Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“Did she tell you that Cate faked her pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“What else did she say?”

“It would be highly unethical to reveal the details of our conversation.” He pauses and adds, “Even to a police officer.”

My eyes search his or perhaps it’s the other way round. “Are you deliberately trying to withhold information from a police investigation?”

He smiles warily. “Forgive me. I thought this was a birthday party.”

“When did you last see Cate?”

“A year ago.”

“Why couldn’t she conceive?”

“No reason at all,” he says blithely. “She had a laparoscopy, blood tests, ultrasounds and a hysteroscopy. There were no abnormalities, adhesions or fibroids. She should have been able to conceive. Unfortunately, she and her husband were incompatible. Felix had a low sperm count, but married to someone else he may well have fathered a child without too much difficulty. However, in this case, his sperm were treated like cancerous cells and were destroyed by his wife’s immune system. Pregnancy was theoretically possible but realistically unlikely.”

“Did you ever suggest surrogacy as an option?”

“Yes, but there aren’t many women willing to have a child for another couple. There was also another issue…”

“What issue?”

“Have you heard of achondrogenesis?”

“No.”

“It is a very rare genetic disorder, a form of lethal dwarfism.”

“What does that have to do with Cate?”

“Her only known pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage at six months. An autopsy revealed severe deformities in the fetus. By some twisted chance of fate, a reverse lottery, she and Felix each carried a recessive gene. Even, if by some miracle, she could conceive, there was a 25 percent chance it would happen again.”

“But they kept trying.”

He raises his hand to stop me. “Excuse me, Alisha, but am I to understand from your questions that you are investigating this matter in some official capacity?”

“I’m just looking for answers.”

“I see.” He ponders this. “If I were you, I would be very careful. People can sometimes misconstrue good intentions.”

I’m unsure if this is advice or a warning but he holds my gaze until I feel uncomfortable. There is an arrogance about Banerjee that is typical of his generation of educated Sikhs, who are more pukka than any Englishman you will ever meet.

Finally, he relaxes. “I will tell you this much, Alisha. Mrs. Beaumont underwent five IVF implants over a period of two years. This is very complex science. It is not something you do at home with a glass jar and a syringe. It is the last resort, when all else fails.”

“What happened in Cate’s case?”

“She miscarried each time. Less than a third of IVF procedures result in a birth. My success rate is at the high end of the scale, but I am a doctor not a miracle worker.”

For once the statement doesn’t sound conceited. He seems genuinely disappointed.

Aunt Meena calls everyone inside for lunch. The tables have been set up with my father at the head. I am seated among the women. The men sit opposite. “New Boy” Dave and Dr. Banerjee are side by side.

Hari arrives in time for pudding and is treated like a prodigal son by my aunts, who run their fingers through his long hair. Leaning down, he whispers into my ear, “Two at once, sis. And I had you down as an old maid.”

My family are noisy when we eat. Plates are passed around. People talk over one another. Laughter is like a spice. There is no ceremony but there are rituals (which are not the same thing). Speeches are made, the cooks must be thanked, nobody talks over my father and all disagreements are saved for afterward.

I don’t let Dave stay that long. He has work to do. Sohan Banerjee also prepares to leave. I still don’t understand why he’s here. It can’t be just a coincidence.

“Would you accede to seeing me again, Alisha?” he asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“It would make your parents very happy.”

“They will survive.”

He rocks his head from side to side and up and down. “Very well. I don’t know what to say.”

“Goodbye is traditional.”

He flinches. “Yes. Goodbye. I wish your friend Mrs. Beaumont a speedy recovery.”

Closing the front door, I feel a mixture of anxiety and relief. My life has enough riddles without this one.

Hari meets me in the hallway. His dark eyes catch the light and he puts his arms around me. My mobile is open in his fingers.

“Your friend Cate died at one o’clock this afternoon.”

There are cars parked in the driveway and in the street outside the Elliots’ house. Family. A wake. I should leave them alone. Even as I debate what to do I find myself standing at the front door ringing the bell.

It opens. Barnaby is there. He has showered, shaved and tidied himself up but his eyes are watery and unfocused.

“Who is it, dear?” asks a voice from inside.

He stiffens and steps back. Wheels squeak on the parquetry floor and Cate’s mother rolls into view. She is dressed in black making her face appear even more spectral.

“You must come in,” she says, her lips peeled back into a pained smile.

“I’m so sorry about Cate. If there’s anything I can do.”

She doesn’t answer. Wheels roll her away. I follow them inside to the sitting room, which is full of sad-eyed friends and family. A few of them I recognize. Judy and Richard Sutton, a brother and sister. Richard was Barnaby’s campaign manager in two elections and Judy works for Chase Manhattan. Cate’s aunt Paula is talking to Jarrod and in the corner I spy Reverend Lunn, an Anglican minister.

Yvonne is crumpled on a chair, talking and sobbing at the same time. Her clothes, normally so bright and vibrant, now mirror her mood, black. Her two children are with her, both grown up, more English than Jamaican. The girl is beautiful. The boy could name a thousand places he’d prefer to be.

Yvonne cries a little harder when she sees me, groaning as she raises her arms to embrace me.

Before I can speak, Barnaby grips my forearm, pulling me away.

“How did you know about the money?” he hisses. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“What are you talking about?”

The words catch in his throat. “Somebody withdrew £80,000 from Cate’s account.”

“Where did she get that sort of money?”

He lowers his voice even further. “From her late grandmother. I checked her bank account. Half the money was withdrawn last December and the other half in February.”

“A bank check?”

“Cash. The bank won’t tell me any more.”

“And you have no idea why?”

He shakes his head and stumbles forward a pace. I steer him toward the kitchen where “get well soon” cards lie open on the table amid torn envelopes. They seem pointless now; forlorn gestures swamped by a greater grief.

Filling a glass from the tap, I hand it to him. “The other day you mentioned a doctor, a fertility specialist.”

“What about him?”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he ever suggested alternatives to IVF like adoption or surrogacy?”

“Not that I heard. He didn’t overstate Cate’s chances, I know that much. And he wouldn’t implant more than two embryos each time. He had another policy—three strikes and you’re out. Cate begged him to let her try again so he gave her five chances.”

“Five?”

“They harvested eighteen eggs but only twelve were viable. Two embryos were implanted each time.”

“But that only accounts for ten—what about the remaining two eggs?”

He shrugs. “Dr. Banerjee wouldn’t go again. He saw how fragile Cate had become, emotionally. She was falling apart.”