The women were on the top floor, spread out across Major Incident Rooms 1 and 2, all in their late teens and early twenties, all wrapped in blankets as they sipped hot drinks, and all quietly terrified as detectives and immigration officers moved among them with their questions.

‘We found the lorry parked in a motorway layby just outside of Maidstone,’ Edie told me. ‘The driver ran out of petrol and did a runner. Left this lot to stew.’

‘What road?’

‘The M2 motorway. Northbound.’

‘The road from Dover to London,’ I said. ‘Anything in the cab? Passports? Phones?’

‘Not a sausage.’

‘Have we talked to the women?’

‘They’re about to be shipped out. Immigration wants them to have a medical before we do any formal interviews.’

A woman with frizzy hair and an iPad blinked at me furiously behind her spectacles.

‘These women are not criminals,’ she said. ‘They need health care, rest, fresh clothing—’

I wasn’t going to argue with her. I wasn’t going to point out that they might have information that could help us catch real criminals. I knew how it worked.

One of the women had the pale-skinned, dark-eyed look of Hana Novak. They were probably not even the same nationality but they could have been sisters. Nobody was talking to her. They had either processed her already or they hadn’t got around to it yet. I walked over to her. She looked at me warily.

‘What will happen to me?’

She had good English. I decided to tell her the truth.

‘A big coach will come here soon and it will take you to a reception centre. From there you will go to some kind of accommodation that will either be a small hotel or house.’ I looked around the room. ‘It’s likely that some of these women will be with you.’

I didn’t tell her that the accommodation would be privately run and that it was in the interest of the private contractors to keep costs at rock bottom. I didn’t tell her that she would be sent to one of the poorest areas in the country – the dumping grounds of the faraway towns, hundreds of miles from the big London houses of the politicians and the protestors down on Savile Row with their pious placards. I didn’t tell her any of that.

Instead I got her a fresh cup of tea.

She sipped it and pulled a shocked face.

‘What is this drink?’

‘Tea,’ I said. ‘Boiled water, two sugars and a bag full of leaves. Is it all right?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Am I in trouble?’

‘You’ll either be allowed to stay in this country, in which case you will have the same rights as everyone else, or you will be sent back to your country of origin. Where was that?’

She hesitated.

‘Didn’t you have a passport when you set off? Did someone take it away from you?’

She shook her head.