‘Can you go to this address in Surrey.’ Miranda tore out a page from her notepad. ‘And see if there is anyone around. There’s a neighbour at number thirty-eight, ask her. She’s got a terrier called Choccy. Talk about the dog, not the Post, OK?’

Tillie bounded off, glowing. Hessa scowled at her retreating back, with the gleam of competition, and Casey laughed out loud.

The day wore on, the precious hours rushing past. They had moved into the gloomy conference room, Robert joining them neat in his suit. Ross sent across other reporters to bolster the team, all carefully briefed, all hiding their excitement.

As they worked, Casey crawled all over Portunus Marine, and got nowhere. Portunus. Portunus. Portunus. The words stopped making sense.

After a few hours, Miranda looked up, arms spread hopelessly.

‘No one knows a bloody thing about Portunus Marine. Sorry, babe. But we’ve got enough for this story, you know. You’ve nailed Greystone.’

Hessa was keeping an eye on the coverage of the death of Erica Whiddon. The story of the murdered diplomat was breaking on the wires, just a small story for now. There were no clues, no arrests. The Foreign Office had put out a short, sad statement.

Casey felt the walls of the conference room close in. Picking up her coffee, she prowled around the office, searching for inspiration, and willing the clues to fall into place. She paced past Sport. She fidgeted with piles of newspapers. She hesitated by the newsdesk, half-listening as Ross dealt with today’s crisis. A stringer in Venezuela snatched, and Ross spitting down the phone: ‘He’s been kidnapped in fucking South America. Frankly I’d leave him there, but the branding people say I can’t.’ Ross waited a beat. ‘Well, I’ve told the branding lot that his ransom can come out of their fucking budget. That shut them right up, let me tell you.’

He peered up at Casey. ‘Don’t look at me like that, you. That lot’ll let him go in a few days anyway. They always do. As he’d fucking know if he’d done any sodding research on those jokers in the first place.’

Casey threw a pencil at her news editor and walked on, knowing there was no querying Ross in this mood. Some days he reminded her of a schoolboy with his magnifying glass, burning ants one by one.

Casey paused by the Comment desk. ‘We’ve got such an insightful piece coming in from the shadow deputy PM,’ Sophie, one of the editors, was saying. ‘Really exploring the ancient Greeks’ understanding of democracy . . . Demos and kratia. That delicate balance. Just so meaningful.’

Behind her back, Casey could feel Ross rolling his eyes. Ross took a lot of joy in winding up the Comment desk.