The Night Ferry

by Michael Robotham

  “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.”

  11

  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.”

  “She could have gone to another clinic.”

  “Felix wouldn’t let her. The hormones, the tests, the tears—he wouldn’t put her through it again.”

  None of this explains the money. Eighty thousand pounds isn’t just given away. Cate was trying to buy a baby but something went wrong. That’s why she contacted me.

  I go over the story again, laying out the evidence. Some of the details and half-truths have taken on the solidity of facts. I can see what Barnaby’s thinking. He’s worried about his political ambitions. This sort of scandal would kill his chances stone dead.

  “That’s why I need to see Cate’s computer,” I say.

  “She doesn’t have one.”

  “Have you looked?”

  “Yes.”

  The glass clinks against his teeth. He’s lying to me.

  “The files you showed me—and Cate’s letters—can I borrow them?”

  “No.”

  My frustration is turning to anger. “Why are you doing this? How can I make you understand?”

  His hand touches my knee. “You could be nicer to me.”

  Ruth Elliot materializes in the kitchen, her wheels silent this time. She looks at me as though she’s spat out a frog.

  “People are beginning to leave, Barnaby. You should come and say goodbye.”

  He follows her to the front door. I grab my coat and slip past them.

  “Thank you for coming, dear,” she says mechanically, reaching up from her wheelchair. Her lips are as dry as paper on my forehead.

  Barnaby puts his arms around me and I move my weight so our thighs lose contact. His lips brush my left earlobe.

  “Why do women always do this to me?”

  Driving away, I can still feel the warmth of his breath. Why do men always think it is about them?

  I’m sure I could find an excuse or make an argument for what I’m about to do, but whatever way you dress it up, it’s still breaking the law. A half brick. An overcoat. The pane of glass shatters and falls inward. So far it’s vandalism or criminal damage. I reach inside and unlock
the door. Now it’s illegal entry. If I find the laptop it’s going be theft. Is this what they mean by the slippery slope of crime?

  It’s after midnight. I’m wearing black jeans, leather gloves and a royal blue turtleneck sweater Auntie Meena knitted me. I have brought with me a large roll of black plastic, some duct tape, a torch and a USB drive for downloading computer files.

  I close my eyes. The layout of the ground floor rises up in front of me. I remember it from three days ago. Glass crunches under my sneakers. A red light blinks on the answering machine.

  It shouldn’t have come to this. Barnaby lied to me. It’s not that I suspect him of anything serious. Good people protect those they love. But sometimes they don’t recognize how good intentions and blind loyalty can twist their reasoning.

  He’s frightened of what I might find. I’m frightened. He’s worried that he didn’t really know his daughter. I’m worried too.

  I climb the stairs. In the nursery I take the roll of black plastic and cover the window, sealing the edges with duct tape. Now it’s safe to turn on the torch.

  Precautions like this might be unnecessary but I can’t afford to have the neighbors investigating or someone calling the police. My career (what career?) already hangs on a thread. I open the dresser drawer. The files have gone, along with the bundle of letters.

  Moving from room to room I repeat the process, searching wardrobes and drawers beneath beds.

  Next to the main bedroom there is a study with a desk and filing cabinet. The lone window is partially open. I glance outside to a moonlit garden, blanketed by shadows and fallen leaves.

  Unfurling another sheet of black plastic, I seal the window before turning on my torch. Beneath the desk, just above the skirting board, I notice a phone outlet. The top drawer contains software and instructions for an ADSL connection. I was right about the computer. Right about Barnaby.

  Opening the remaining drawers, I find the usual office supplies—marker pens, a stapler, paper clips, a ball of rubber bands, Post-it notes, a cigarette lighter…

  Next I search the filing cabinet, leafing through the hanging files. There are no labels or dates. I have to search each one. Plastic sheaths contain the domestic bills. Each telephone account has a list of outgoing calls to mobiles and long-distance numbers. I can possibly trace them but it will take days.

  Among the invoices there is one from an Internet company. People sometimes leave copies of their e-mails on their server but I need Cate’s password and username.

  Having finished in the study I move on to the main bedroom, which is paper-free except for the bookshelves. Barnaby said Felix was sleeping in the guest room. His side of the wardrobe is empty. Cate slept on the right side of the bed. Her bedside drawer has night cream, moisturizer, emery boards and a picture frame lying facedown. I turn it over.

  Two teenage girls are laughing at the camera; arms draped over each other’s shoulders; seawater dripping from their hair. I can almost taste the salt on their skin and hear the waves shushing the shingles.

  Every August the Elliot family used to rent a cottage in Cornwall and spend their time sailing and swimming. Cate invited me one year. I was fifteen and it was my first proper beach holiday.

  We swam, rode bikes, collected shells and watched the boys surfing at Widemouth Bay. A couple of them offered to teach Cate and me how to surf but Barnaby said that surfers were deadbeats and potheads. Instead he taught us how to sail in a solo dinghy on Padstow Harbour and the Camel Estuary. He could only take one of us out at a time.

  I was embarrassed by my lime-green gingham seersucker one-piece, which my mother had chosen. Cate let me borrow one of her bikinis. As we sat side by side, Barnaby’s leg would sometimes touch mine. And to balance the boat we had to lean out over the water and he put his arm around my waist. I liked the way he smelled of salt and suntan lotion.

  Of an evening we played games like charades and Trivial Pursuit. I tried to sit next to him because he would nudge me in the ribs when he told one of his jokes or lean against me until we toppled over.

  “You were flirting with him,” said Cate after we’d gone to bed. We were sharing the loft. Mr. and Mrs. Elliot had the largest bedroom on the floor below and Jarrod had a room to himself at the back of the house.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You were.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It’s disgusting. He’s old enough to be—”

  “Your father?”

  We laughed. She was right, of course. I did flirt with Barnaby and he flirted back because he knew no other way to behave with women or girls.

  Cate and I were lying on top of the bedclothes, unable to sleep because it was so hot. The loft had no insulation and seemed to trap the heat from the day.

  “Do you know your problem?” she said. “You’ve never actually kissed a boy.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I’m not talking about your brothers. I mean a proper French kiss—with tongues.”

  I grew embarrassed.

  “You should practice.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Here, do this.” She pressed her thumb and forefinger together. “Pretend this is a boy’s lips and kiss them.”

  She held my hand and kissed it, snaking her tongue between my thumb and forefinger until they were wet with saliva.

  “Now you try it.” She held out her hand. It tasted of toothpaste and soap. “No, too much tongue. Yeuch!”

  “You used a lot of tongue.”

  “Not that much.” She wiped her hand on the sheets and looked at me with impatient affection. “Now you have to remember positioning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have to tilt your head to the right or left so you don’t bang noses. We’re not Eskimos.”

  She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and pulled me close. Cupping my face, she pressed her lips against mine. I could feel her heart beating and the blood pulsing beneath her skin. Her tongue brushed along my lips and danced over my teeth. We were breathing the same air. My eyes stayed closed. It was the most amazing feeling.

  “Wow, you’re a fast learner,” she said.

  “You’re a good teacher.”

  My heart was racing.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do that again.”

  “It did feel a bit weird.”

  “Yeah. Weird.”

  I rubbed my palms down the front of my nightdress.

  “Yeah, well, now you know how to do it,” said Cate, picking up a magazine.

  She had kissed a lot of boys, even at fifteen, but she didn’t brag about it. Many more followed—pearls and pebbles strung around her neck—and as each one came and went there was scarcely a shrug of resignation or sadness.

  I brush my fingers over the photograph and contemplate whether to take it with me. Who would know? At the same moment an answer occurs to me. Retracing my steps to the study, I open the desk drawer and spy the cigarette lighter. When we were kids and I stayed the night with Cate, she would sneak cigarettes upstairs and lean out the window so her parents didn’t smell the smoke.

  Tearing the plastic sheet from the sash window, I slide the lower pane upward and brace my hands on the sill as I lean outside, sixteen feet above the garden.

  In the darkness I follow the line of a rainwater pipe that is fixed to the bricks with metal brackets. I need more light. Risking the torch, I direct the beam onto the pipe. I can just make out the knotted end of a thin cord, looped over the nearest bracket, beyond reach.

  What did she use?

  I look around the study. At the back of the desk, hard against the wall, is a wire coat hanger stretched to create a diamond shape with a hook on one end. Back at the window, I lean out and snag the loop of cord on the hook, pulling it toward me. The cord runs across the wall and over a small nail before dropping vertically. As I pull it a paint can emerges from the foliage of the garden. It rises toward me until I can lean out and grab it.

  Pulling it insi
de, I use a coin to lever open the lid. Inside is half a packet of cigarettes and a larger package wrapped in plastic and held together with rubber bands. Retrieving it, I close the lid of the paint can and let the nylon cord slip through my fingers as I lower it back into the shrubs.

  Returning to the main bedroom, I slip off the rubber bands from the package and unfold what turns out to be a plastic bag with documents pressed into the bottom corner. I spread the contents on the duvet: two airline boarding passes, a tourist map of Amsterdam and a brochure.

  The boarding passes are for a British Midlands flight from Heathrow to Schiphol Airport in the Netherlands on the ninth of February, returning on the eleventh.

  The tourist map has a picture of the Rijksmuseum on the front cover and is worn along the folds. It seems to cover the heart of Amsterdam where the canals and streets follow a concentric horseshoe pattern. The back of the map has bus, tram and train routes, flanked by a list of hotels. One of them is circled: the Red Tulip Hotel.

  I pick up the brochure. It appears to promote a charity—the New Life Adoption Center, which has a phone number and a post box address in Hayward’s Heath, West Sussex. There are pictures of babies and happy couples, along with a quote: “Isn’t it nice to know when you’re not ready to be a mother, somebody else is?”

  Unfolding the brochure there are more photographs and testimonials.

  “HOPING TO ADOPT? If you are looking for a safe, successful adoption we can help! Since 1995 we have helped hundreds of couples adopt babies. Our select group of caring professionals can make your dream of a family come true.”

  On the opposite page is a headline: ARE YOU PREGNANT AND CONSIDERING WHAT TO DO?

  “We can help you! We offer assistance and encouragement during and after your pregnancy and can provide birthparent scholarships. Open adoption means YOU make the choices.”

  Underneath is a photograph of a child’s hand clinging to the finger of an adult.

  Someone called Julie writes: “Thank you for turning my unexpected pregnancy into a gift from God to all involved.”

  On the opposite page are further testimonials, this time from couples.

  “Choosing adoption brought us a beautiful daughter and made our lives complete.”