The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Page B

is typical of his generation of educated Sikhs, who are more pukka than any Englishman you wil ever meet.
    Final y, he relaxes. “I wil tel 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 al 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 cal s 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 al 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 stil 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 wil survive.”
    He rocks his head from side to side and up and down. “Very wel . 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 hal way. 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 El iots’ 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 bel .
    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 rol s 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 rol her away. I fol ow them inside to the sitting room, which is ful 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, normal y 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, pul ing me away.
    “How did you know about the money?” he hisses. I can smel the alcohol on his breath.
    “What are you talking about?”
    The words catch in his throat. “Somebody withdrew