The Night Ferry

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 Half the money was withdrawn last December and the other half in February.”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.