‘Tomorrow?’ He raised his eyebrows with pretended surprise. ‘It is impossible.’

‘It is important.’

‘All right,’ Delacroix sighed. ‘I am sure it will be achievable. For you, Cassandra.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You know the rule.’

‘I know,’ Casey exhaled. ‘I owe you.’

‘One day,’ he murmured. ‘One day.’

55

55

Delacroix called her a few hours later, in the breaking dawn. Casey answered the phone as she was sitting up in bed, blinking at beige curtains.

‘Portunus Marine,’ Delacroix said in her ear.

‘Who?’ Casey pushed back her hair. ‘Have you ever heard of them?’

‘Never,’ he said. ‘But there is no mistake. Portunus Marine bought both the Tephi and the Beauvallet out of Hong Kong. They were bought from the original owners by cash buyers, who sold them on to Portunus Marine. Portunus are still holding those ships now. Even if they are in bits all over a beach in Bangladesh.’

‘Thank you, Delacroix,’ Casey said, meaning it.

‘It took hours.’ He put a grumble into his voice.

‘There haven’t been hours.’ Casey looked at her watch.

They had left the club together at the end of the night, after a few more rounds of idle gossip. Delacroix added the drinks to his vast bill with a gesture as they left.

‘They’ll just be getting started in Hong Kong now,’ he had said, as he waved her goodnight. ‘It’s a good time to make calls.’

Delacroix barely slept, she knew. The long nights in Teddy’s were a way of filling time, as much as anything else.

‘And you’ve never heard of Portunus,’ said Casey, scowling at the curtains. Nice airport was waking up beyond her window.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can make some more calls, if you like. But they seem to be some wreckers in Bangladesh. Nothing more. There’s no name behind them that people know.’

‘Damn.’

He didn’t ask why she wanted to know. He never did.

‘Thank you,’ said Casey, after a pause.

‘Any time,’ he said, and the phone went dead.

Casey scrambled onto the first flight to London. ‘I’ll be in the office by nine,’ she messaged Miranda.

She tried the Burton-Smiths again. No answer. She felt her worries deepen. Emily should be waiting by the phone, high-wire tense. Casey stared at the blank screen, and bit her nails.

The Heathrow flight was almost empty apart from a few expats on their commute. As the plane curved over London, Casey peered down at the silver ribbon of the Thames. Hyde Park, Regent’s Park and bridges like stitches. She tried to spy the Post building, in the grey of the morning.

‘Nearly there,’ she texted Miranda, as the plane trundled towards the gate.

Messages were already bleeping in. Gabriel Bantham: Call me.

She rang him as soon as she was off the plane.

Bantham answered at the first ring, his voice ragged with nerves, an echo of that panicked diplomat in Georgetown.

‘Erica Whiddon,’ he said. ‘Erica Whiddon.’

‘Yes?’