The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Page A

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 vil age 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 swal ow hard to keep it down. I give him my politest smile. “So tel me Dr. Banerjee—”
    “Cal 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 El iot 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.”
    “Did she tel 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 al ,” 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 wel have fathered a child without too much difficulty. However, in this case, his sperm were treated like cancerous cel s and were destroyed by his wife’s immune system. Pregnancy was theoretical y possible but realistical y unlikely.”
    “Did you ever suggest surrogacy as an option?”
    “Yes, but there aren’t many women wil ing 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