‘I am,’ I say, leaning forward and placing a piece of paper scrawled with names between us. ‘OK, so the murder on the Heath, the body they found … I’ve been looking into it and the woman they’ve charged with the murder is a prostitute, right? She was trafficked here from Kosovo. The men she works for, who brought her here, are operating under a shell company called PKI Ltd, which is based in London, next to Tottenham Court Road, but according to Companies House is actually owned by a company called the Stan Group. The Stan Group, about which there is fuck all useful information online, is registered to the British Virgin Islands. OK? Now bear with me … The Stan Group has connections with a Russian criminal organisation run by a woman called Irena Vasiliev, who operates seemingly with impunity behind the shield of Moscow.’

She ignores Ben’s confounded expression, holding up a finger to silence him as she continues, barely stopping for breath.

‘The Stan Group, it turns out, also owns a number of companies – most of them shell companies – including a renewable energy company also based in London and a couple of dubious sounding charities … And – here’s the interesting part – they are part-owned by a British company called TradeSmart, who you might have heard about recently.’

Ben opens his mouth as if to speak as I answer my own question.

‘The founder and CEO, Clive Witherall, has lived in South End Green for years, one of those massive houses just beyond the tennis courts. He passed down the house – and the day-to-day running of his business – to his son David, who died recently after being hit by a car. We covered the story. It was a hit and run in Swiss Cottage, no one was ever caught …’

‘Isobel, what the fuck … Will you stop for a moment,’ Ben says.

‘Just hear me out,’ I reply, sharply. ‘TradeSmart has been implicated in a massive toxic waste spillage in Central Africa. You know the case I’m talking about, right? No charges were ever brought but there were rumours.’

‘OK, stop,’ Ben says and I stop, reluctantly, the facts still moving around in my head. ‘I mean, Jesus. What is all this?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Not yet! But what I’m saying is that this is a massive fucking story. I don’t know what the story is yet, not exactly, but I can feel it. You need to let me look into it, and I promise you—’

‘Isobel, you’re supposed to be on leave for stress!’

‘Excuse me? I never said that.’

Ben shifts in his chair. ‘Some things don’t need saying.’

I ignore this. ‘There’s another thing. The name of the signatory, for all these companies – including PKI Ltd, the one responsible for the trafficked girls – is a fancy-pants lawyer. James McCann. He’s the fucking connection.’