He studied the lines of print. “No one’s disputing those men got killed and their village burnt down, just a question of whether it was justified. Heat of war.”

“You think this doesn’t have legs?” Go easy, make him think it’s his idea.

“Well, there’s a story, there definitely could be a story. Wouldn’t have to prove anything, just make people wonder if there’s more to it.”

“Lots of secrets there. It’s my part of the world, you know.”

“Thought you were a Brummie.”

“Born out there. Parents moved to Birmingham when I was eight. They lived through the Emergency, said you wouldn’t believe what the British got up to in the name of stopping the Communist bandits. Would be quite a scandal, if it got out.”

“Indeed. Thanks for bringing this to my attention.”

She stopped herself saying anything more. Take it slow. He was still staring at the paper as she left the office.

The next morning, she made sure to get in early, formidable in her boxiest jacket. When she tapped on Lars’s door and went in, he was eating toffees from a paper bag, a sure sign of nervous excitement. “Good, I was going to send for you. I need you to go see Ian Spender.”

“What for?”

“The Batang Kali story. We’re pursuing. I cleared it with Hal yesterday, just need you to brief Spender before he heads out. Useful phrases, poisonous snakes, that sort of thing. Good thing you said you were from there. Handy to know.”

“You’re sending Spender?”

“He was out there a couple of years, back in the day. National Service.”

“So he might have shot these chaps himself?”

“I don’t believe he saw much action.”

“Story of his life.”

“He won’t need much. Quick jaunt, interview a few natives, in and out. I made a few calls. Unnamed sources at the Home Office. Apparently there was an attempt by the locals to get compensation years ago. Nothing came of it, but someone coughed up the name of the local lawyer. He seems keen to help. Probably hoping publicity will get the case re-opened.”

“Do you really think Spender’s up to it? The heat, you know. Over 30 degrees, most days. He’s not a young man.” This was persuasive—Ian Spender reddened and started breathing hard if he sat too close to the central heating. Easy to imagine him keeling over beneath the tropical sun.

“Well maybe young Robertson would be—”

“Fred Robertson’s been with us ten minutes.”

“Maybe instead of shooting down my best men, you suggest someone then?”

“Me, Lars. Send me.” No hesitation, deadly serious. She had his attention now. “I’m from there, I speak the local language.” This was technically true, though she hoped he didn’t know there was more than one. “I have all the background already. Grew up with it.”

“You’re a bit junior—”