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Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

They passed a rubbish dump, a line of flames licking through the stench. Two small boys were playing a sort of cricket beside the garbage sprawl.

‘But where then?’ asked Casey. ‘Where can they be?’

Hessa sat there for a long time, staring out of the tuk-tuk.

‘We should go down to the refugee camps,’ Hessa said. ‘Go and talk to Romida’s mother, and anyone else who might have seen this man. You never know. They might know something.’

‘OK,’ said Casey. ‘I’ll call Savannah. Let’s go and see tomorrow.’

36

36

As soon as they were back at the hotel, Casey downloaded the footage from the factory. Hessa sat in silence as the computer screen filled with her recording, and looked away as the camera approached the factory gate.

‘We need to link this factory to Rhapso,’ Casey decided. ‘I’m sure a factory on this scale will supply several other retailers too, but we need to start proving the connections between Dylan and the factory and the traffickers.’

‘How’ – Ed was staring at the sea-rough footage – ‘is anyone going to know from this where these clothes are going?’

Casey’s quick smile lightened the room: ‘I know someone.’

It had been the day before a huge royal wedding that Casey had discovered the hidden skills at the Post. As the nation twirled out the bunting, and the papers exhausted every story angle, Casey had been wandering round the office, thoroughly bored by the whole thing.

She was scouting the fashion cupboard once again when she overheard a bustle of excitement from Cressida’s desk.

‘It is,’ Cressida was saying. ‘That’s Lalla Finsbury’s belt.’

Casey had joined the small group around the fashion editor’s desk. The knot of women were staring at Cressida’s computer screen: a paparazzi shot of a woman, blanket over her head, running up the stone steps of the Alperton Hotel in Knightsbridge.

‘Isn’t that where she’s staying tonight?’ Casey asked. She: tomorrow’s new princess.

‘Yes,’ grinned Cressida. ‘Lalla must be going in for a final fitting. They’ll be so thrilled at Manaton’s. They’ve had a rough couple of years.’

Lalage Finsbury was chief designer at Manaton’s. One of the more cutting-edge London fashion houses, Casey remembered vaguely.

‘But how can you possibly tell just from that?’ Casey was staring at the carefully anonymous blanket, the inch of brown belt barely visible.

‘Oh,’ Cressida waved. ‘I just know.’

Cressida had tapped her keyboard, dozens of thumbnail pictures spreading across her screen.

‘There,’ Cressida pointed. ‘Lalla wore that belt last year when she was in LA for the Oscars. It’s the precise colour, that stitch here, the turn of the leather there.’

Casey stared back at the inch of brown belt running into the Alperton, awed. Cressida’s knowledge was encyclopedic.

‘Have you told the newsdesk yet?’