“Call the police.”
He looks toward his house and then at the houses nearby perhaps conscious of what his neighbors might think.
“You
“No. No.” His chins are wobbling.
“Were you going to deliver the twins?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How well do you know Julian Shawcroft?”
“We have a professional relationship.”
“You were at Oxford together. He was studying theology. You were studying medicine. See how much I know, Dr. Banerjee? Not bad for some uppity Sikh girl who can’t get a husband.”
His briefcase is still resting on the shelf of his stomach. My skin prickles with something more physical than loathing.
“You’re on his adoption panel.”
“An independent body.”
“You told Cate about the New Life Adoption Center. You introduced her to Shawcroft. What did you imagine you were doing? This wasn’t some humanitarian crusade to help the childless. You got into bed with sex traffickers and murderers. Young women have been raped and exploited. People have died.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with any of that. What motive would I have?”
Motive? I still don’t understand why Banerjee would get mixed up in something like this. It can’t be the money. Maybe he was trapped or tricked into doing a “favor.” It takes only one mistake and the hooks are planted.
He looks toward the house again. There is no wife waiting for him inside. No children at the door.
“It’s personal isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer.
Forbes showed me a list of names. They were couples who provided embryos to the IVF clinic in Amsterdam. A surname suddenly stands out—Anaan and Lola Singh from Birmingham.
“Do you have family in the U.K., Dr. Banerjee? A sister, perhaps? Any nieces or nephews?”
He wants to deny it but the truth is imprinted on his features like fingerprints in putty. Mama mentioned that he had a nephew. The good doctor was so proud he told stories about him over Sunday lunch. I take a stab at the rest of the story. His sister couldn’t get pregnant. And not even her very clever brother—a fertility specialist—could help her.
Julian Shawcroft suggested there might be another way. He organized a surrogate mother in the Netherlands and Banerjee delivered the baby. He thought it was a one-off—a family matter—but Shawcroft wanted him to deliver other babies. He couldn’t say no.
“What do you want from me?”
“Give me Julian Shawcroft.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Are you worried about your career, your reputation?”
Banerjee smiles wryly—a defeated gesture. “I have lived in this country for two-thirds of my life, Alisha. I hold master’s and doctoral degrees from Oxford and Harvard. I have published papers, lectured and been a visiting fellow at the University of Toronto.” He glances again at his house, the drawn curtains and empty rooms beyond. “My reputation is
“You broke the law.”
“Is it so very wrong? I thought we were helping the childless and offering a new life to asylum seekers.”
“You exploited them.”
“We saved them from orphanages.”
“And forced some of them into brothels.”
His dense eyebrows are knitted together.
“Give me Shawcroft. Make a statement.”
“I must protect my sister and her child.”
“By protecting
“We protect each other.”
“I could have you arrested.”
“I will deny everything.”
“At least tell me where the twins are.”
“I don’t meet the families. Julian arranges that side of things.” His voice changes. “I beg you, leave this alone. Only bad things can come of it.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone. My nephew is a beautiful boy. He’s nearly one.”
“When he grows up are you going to tell him about the medical rape that led to his conception?”
“I’m sorry.”
Everyone is sorry. It must be the times.
4
Forbes shuffles a stack of photographs and lays them out on a desk in three rows as if he’s playing solitaire. Julian Shawcroft’s picture is on the right edge. He looks like a charity boss straight from central casting: warm, smiling, avuncular…
“If you recognize someone I want you to point to the photograph,” the detective says.
Samira hesitates.
“Don’t worry about getting anyone in trouble—just tell me if there is someone here who you’ve met before.”
Her eyes travel over the photographs and suddenly stop. She points to Shawcroft.
“This one.”
“Who is he?”
“Brother.”
“Do you know his real name?”
She shakes her head.
“How do you know him?”
“He came to the orphanage.”
“In Kabul.”
She nods.
“What was he doing there?”
“He brought blankets and food.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“He couldn’t speak Afghani. I translated for him.”
“What did you translate?”
“He had meetings with Mr. Jamal, the director. He said he could arrange jobs for some of the orphans. He wanted only girls. I told him I could not leave without Hassan. He said it would cost more money but I could repay him.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand American dollars for each of us.”
“How were you supposed to repay this money?”
“He said God would find a way for me to pay.”
“Did he say anything about having a baby?”
