The English Girl: A Novel

the truth.

24
    DOVER, ENGLAND
    B y the time Gabriel turned onto the M20, the skies were pouring with rain. He raced past Maidstone, Lenham Heath, and Ashford, arriving in the port of Folkestone at half past three. There he turned onto the A20 and continued east, across a seemingly endless plain of the greenest grass he had ever seen. Finally, he breasted a low hill, and the sea appeared, dark and whitecapped. It promised to be an unpleasant crossing.
    As the road descended into the Dover seafront, Gabriel glimpsed a portion of the cliffs for the first time, chalky white against a background of gunmetal-gray cloud. The way to the ferry terminal was clearly marked. Gabriel entered the ticket office and confirmed his booking, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the Passat. Then, ticket in hand, he climbed behind the wheel again and joined the line of cars waiting in the departure queue. And don’t miss the four-forty ferry. If you do, the girl dies . . . There was only one reason to make such a demand, thought Gabriel. The kidnappers were now watching him.
    It was against regulations for passengers to remain inside their cars during the crossing. Gabriel briefly considered bringing the suitcases with him but decided the act of lugging them up and down the passageways would leave him too vulnerable. So he locked the car tightly, checking the trunk and each of the four doors twice to make sure they were secure, and headed to the passenger lounge. As the ferry eased from the terminal, he went to the snack bar and ordered tea and a scone. Outside the skies gradually darkened, and by 5:15 the sea was no longer visible. Gabriel remained in his seat for another five minutes. Then he rose and made his way to an isolated corner of the windblown observation deck. None of the other passengers followed him. Therefore no one saw him drop a mobile phone over the railing.
    Gabriel neither saw nor heard the device strike the surface of the sea. He stood at the rail for two more minutes before returning to his seat in the lounge. And there he remained, committing to memory each of the faces around him, until an announcement came over the public address system, first in English, then in French, alerting passengers it was time to return to their cars. Gabriel made certain he was the first to arrive on the vehicle deck. Opening the trunk of the Passat, he saw that the two suitcases were still in place and that both were still filled with money. Then he climbed behind the wheel and watched the other passengers filing toward their cars. In the next row a woman was unlocking the door of a small Peugeot. She had short blond hair, almost like a boy’s, and a heart-shaped face. But Gabriel noticed something else. She was the only passenger on the ferry wearing gloves.
    He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
    She was the one. He was certain of it.
    C alais was an ugly seaside town, part English, part German, scarcely French at all. The rue Richelieu was about a half mile from the ferry terminal in the quartier known as Calais-Nord, an octagonal artificial island ringed by canals and harbors. Gabriel parked outside a terrace of stucco houses and headed toward the park, watched by a trio of Afghan men in heavy coats and traditional pakul hats. The men were probably economic migrants waiting for a chance to hitch an illegal ride across the Channel to Britain. There had once been a large encampment in the sand dunes along the beach where, on a clear day, they could see the White Cliffs of Dover sparkling on the other side of the Channel. The good citizens of Calais, a stronghold of the Socialist Party, had referred to the camp as “the jungle” and had applauded the French police when they finally shut it down.
    The trash receptacle stood to the right side of a footpath leading into the park. It was four feet in height and forest green in color. Next to it was a sign asking visitors not to harm the park’s grass and flowers. It said nothing about searching for a hidden mobile phone beneath the rubbish bin, which is what Gabriel did after discarding his ferry ticket. He found it instantly; it was secured to the underside of the bin by packing tape. He tore it away and slipped it into his coat pocket before standing upright and heading back to the Passat. The phone was ringing as he started the engine. “Very good,” said the computer-generated voice. “Now listen carefully.”
    I t told him to go directly to the Hotel de la