There was a long silence. Casey pulled a small torch out of her pocket, and flicked it on. Some of the women flinched away from the brightness, others glowered back defiantly, their fear fading as the intruders just stood there. Ed was waiting outside, Casey could sense his tension. She looked around the room, scrutinising face after face. A thud of disappointment: Romida wasn’t there. Casey stared harder, willing the girl to appear.

Where are you, shy smiling girl? A red dress, covered in beautiful roses. Not here, not there, no.

‘Does anyone speak English?’ Casey managed.

A pair of eyes glinted towards her. ‘Do you speak any English?’ Casey focused on the girl who had looked up. ‘Any at all?’

There was a pause, and then a slow, resentful nod.

Casey stepped towards her. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you? I am sorry to break in like this.’

The girl considered Casey for a second. She was short, this girl, with dark curly hair and a gap between her front teeth. Maybe fifteen, Casey thought, and pregnant too, a small bump just visible.

‘What is your name?’ asked Casey. ‘My name is Casey.’

The girl looked away, and then met Casey’s eyes squarely. ‘I,’ she said quietly, ‘am Khadija.’

‘What are you doing here?’ A shrug.

‘How did you come here?’ A slow blink.

‘Where did you come from?’ Khadija stared at Casey, eyes narrowed. She bit her nails soberly, and finally she spoke slowly, carefully: ‘We came from Rakhine. We were in the camps.’

Casey felt something close to relief. She gestured: Shall I sit down? and Khadija gave a brief, wary nod. The other women watched them closely.

Casey sat cross-legged on the floor next to the girl. Rushing, because there was no time, she explained their presence to the girl. ‘We are journalists. From London. We are looking for women taken from the camps. We want to help.’

Khadija nodded again, carefully. Then – suddenly decisive – she turned to the other women, speaking rapidly. The other women nodded. They had all seen journalists around the refugee camps, many, many times. Smile for the camera, keep the aid flowing. Click, click, click click, click.

‘Who brought you to this place?’ asked Casey, when the room had fallen into silence.

Khadija spoke slowly, searching for the words. ‘Two men went to my parents in the camp. One of them said they had a friend who wanted to marry me. My parents . . . We didn’t have anything . . . My parents thought it would be best.’

Khadija’s voice trailed away, and her head bowed.

‘I am sorry,’ Casey murmured. ‘We understand that the gang who took you are forcing the women to be surrogates,’ she went on carefully. ‘Using IVF.’

Khadija didn’t recognise the word, staring blankly at Casey. The confusion didn’t surprise Casey.