There were too many strands, all the threads of history, everything that ever happened, more than a single person could grasp. The settled story was only one version. She’d seen how the game played out, the Herald did it sometimes, deciding to support Tollingforth in Tollingforth vs. Conswith, just because the Times was supporting Conswith, Lars arguing that the public deserved to hear the other side.

She allowed herself to daydream a little. Perhaps she could ask to stay out here for a while, maybe even write a book. So many compelling stories here, had anyone done a history of the region? One step at a time. Get this done first.

There would be more work to do over the next few days, facts to check and more sources to pursue, but with Mrs Wong she knew she had dynamite, a compelling voice to put at the centre of her story. A human face for the tragedy. The dead husband, the missing son. It would be hard to mess this one up. Whatever else might have gone wrong with her career, Revathi had a newswoman’s instincts, and she knew this was absolutely red hot. She smiled and clinked her glass against Mr Leng’s, scribbling sentences in her head, each one pinging off every bell in her mind.

•

As she’d known would happen, the article caused a sensation. They had to run a special reprint, and more than one MP raised it in parliament, calling for an enquiry. She was giddy with it, allowing herself the pleasure of having it framed over her desk, so she could look up at it when she should be working. Her parents bought every copy at the newsagent’s and spent the next month distributing them amongst friends and relatives. Her mother stopped suggesting she might look for a more respectable profession in order to attract a husband.

Something strange happened, in the weeks after Revathi’s success. People took her seriously, a novel sensation. Such an important story, they told her, so grateful for the part she’d played in uncovering it. To start with, she’d given credit to Lars and his leap of faith in sending her—but they weren’t interested in that, and so she fell back on an enigmatic nod, a modest smile. This was exactly right, and gained her even more respect. So humble, they whispered, that’s how you know she’s the real thing.

It felt unearned, and she had to tell herself this was hers, she deserved it. The idea had been hers. Spender would have squandered the opportunity somehow, blundered in at the wrong angle. She felt a fraud for not having had to dig particularly hard. She’d simply turned up and listened—they’d been so eager for their stories to be heard. And yet, no one had done even that. No one had thought of going, till she’d pushed.