She allowed this to become her cause. Why not? It was an obvious injustice, and no one in Britain was doing anything about it. Her voice would be harder to ignore than the ones from that part of the world. Why not do what she could? To start with, she lay awake some nights worrying that she was doing this for self-gain, but finally decided that motivations are always murky, even to yourself, and as long as good is done then it doesn’t matter. You should always get on the horse that’s running, her father said. She was moving now. She wanted to keep moving.

There was nothing hollow about what she was doing. She marvelled that she could feel this, absolute rage and pity for the people she wanted to help, in whatever small ways she was able to, but also pleasure at ordinary things, the smoothness of an orderly life proceeding on its tracks. A promotion and a raise, grudging praise from Lars, a desk in a better part of the office. A bedsit in a slightly nicer part of Earl’s Court.

When the election came round, she wrote a series of columns predicting a Conservative victory, which were widely regarded as a stunt. It had seemed certain that Wilson was going to stay in Number Ten, and hers was the only prominent voice pulling the other way. Cassandra of the Herald. When asked how she’d known, she would only say it was a lucky guess, and then if pressed, that she’d listened to people. That was all. Enough of them were uncertain, and with every other paper assuring Labour voters they needn’t worry, who would bother to turn out?

In the meantime, she kept an eye on the Batang Kali survivors, exchanging the odd letter with Mr Leng to see if there was the need for a second piece. There wasn’t going to be another enquiry at the moment, but Scotland Yard was talking about the possibility of a prosecution. Between her piece and so many of the Scots Guards confessing, it was hard to see how they could do otherwise. She had her opening paragraph planned, something about how justice long delayed must taste the sweetest. Or words to that effect. She’d come up with something better.

The bad news came from her own newspaper, buried in the back pages. She stared for a long time at the small item, a few lines stating that the Scots Guards had no case to answer, their reputation was intact, and therefore the government’s conduct during the Malayan Emergency was once more above reproach. She went upstairs to speak to the court reporter but he didn’t have much to add. There was a new Attorney-General with the new government, and it was perfectly natural that he’d want to start with a clean slate. “It’s for the best. Why give our boys a hard time?” he called after her as she trotted away.