Read Online The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham - Free Book Online Page A

Unfortunately, the shoplifting conviction came back to haunt Cate. The adoption committee deemed her mental y unstable. It was the final straw. She lost it completely. Felix found her sitting on the floor of the nursery, clutching a teddy bear, saying, ‘Look!
    It’s a beautiful baby boy.’ She was taken to hospital and spent a fortnight in a psych ward. They put her on antidepressants.”
    “I had no idea.”
    He shrugs. “So you see, Alisha, you shouldn’t make the mistake of putting rational thoughts in my daughter’s head. Cate didn’t have a plan. Desperation is the mother of bad ideas.” Everything he says makes perfect sense but I can’t forget the image of Cate at the reunion, begging me to help her. She said they wanted to take her baby. Who did she mean?
    There is nothing as disarming as a heartfelt plea. Barnaby’s natural caution wavers.
    “What do you want?”
    “I need to see telephone records, credit card receipts, check stubs and diaries. Have any large sums of money been withdrawn from Cate or Felix’s bank accounts? Did they travel anywhere or meet anyone new? Was she secretive about money or appointments? I also need to see her computer. Perhaps her e-mails can tel me something.” Unable to push his tongue around the word no, he hedges. “What if you find something that embarrasses this family?” His wretchedness infuriates me. Whatever Cate might have done, she needs him now.
    The doorbel rings. He turns toward the sound, surprised. I fol ow him down the stairs and wait in the hal way as he opens the front door.
    Yvonne gives a deep-throated sob and throws her arms around his shoulders, crushing his head to her chest.
    “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she wails. Her eyes open. “Alisha?”
    “Hel o, Yvonne.”
    Manhandling Barnaby out of the way, she smothers me in her cleavage. I remember the feeling. It’s like being wrapped in a fluffy towel, fresh from the dryer. Gripping my forearms, she holds me away. “Look at you! You’re al grown up.”
    “Yes.”
    “You cut your lovely hair.”
    “Ages ago.”
    Yvonne hasn’t changed. If anything she is a little fatter and her pitted face has fleshed out. Overworked veins stand out on her calves and she’s stil wearing men’s shoes.
    Even after Ruth El iot recovered her speech, Yvonne stayed with the family, cooking meals, washing clothes and ironing Barnaby’s shirts. She was like an old-fashioned retainer, growing old with them.
    Now she wants me to stay, but I make excuses to leave. As I reach the car, I can stil feel Barnaby’s stubble on my cheeks where he kissed me goodbye. Glancing back at the house I remember a different tragedy, another goodbye. Voices from the past jostle and merge. The sadness is suffocating.

    8
    Donavon gave the police an address in Hackney, not far from London Fields. Set back from the road, the crumbling terrace house has a smal square front yard of packed dirt and broken concrete. A sun-faded red Escort van is parked in the space, alongside a motorcycle.
    A young woman answers the door. She’s about twenty-five with a short skirt, a swel ing pregnancy and acne scars on her cheeks. Cotton wool is wedged between her toes and she stands with her heels planted and toes raised.
    “I’m looking for Donavon.”
    “Nobody here by that name.”
    “That’s too bad. I owe him some money.”
    “I can give it to him.”
    “You said he didn’t live here.”
    “I meant he wasn’t here right now,” she says curtly. “He might be around later.”
    “I’d prefer to give it to him personal y.”
    She considers this for a moment, stil balancing on her heels. “You from the council?”
    “No.”
    “A welfare officer?”
    “No.”
    She disappears and is replaced by Donavon.
    “Wel , wel , if it isn’t yindoo.”
    “Give it a rest, Donavon.”
    He runs his tongue along a nick in his front tooth while his eyes roam up and down over me. My skin is crawling.
    “Didn’t your mother ever tel you it’s