‘What does it mean?’ Tillie’s brown eyes were worried. Behind her, the newsroom was unfurling. Ross was bawling at the education correspondent, some missed story about university access. The newish editor of the Post, who regarded the investigations team with deep suspicion, was arriving in the office. Flunkies trailed him, seagulls following a tractor.

Archie, the Post’s avuncular political editor, was leaning against the newsdesk. ‘How shall I quote you on this?’ he was saying. ‘Are you “sources close to”? Or “good friend of”?’

Those odd friendships, based only on favours.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ Casey said reassuringly, her pulse leaping. ‘Thank you though, Tillie.’

Casey walked towards the beige of the investigations room. Past the Business desk, past Sport and past the rows of news reporters’ desks. Tillie was half-following her, hesitating, and then quickstepping to catch up.

‘The shop assistants hated me. I unfolded so many things. I tried to put them back right, but they must still have been so annoyed with me,’ Tillie faltered. ‘I’d love to work with you on any project . . .’

They were just outside the investigations room now.

‘Thanks, Tillie,’ Casey said. ‘I’ll check with Ross. Maybe you can go to another branch today.’

‘Great!’ said Tillie. ‘Brilliant. Amazing.’

Casey smiled at the enthusiasm as she unlocked the office. Miranda and Hessa arrived minutes later.

‘Right.’ Casey didn’t waste time on hello. ‘Surrogacy. It’s a business.’

Casey had her notes from the night before in front of her. Her first call had been to the Post’s health editor, a quick-tongued blonde who had three-year-old twins, and no time for Ross’s moods.

‘I’m right up against it,’ Heather had bawled down the phone. ‘But, yes, international surrogacy is a whole can of worms.’

Heather had sprinted Casey round the industry at high speed, as she spooned Calpol into one of her children.