‘Ms Masters, I realise this is a big decision for anyone, whether a woman of twenty years, or someone older. No fertility treatment is foolproof. But I can assure you that here at Bright Futures, we are solely concerned with providing you with the best possible care and outcomes. Our protocols are designed to the highest medical technology standards in the field. Our results reflect that – we’re in the top ten percentile points of success.’
‘So three grand?’ said Jo. If she got the promotion to Detective Inspector, it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Do the eggs have a best before date?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Not in practical terms, no.’
‘And can I pay in instalments?’
He looked taken aback. ‘Erm … that isn’t something we usually do.’
Jo stared at him. Told herself not to get flustered. Just be straight.
‘Right, but can you?’
Christ, I sound desperate.
The doctor looked away first. ‘There may be ethical considerations,’ he said. ‘If we were to freeze your eggs, then subsequently, through no fault of your own, the payments were to fall into default—’
‘Is that a “no” then?’
The doctor placed his glasses back on. ‘Perhaps you could excuse me for a moment? Hopefully I can discuss the matter with my colleague.’
Jo nodded and watched him stand up and walk out, leaving her alone in the plush room.
She let her gaze travel around the dark wood furniture, clean lines, books neatly stacked. Perfect, sanitised order. She wondered how much a gynaecological consultant earned. Probably a hell of a lot more than a DS for Avon and Somerset Police. There was a single photo frame on the desk, facing partly away. Jo leant forward to look. It showed Dr Kasparian with a man who must be his partner – dark-haired, well-groomed facial hair, maybe fifty, but with a carefree face that looked ten years younger – and two teenage boys. All hanging off each other on a leather sofa. They looked perfect too.
Good for them.
The door opened and she sat back in her chair.
‘Good news,’ said the doctor. ‘Monthly payments for six months should be fine. Would you like my secretary to start the paperwork, or would you like to go away and think about it? There’s really no rush.’
Isn’t there? thought Jo. Easy for you to say.
She’d have preferred a year of payments, just to be safe, but she could probably afford it over half a dozen instalments.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, and though it galled her to add it, ‘Thank you.’
The phone in her pocket was ringing again.
Just leave me alone, Ben. Just for ten fucking minutes.
* * *
The paperwork didn’t take long, but the questions got more personal as they went along.
First, the basics. Name (Josephine Masters); address (she gave the rented place in the south of the city; didn’t need Ben somehow getting mail about this); DOB (as if she needed reminding); occupation (copper). Then medical history. Clean bill of health, apart from the scare last year; alcohol unit intake (everyone lied, right?); do you smoke (no, but gagging for one right now); last period (the 18th); last instance of sexual intercourse (regrettable); last pregnancy (she paused a moment, wondering whether it was the conception date they wanted, or the date of the miscarriage, then opted for the latter). The secretary tapped deftly at the keyboard with manicured fingers. She was perhaps early twenties, a pretty, natural blonde, combining elegance and amiability in a way Jo could never have managed at that age.
Jo wondered what the young woman thought of her. Did she judge? What did she think of the going-on-forty-year-old sitting opposite, her hair needing a colour, her crow’s feet obvious, her sensible shoes and middle-of-the-range navy suit? Did she wonder why Jo was here, why she didn’t have a partner, if …
You’re getting bitter, Josephine. Stop it.
The bank details came last, and then, when the printouts were signed, they set a tentative date for the hormone infusion. Jo knew she’d have to check her shifts and told them she’d be in touch. She was glad to be out of there, stepping onto a quiet mews street in the shadow of the cathedral. Though in the shade, the summer air was warm. She guessed the cottage would once have held a member of the clerical staff. Now the only sign it was a commercial property was the discreet Bright Futures plaque beside the listed front door.
She checked her phone and saw nine missed calls, all from Ben.
It was almost eleven. She’d blocked out three hours for the meeting, saying she was taking her mother to the doctor’s in Oxford, so she still had forty-five minutes before she was due back at the station for the weekend briefing. It was Paul’s birthday party that night and she still hadn’t got him a present, though she knew exactly the thing. Her brother, like their dad before him, had started balding in his early thirties, and Bath was the sort of city that still had gentlemen’s outfitters. A quick Google had given her a promising place off Wallford Street. She walked across the cobbles, then stepped out into the throng.
Bath was never quiet, of course, but Friday lunchtime in the summer holidays was pretty close to Jo’s idea of hell. An engine of commerce. Tourists jostling with street performers, gaggles of teenagers up to nothing. Workers – mostly Europeans and South Americans – on breaks from jobs at hotels. People spilling out of cafes, bars and shops. And here and there, the city’s true denizens – Jo’s bread and butter. The drug addicts, leaning towards their next fix. The pickpockets, swimming with the tides. The petty criminals who existed in every city; the grit in the machine.
Jo fought through the pedestrians outside the Assembly Rooms before slipping off into a narrower alley, a row of bikes chained up against a set of railings. She found the hat place, and though at first she thought it must be closed, when she pushed the door, it opened, a bell above her clanking. A small, very elderly man with luxuriant white hair and a stoop looked up from behind a counter.
‘Good day to you,’ he said.
Jo smiled at the unexpected chivalry, but just as she was about to speak, her phone rang again. This time the vibration was different.
‘Excuse me!’ she said, and she backed out of the shop to take the call.
‘Why aren’t you answering?’ said Rob Bridges, her DCI back at the station. ‘Ben’s been trying for the last hour.’
It took Jo a moment to gain her composure. ‘With my mum,’ she said. ‘It’s in the diary.’
Bridges breathed a sigh. ‘Fine, can you talk?’
‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve got a body. Bradford-on-Avon. A kid.’
Jo looked at her reflection in the window of the shop, swallowed. ‘Go on.’
‘Thames Valley have already sent someone, but I want you there.’
‘Why Thames Valley?’
‘Something to do with identifying features. They think it’s one of their mispers.’
‘Text me the address,’ said Jo. ‘I’ll call when I’m on my way.’
She hung up. Paul’s present could wait.
* * *
It took Jo three minutes to get back to her car, another seven to get out of the car park. She plugged in the address as she did so, but it looked like it was the middle of a random field. Bradford-on-Avon was a well-to-do market town about five miles out from Bath – all Cotswold stone and shops she