Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“He had doubts?”

“For years his wife rejects his sperm and then suddenly she’s pregnant? Any man would have doubts.”

“But if that’s the case—”

“He wanted to believe, don’t you see? She convinced everyone.”

Standing, he motions me to follow. His slippers flap gently against his heels as he climbs the stairs. The nursery door is open. The room is freshly painted and papered. The furniture new. A cot, a changing table, a comfortable chair with a Winnie the Pooh pillow.

Opening a drawer, he takes out a folder. There are receipts for the furniture and instructions for assembling the cot. He up-ends an envelope, shaking it gently. Two sheets of photographs, monochrome images, drop into his hand. Ultrasound pictures.

Each photograph is only a few inches square. The background is black, the images white. For a moment it’s like looking at one of those Magic Eye pictures where a 3-D image emerges from within. In this case I see tiny arms and legs. A face, eyes, a nose…

“They were taken at twenty-three weeks.”

“How?”

“Felix was supposed to be there but Cate messed up the days. She came home with the photographs.”

The rest of the file contains testimony of an unborn baby’s existence. There are application forms to the hospital, appointment slips, medical reports, correspondence and receipts for the nursery furniture. An NHS pamphlet gives details of how to register the birth. Another lists the benefits of folic acid in early pregnancy.

There are other documents in the drawer, including a bundle of private letters tucked in a corner, bank statements, a passport and health insurance certificates. A separate file contains details of Cate’s IVF treatments. There appear to have been five of them. Sohan Banerjee, a fertility specialist in Wimbledon, is mentioned several times.

“Where was she planning to have the baby?”

“Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.”

I look at a brochure for prenatal classes. “What I can’t understand is how it was supposed to end. What was Cate going to do in four weeks?”

Barnaby shrugs. “She was going to be exposed as a liar.”

“No, think about it. That prosthetic was almost a work of art. She must have altered it two or three times over the months. She also had to forge medical letters and appointment slips. Where did she get the ultrasound pictures? She went to all that effort. Surely she had a plan.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe she organized a surrogacy or a private adoption.”

“Why keep it a secret?”

“Perhaps she couldn’t let anyone know. Commercial surrogacy is illegal. Women can’t accept money to have a baby. I know it sounds far-fetched but isn’t it worth considering?”

He scoffs and smites at the air between us. “So a month from now my daughter was going to nip off somewhere, dump the padding and come back with a baby, custom-made, ready to order from the baby factory. Maybe Ikea does them nowadays.”

“I’m just looking for reasons.”

“I know the reason. She was obsessed. Desperate.”

“Enough to explain these?” I point to the ultrasound pictures.

Reaching down, he opens the second drawer and retrieves a different file. This one contains court transcripts, charge sheets and a judgment.

“Eighteen months ago Cate was caught stealing baby clothes from Mothercare . She said it was a misunderstanding, but we knew it was a cry for help. The magistrates were very kind. They gave her a suspended sentence.

“She had counseling for about six months, which seemed to help. She was her old self again. There were obvious places she had to avoid like parks and playgrounds, schools. But she couldn’t stop torturing herself. She peered into prams and struck up conversations with mothers. She got angry when she saw women with big families, who were pregnant again. It was unfair, she said. They were being greedy.

“She and Felix looked into adopting a baby. They went for the interviews and were screened by social workers. Unfortunately, the shoplifting conviction came back to haunt Cate. The adoption committee deemed her mentally unstable. It was the final straw. She lost it completely. Felix found her sitting on the floor of the nursery, clutching a teddy bear, saying, ‘Look! It’s a beautiful baby boy.’ She was taken to hospital and spent a fortnight in a psych ward. They put her on antidepressants.”

“I had no idea.”

He shrugs. “So you see, Alisha, you shouldn’t make the mistake of putting rational thoughts in my daughter’s head. Cate didn’t have a plan. Desperation is the mother of bad ideas.”

Everything he says makes perfect sense but I can’t forget the image of Cate at the reunion, begging me to help her. She said they wanted to take her baby. Who did she mean?

There is nothing as disarming as a heartfelt plea. Barnaby’s natural caution wavers.

“What do you want?”

“I need to see telephone records, credit card receipts, check stubs and diaries. Have any large sums of money been withdrawn from Cate or Felix’s bank accounts? Did they travel anywhere or meet anyone new? Was she secretive about money or appointments? I also need to see her computer. Perhaps her e-mails can tell me something.”

Unable to push his tongue around the word no, he hedges. “What if you find something that embarrasses this family?”

His wretchedness infuriates me. Whatever Cate might have done, she needs him now.

The doorbell rings. He turns toward the sound, surprised. I follow him down the stairs and wait in the hallway as he opens the front door.

Yvonne gives a deep-throated sob and throws her arms around his shoulders, crushing his head to her chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she wails. Her eyes open. “Alisha?”

“Hello, Yvonne.”

Manhandling Barnaby out of the way, she smothers me in her cleavage. I remember the feeling. It’s like being wrapped in a fluffy towel, fresh from the dryer. Gripping my forearms, she holds me away. “Look at you! You’re all grown up.”

“Yes.”

“You cut your lovely hair.”

“Ages ago.”

Yvonne hasn’t changed. If anything she is a little fatter and her pitted face has fleshed out. Overworked veins stand out on her calves and she’s still wearing men’s shoes.

Even after Ruth Elliot recovered her speech, Yvonne stayed with the family, cooking meals, washing clothes and ironing Barnaby’s shirts. She was like an old-fashioned retainer, growing old with them.

Now she wants me to stay, but I make excuses to leave. As I reach the car, I can still feel Barnaby’s stubble on my cheeks where he kissed me goodbye. Glancing back at the house I remember a different tragedy, another goodbye. Voices from the past jostle and merge. The sadness is suffocating.

Donavon gave the police an address in Hackney, not far from London Fields. Set back from the road, the crumbling terrace house has a small square front yard of packed dirt and broken concrete. A sun-faded red Escort van is parked in the space, alongside a motorcycle.

A young woman answers the door. She’s about twenty-five with a short skirt, a swelling pregnancy and acne scars on her cheeks. Cotton wool is wedged between her toes and she stands with her heels planted and toes raised.

“I’m looking for Donavon.”

“Nobody here by that name.”

“That’s too bad. I owe him some money.”

“I can give it to him.”

“You said he didn’t live here.”

“I meant he wasn’t here right now,” she says curtly. “He might be around later.”

“I’d prefer to give it to him personally.”

She considers this for a moment, still balancing on her heels. “You from the council?”