of them involved in a serious accident. We have thirteen reports due for the coroner, two dozen submissions for criminal trials and I spend half my time in the witness box and the other half up to me elbows in motor oil and blood. There are no good traffic accidents but from my point of view the one on Friday night was better than most because it was simple—sad, but simple. They stepped out from between parked cars. The driver couldn’t stop in time. End of story.” The genial curiosity on his face has vanished. “We checked the brakes. We checked his license. We checked his driving record. We checked his blood alcohol. We took a statement at the scene and let the poor guy go home. Sometimes an accident is just an accident. If you have evidence to the contrary, hand it over. Otherwise, I’d appreciate if you let me get on with my job.”
    There is a moment when we eyebal each other. He’s not so much angry as disappointed.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question your expertise.”
    “Yes you did.” His face softens. “But that’s OK. I’m sorry about your friend.”
    “Would you mind if I took a look at the driver’s statement?”
    He doesn’t see a problem with that. He leads me to an office and motions to a chair. A computer hums on the desk and box files line the shelves like cardboard bricks. The sergeant hands me a file and a video. For a moment he hovers near the door, unwil ing to leave me alone.
    The driver’s name was Earl Blake and his occupation is listed as stevedore. He was moonlighting as a minicab driver to make extra money, he said.
    The video is time coded down to the second and begins with wide-angle shots of the street, taken in the shaky camera style of a holiday video. Partygoers are mil ing outside the gates of Oaklands, some stil holding drinks or draped with streamers.
    Earl Blake is in the distance, talking to a policeman. He notices the camera and seems to turn away. It might mean nothing.
    There are statements from a dozen witnesses. Most heard the screech of brakes and saw the impact. Farther along the road, two cabbies were parked near the corner of Mansford Street. The minicab came past them slowly, as though searching for an address.
    I look for any mention of Donavon. His name and address were taken down by investigators but there isn’t a statement.

    “Yeah, I remember him,” says the sergeant. “He had a tattoo.” He points to his neck, tracing a cross below his Adam’s apple. “He said he didn’t see a thing.”
    “He saw it happen.”
    The sergeant raises an eyebrow. “That ain’t what he told me.”
    I make a note of Donavon’s address on a scrap of paper.
    “You’re not trying to run a private investigation here are you, Detective Constable?”
    “No, sir.”
    “If you have any important information regarding this accident, you are obliged to make it known to me.”
    “Yes, sir. I have no information. Mr. Donavon tried to save my friend’s life. I just want to thank him. Good manners, you see. My mother bred them into me.” 6
    Earl Blake’s address is a smal terrace off Pentonvil e Road in the neglected end of King’s Cross. There is nobody home. My legs have gone to sleep I’ve been sitting here for so long, staring out the windscreen, tapping a rhythm on the wheel.
    A drug pusher leans against a low wal outside a pub on the corner, his face half hidden under the brim of a basebal cap. Two teenage girls walk by and he says something, smiling.
    They toss back their hair and sashay a little faster.
    A red hatchback pul s into a