Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Mama makes a pfffhh sound. “Does he have a name?”

“Yes, of course. Detective Sergeant Dave King. This is my mother.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Barba. Ali has told me so much about you.”

My mother laughs. “Will you stay for lunch, Detective Sergeant?”

“No, he has to go.”

“Nonsense. It’s Sunday.”

“Police have to work weekends.”

“Detectives are allowed to have lunch breaks. Isn’t that right?”

Then my mother smiles and I know I’ve lost. Nobody can ever say no to that smile.

Small feet patter down the hallway ahead of us. Harveen and Daj are fighting over who’s going to break the news that Auntie Ali has brought someone with her. Harveen comes back and takes my hand, dragging me into the kitchen. There are frown lines on her forehead at the age of seven. Daj is two years older and, like every male member of my family, is improbably handsome (and spoiled).

“Have you brought anything for us?” he asks.

“Only a kiss.”

“What about a present?”

“Only for Bada.”

Benches are covered with food and the air is heavy with steam and spices. My two aunts and my sisters-in-law are talking over one another amid the clatter and bang of energetic cooking. There are hugs and kisses. Glasses graze my cheekbones and fingers tug at my sari or straighten my hair, without my relatives ever taking their eyes from “New Boy” Dave.

My aunties, Meena and Kala, couldn’t be less alike as sisters. Meena is quite masculine and striking, with a strong jaw and thick eyebrows. Kala, by contrast, is unexceptional in almost every way, which might explain why she wears such decorative spectacles, to give her face more character.

Meena is still fussing with my hair. “Such a pretty thing to be unmarried; such lovely bones.”

A baby is thrust into my arms—the newest addition to the family. Ravi is six weeks old, with coffee-bean-colored eyes and rolls of fat on his arms that you could lose a sixpence inside.

Cows might be sacred to Hindus, but babies are sacred to Sikhs, boys more so than girls. Ravi latches on to my finger and squeezes it until his eyes fold shut.

“She’s so good with children,” says Mama, beaming. Dave should be squirming but he’s actually enjoying this. Sadist!

The men are outside in the garden. I can see my father’s blue turban above them all. His beard is swept back from his cheeks and crawls down his neck like a silver trickle of water.

I count heads. There are extras. My heart sinks. They’ve invited someone for me to meet.

My mother ushers Dave outside. He glances over his shoulder at me, hesitating before obeying her instructions. Down the side steps, along the mildewed path, past the door to the laundry, he reaches the rear garden. Every face turns toward him and the conversation stops.

It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, as people step back and “New Boy” Dave faces my father. It’s eyeball to eyeball but Dave doesn’t flinch, which is to his credit.

I can’t hear what they’re saying. My father glances up toward the kitchen window. He sees me. Then he smiles and thrusts out his hand. Dave takes it and suddenly conversation begins again.

My mother is at the sink, peeling and slicing mangoes. She slides the knife blade easily beneath the pale yellow flesh. “We didn’t know you were going to bring a friend.”

“I didn’t bring him.”

“Well, your father has invited someone. You must meet his guest. It’s only polite. He is a doctor.”

“A very fine one,” echoes Auntie Kala. “Very successful.”

I scan the gathering and pick him out. He is standing with his back to me, dressed in a Punjabi suit that has been laundered and starched to attention.

“He’s fat.”

“A sign of success,” says Kala.

“It takes a big hammer to hammer a big nail,” adds Meena, cackling like a schoolgirl. Kala disapproves.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, sister. A wife has to learn how to keep her husband happy in the boudoir.” The two of them continue arguing while I go back to the window.

The stranger in the garden turns and glances up at me. He holds up his glass, as if offering me a toast. Then he shakes it from side to side, indicating its emptiness.

“Quickly, girl, take him another drink,” says Meena, handing me a jug.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the side steps into the garden. My brothers whistle. They know how much I hate wearing a sari. All the men turn toward me. I keep my eyes focused on my sandals.

My father is still talking to Dave and my uncle Rashid, a notorious butt-squeezer. My mother claims it is an obsessive-compulsive disorder but I think he’s just a lech. They are talking about cricket. The men in my family are obsessed with the game even when the summer is over.

Most Indian men are small and elegant with delicate hands but my brothers are strapping, rugged types, except for Hari, who would make a beautiful woman.

Bada kisses my cheek. I bow to him slightly. He ushers his guest closer and makes the formal introductions.

“Alisha, this is Dr. Sohan Banerjee.”

I nod, still not raising my eyes.

The name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?

Poor Dave doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s not a Sikh, which is probably a good thing. If I’d brought a Sikh home my parents would have killed a goat.

Dr. Banerjee stands very straight and bows his head. My father is still talking. “Sohan contacted me personally and asked if he could meet you, Alisha. Family to family—that is how it should be done.”

I’m not meant to comment.

“He has more than one medical degree,” he adds.

He has more than one chin.

I don’t know how much worse this day could get. People are watching me. Dave is on the far side of the garden talking to my eldest brother, Prabakar, the most religious member of the family, who won’t approve.

The doctor is talking to me. I have to concentrate on his words. “I believe you are a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“And you live separately from your parents. Very few single Indian girls have property. So why aren’t you married?”

The bluntness of the question surprises me. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Are you a virgin?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m assuming your mother explained the facts of life to you.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“No comment means yes.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“In my experience it does. Do you drink?”

“No.”

“See? You don’t have to be so defensive. My parents think I should marry a girl from India because village girls are hard workers and good mothers. This may be so but I don’t want a peasant girl who can’t eat with a knife and fork.”

Anger rises in my throat and I have to swallow hard to keep it down. I give him my politest smile. “So tell me Dr. Banerjee—”

“Call me Sohan.”

“Sohan, do you ever masturbate?”

His mouth opens and closes like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “I hardly think—”

“No comment means yes.”

The flash of anger in his eyes is like a bloodred veil. He grinds his teeth into a smile. “Touché.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“An obstetrician.”

Suddenly I remember where I’ve read his name. It was in the file that Barnaby Elliot showed me. Sohan Banerjee is a fertility specialist. He performed Cate’s IVF procedures.

There are 100,000 Sikhs in London and what—maybe 400 obstetricians? What are the chances of Cate’s doctor showing up here?

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” I announce. “Cate Beaumont. Did you hear about the accident?”

He shifts his gaze to the mottled green roof of my father’s shed. “Her mother telephoned me. A terrible thing.”