300 Days of Sun (5 page)

“You know the other day I said I might have found out something about the children who have been snatched down here? That it was nothing new—­it's been happening for a long time?”

“Yes.”

He paused to change the position of the pepper and the bottle of chili oil, then began to twist his empty beer bottle.

“When I said Terry Jackson was a family friend . . . I thought he was, anyway, but maybe he wasn't. He used to come round once in a while to see my dad when he was still alive. Lung cancer, before you ask. Eight years ago. Too many cigarettes.”

The beer bottle was being ground into the table.

“I thought Roy was my dad and all. I didn't know anything until my mum died six months ago. A hit-­and-­run as she was crossing the road outside where she worked in Bexleyheath. And she wasn't my mum either, it seems. They never said a word about it.

“But when mum—­Sue—­was in hospital a letter arrived for her. I put it in a pile in the hall and forgot about it. She wasn't in any state to read anything. She was just lying there with tubes and machines bleeping. It was weeks afterwards that I opened the letter. It was from Terry Jackson, sent from Portugal, telling her to stop asking questions and stirring up the past. I had no idea what it was all about, and there was no return address for him. But the tone of it was pretty unpleasant. I'd always known Terry had dealings in Spain and Portugal, and that Roy was a bit of a South London wheeler-­dealer, minor league. There were things you didn't ask about, with both of them.

“Then, when I was clearing out the house—­I suppose I was looking more carefully for anything that could explain what the letter meant—­I found some adoption papers. I couldn't believe it. I was two years old when Roy and Sue became my legal parents. What's more, the papers were in Spanish. I couldn't understand what was going on.”

“Any other family that you could ask?”

“We weren't big on family. Roy had fallen out with his family over the company he kept, and hers had never liked him. There wasn't anyone to ask about it. I went mental for a while. I hadn't seen that one coming. I was so angry that they never told me . . . who doesn't tell their child they are adopted? Maybe years and years ago, but not nowadays.” He raised his palms in despair. “So I decided to get myself over to Spain and see if I could find out anything about my real parents. It was all I could think of to do.”

His eyes were almost black.

“The address on the adoption papers was an agency in Malaga, but it no longer existed. I went back time after time, asking all the older ­people I could find in the area whether they had ever heard of it, and no one had. Then, one old dear in the next building told me she used to know someone who worked there, who had been very kind when her cat got injured, took it to the vet, paid for it . . . Anyway, to cut to the chase, she put me in touch with this woman, and I managed to meet her. She was very nervous, but I think she really was a nice woman, and she did want to help. She said she'd left the adoption agency when she found out it wasn't all above the line. Most of it was, but
some wasn't.

“I got out the papers and showed them to her. She studied them and went a bit shaky. She said she remembered my case and she hadn't been happy about it. I asked how she could remember one case that far back, and she said it was because it was the first one she had questioned.”

“Questioned in what way?”

“She was told to put on the form that my birth parents were Spanish, from a specific village down the coast, but she knew that wasn't true. She'd overheard the agency director talking about the two-­year-­old boy who had been brought from Portugal. A place was mentioned, somewhere called Horta das Rochas. And she knew that there was some kind of deal brokered with a man called Jackson. She found out later he was a small-­time criminal based on the Algarve.”

“She didn't contact the police?”

“I think she was scared. She claimed she didn't know Terry Jackson was dodgy until some time after the adoption had gone through. Perhaps she found out other bits and pieces it was better to keep quiet about. Malaga has a reputation, you know. But she definitely felt guilty about it when I came along. Made me swear on my life never to give her name.”

I bit my lip. “To rewind a little bit,” I said gently. “You said that child abductions have been happening here for a long time. Are you saying what I think you are?”

He nodded.

“It's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?” I said.

“That's what I want to find out. There were several child abductions linked to Vale Navio in the early nineties. There might have been more that never made the news. I knew that was where Terry Jackson worked because I remembered him talking about it when he came to see my dad. He used to go on about it all the time, boasting about the money he was making there. It kind of became a family catchphrase. If anyone did a sweet deal or came into money, we called it ‘Vale Navio.' ”

“How many other ­people have you told?”

“No one.”

We sat quietly for a while.

“Why ‘Nathan Emberlin'?”

“Because that was the name I had when I arrived at the adoption agency in Malaga, the name on the papers when the agency handed me over, supposedly all nice and legal, to Roy and Sue Harris on September 16, 1992. It was on the document.”

“Do I still call you Nathan?”

“I quite like it. It's more who I really am than Josh Harris, after all.”

I
made Nathan put his number in my mobile, and then rang it while he was still there to make sure it was correct, and that he had mine. This time, I wanted to get everything right.

“You should get some sleep,” I said. “You'll make yourself ill if you don't.”

“Fat chance of that. The girls in my house will be raring for action, and they don't take no for an answer. There'll be too much noise and then everyone'll be off clubbing again. And then . . . look, I don't want you to think I'm losing it or anything, right, but I think my room got broken into. My stuff was messed about, but I couldn't find anything missing. Then one of the girls told me the man who was asking about me had come back and that he gave her the creeps. Now I keep thinking I might have seen him myself, and that he's following me, but there again, I might be getting paranoid. I mean, if he wanted to see me, why doesn't he just knock on the door?”

He seemed so vulnerable, I wanted instinctively to comfort him.

“All right, come back to mine, then.” I'd said it before I could stop myself. “That's not an invitation in the way you think it is. I just want to give you a break, that's all.”

I thought he would refuse, but he didn't. He had a glass of water and went straight to sleep in the bed; I took the sofa. I did try, but I couldn't get to sleep; my head was full of too many thoughts fighting for attention. The book Ian Rylands had given me was on the shelf where I'd left it, yet another nagging distraction that night. At one o'clock I clicked on the dim lamp on the side table. Nathan didn't stir. He was stone still under the sheet.

I started to read.

 

 

i

I
n Lisbon, flowers cascaded from every balcony. That was what she noticed. He exulted in the lights that blazed through the night and the imported whisky and cigarettes, freely available. In the way of married ­couples, they saw things differently but together Alva and Michael Barton were the lucky ones.

They had made it to Portugal, blown like seeds in the wind across Europe as the war closed in. In the city's grand baroque avenues the old order prevailed. Twilights fell, with an ache that was half regret and half euphoria, into soft slow evenings.

“The only question is, how long will it last?” asked Ronald as he tamped tobacco into his pipe.

The three of them were sitting in a café on the Praça Dom Pedro IV, an imposing square known as Rossio. A black-­and-­white-­cobblestone wave pattern rippled across it like a tide stopped in stone. Water splashed from fountains before a grand theater and a railway station with the dimensions and beauty of a cathedral and an advertisement for Porto Sandeman rose high above trees, trams, and cars: a potent flag of commerce larger than any banner of national sovereignty.

“You don't think Portugal can hold out?” Michael spoke in the tone of voice he used when he was working: casual interest, disguising grave concern.

Ronald lit the pipe and made kissing noises at the end of the stem. Smoke released gently from the bowl. “Spain has been primed by the Germans. Between them, they could overrun this country in an evening. Worse than that,” he went on, with deadpan cheer that Alva hoped was the famous British sense of humor, “the Germans here boast that it would take one telephone call from Hitler to Salazar to annex Portugal.”

“Very funny,” she said.

“My dear, you do realize that the chap in charge here is a fascist, too? Dr. Salazar may not strut around shouting, but they call him the Plainclothes Dictator. The place is mined with fifth columnists ready to spring into action when the word is given. No one knows which way it will go. How's the accommodation, by the way?”

It was thanks to Ronald that they had made it at all. Thanks to Ronald, too, that they had an attic room at the Hotel Métropole on Rossio Square in the center of town. In the sudden influx of refugees, rooms were not easy to find.

The Bartons replied simultaneously.

“It's great,” said Michael.

“A touch cramped but OK,” said Alva.

“The Métropole is expensive and full of Nazis. Just so you know,” said Ronald. “But keep hold of the room until you find your feet.”

T
he journey had started in Paris, or in Rome, or in New York, depending on how far back you wanted to go. At the end of 1938, Michael Barton was bureau chief for Associated Press in Rome; thirty-­seven years old and considered a safe pair of hands. He was in wire contact every day with reporters who were watching what was happening in Germany and it wasn't good. In newspaper terms, that wasn't necessarily bad, but it meant he needed to get in closer. Leaving Rome was more of a wrench for Alva. For two years she had been cheerful in its sunny chaos, had loved the connection with her Italian blood. But she trusted her husband. When he told her he was transferring to Paris, she didn't question his judgment.

Even after war was declared, there was no sense of panic outside the news agencies. In the capital, the French seemed dismissive of any threat, determined to ignore it with the same disdain they used for oafish tourists. For Americans in Paris not much seemed to change: the bars and bookshops, the theaters and restaurants and dance halls were full; the couture houses were busy. No expense was spared by their French hosts to give sumptuous private parties: fancy dress parties, black and white balls, winter festivals. If you hadn't been there in the spring of 1940, you wouldn't have known that the City of Light lost none of its gaiety and fabled April beauty that year. Plenty of ­people were still kidding themselves that everything would be all right, and wealthy and well-­connected American expatriates knew they could always buy their way out of trouble.

It wasn't until June, when the German army strolled into France with a contempt for the Maginot Line worthy of a Parisian waiter, that Michael told his wife it was time for them to get out.

“Where to?”

“Wherever we can get to.”

A million goodbyes were being said. The only talk was of travel plans. No seats were available on trains; the railways were full of troops. There was a private bus going to Bordeaux. Bordeaux was a port. If they got there fast enough there were bound to be ships sailing into safe territory. Someone had a neighbor who had chartered this bus, word had spread, and the Bartons paid double to take the chance, carrying what precious possessions they could, leaving most behind at a hotel where Michael trusted the concierge.

The bus left the Quai Voltaire with not a spare inch between passengers, including many children and several dogs as well as luggage. The air was stifling, even with every window open. There was always one child crying. The smell of warm bread and cheese mingled with engine fumes and dirty diapers was
nauseating.

It was just as well they hadn't a child of their own, Alva told herself, and for the first time she felt glad. They had no one but themselves to worry about. At least they had transport. All along the dusty roads was an unending procession of ­people moving south, carrying all that they could, pushing their possessions in carts and barrows. She found herself watching out for the children, as they sat mutely on sacks or struggled ahead on foot.

At Tours, they stopped in a line of traffic. The driver leaned out, speaking to someone on the road below. “What's up ahead?”

“Troop concentrations.”

“What does that mean?”

“That's what we've been told. No one allowed to proceed further.”

After an hour going nowhere, Michael extricated himself from his seat and went up to talk to the driver.

“The city was bombed last night, and the damage was pretty bad,” he relayed to Alva. “The authorities don't want the news to spread to the wider population and among the refugees. Too demoralizing.”

The driver stood at the head of the bus and said he would be taking a detour to Poitiers.

At Poitiers, there was more chaos and crowds, queues to every public door and space, restaurants and cafés full to bursting. ­People sat on pavement waiting for food from the relief organizations; others prepared to sleep in the parks and squares. The bus went on through without stopping. On the other side of town the driver pulled into a truck stop to take stock of the situation in discussion with the drivers of other vehicles. Rumors abounded. The Germans were at Bordeaux. Roadblocks had already been set up. The files of refugees were being attacked by machine guns from planes.

The passengers were unanimous. Hungry and tired though they were, they would press on, avoiding Bordeaux. Night was falling, but the good driver was willing. It was the right decision. As the bus rattled on through the forests of the Landes, it passed fewer and fewer ­people and vehicles on the road. They had outrun the mass flight south; it seemed as if peace had miraculously returned.

They made it to Bayonne and then got stuck. Half the world seemed to have had the same idea. The foreign consulates there were under siege from ­people—­like them—­who needed papers to go any further. The Bartons were walking wearily toward
the Place Gambetta when a car drew up. It was a preposterously large sports car, and at the wheel was Ronald Bagshaw.

Bagshaw was an acquaintance from Paris who often seemed to be present when there was a gathering of ­journalists or ­ types. Not the smart gatherings in ballrooms and ­ambassadors' ­residences, but the ones that started in someone's apartment and went on to nightclubs and supper shows. He was pleasant enough, though Alva had never been quite sure what it was he did. He was ­British and told her at a party once that he had been a young ­officer in the army during the Great War and then had something to do with smoothing out the aftermath. He had the reputation of being a fixer, anyway, someone with the ­connections everyone was looking for. In the circumstances, he was just the man.

His car was open, long and gray, and loaded up with possessions. A steamer trunk sat on a shelf above the rear fender.

“Can I offer you a lift?” he asked, grinning.

“Where are you going?” countered Michael, as if that ­mattered.

“Lisbon, I thought.”

So they accepted.

“Sling your stuff in. We can re-­jig it later.”

The rear seat was crammed with suitcases and boxes. They climbed into the bench seat up front with him. The leather of the seat—­racy red leather—­stuck to the back of Alva's bare legs.

“Packard Roadster,” said Michael admiringly.

“Best car in the world,” said Ronald. “Have to hand it to you chaps. You know how to make a smooth powerful car.”

It was, too. With a car like this, they had strength on their side.

A
lva realized later that at no time during their flight into the unknown did Michael ask her if she was frightened. Either he expected that she was and saw no point in alluding to it, or he assumed that their accustomed immersion in foreign news stories had insulated them both from taking anything too personally. He was making notes as they went along, with a view to filing copy. It was not their crisis, he seemed to be saying; they were only witnesses.

But Alva was afraid. It seemed clear enough to her that their foreign status bestowed no immunity from danger. Fear was in the air, electric as a coming storm. Above, small dark enemy fighter planes swooped low over the roads. Mostly for effect, but now and then they would open fire and kill for sport. Alva set her eyes on the horizon and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. She decided to put her trust in Ronald and his calm worldliness. He spoke fluent French and conveyed the impression that he was on home turf wherever he was, and that they could trust him to find a way through. He managed to drive at some speed while proceeding with the utmost care and she had to admit that was reassuring.

There was time to get one or two things straight, too. It turned out that Ronald had been decorated in the Great War and held government office. He was highly educated and had written several books about politics and travel though he didn't consider himself primarily a writer. A private income from shares in a family-­owned bank allowed him to roam and observe and write as the whim took him. He had an ex-­wife but no children.

“We'll need papers to cross to Spain,” said Ronald. “I'm assuming you haven't got a fistful of exit permits and visas.”

They hadn't.

“Not to worry, neither have I. Luckily, I know a man who does.”

W
ithin spitting distance of the Spanish border, confusion reigned at His Britannic Majesty's Consulate in Bayonne. The office seemed to be besieged by a mob but the consul was nowhere to be found. No one could leave France without the correct papers. An assortment of naval officers attempted to deal with the crowd, as tempers rose and desperation set in.

“Ah, French intransigence and love of bureaucracy, even in the face of mortal adversity,” said Ronald. “Pure obstructionism. I don't think we should wait around, do you?”

He had a word with one of the naval officers. Having ascertained that the consular stamps and the stenographer were still there, Ronald took the Bartons into a side room where he coolly dictated several passes of his own devising and then stamped them with every official seal they could find, signing them himself in a fudged hand.

They stayed the night in a hotel and left the next morning at dawn to drive to the border at Hendaye and on into Spain, trailing a sweet stink of gasoline from the jerry cans Ronald had filled and lashed to the back. The brightness intensified. Ronald put up the car's black-­fabric hood to protect them from sunstroke. From anything else that came down from above—­planes and gunfire—­they had no defense. The elegant vehicle grew a pelt of dust. The suspension groaned and clunked as it tore into potholed tracks that passed for roads.

I am a refugee, thought Alva, repeating it to herself, incredulously, as they bowled along. Before long they had stopped. The road was blocked by a river of humanity, some in vehicles, most on foot. Engine noise was stilled, replaced by the dull tramp of feet, creaking of wooden carts and worse, cries of despair. No, she revised the thought, these poor wretches are the real refugees.

We're special,
Michael used to say to her. He set great store by the ways they were unique. He really seemed to believe it, for all his worldliness. Definitely smarter than he looked, with that long face (slightly wolfish, if you didn't know him and receive those widemouthed smiles) and the nose that got broken in a baseball game; the habit of running his hand through the hair on the back of his head and leaving it sticking up. Even now, at nearly forty, he looked like a regular guy who liked sports, and played it to his advantage, connecting with other men in a way that was so patently genuine that no one could resist. By the time they cottoned on to his technique they were talking, and had already said too much.

The car started up. They began to move. What was the point of giving in to panic? Think positive. It was warm and she never liked the cold—­that southern Italian blood again. Wherever the road led, that was where they were going. They had come a long way since New York. Alva was a secretary—­well, a typist with big ideas—­on the sports desk at the
Times
when she noticed Michael liked to hang around to pick up spare tickets to games. He was a big Dodgers fan in those days. Their first date, he took her to a game, and fed her a hot dog that spilled mustard down her expensive navy jacket. He didn't even notice that, far less remember it. A whole week's pay, that jacket had cost.

Soon they could see the sea border. Then another holdup pinned them down again on the bridge from France to Spain. Ronald lit his pipe and got out of the car to greet some old friends. Between the lines of cars going nowhere over the water, he had somehow bumped into ­people he knew.