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Back The Dead Line Save as PDF
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

But the day was wearing away. Casey read through Robert’s piece: a careful dissection of what they knew about Greystone’s activities. Gabriel Bantham’s role had been carefully sculpted. The daring diplomat who bent the rules to save a baby: a sort of truth. The words bounced off Casey’s brain like hailstones.

Arthur, the Post’s crime correspondent, had hammered out a short article on the mysterious death of Erica Whiddon. Hinting, only. Sir William Cavendish’s name appeared nowhere in any article, the spotlight delicately angled away.

Tess Dulverton, who could concoct features in a few effortless minutes, had put together a story on Vivienne Hargreaves. On the second day, Tess’s article would focus on Dominic and Emily. They were all carefully anonymised as promised, glued together from fragments of Casey’s notes.

‘Have you heard of phantom limb syndrome?’ Zoe says, as tears fill her eyes. ‘Your mind sends back those flashes, bursts of pointless pain.’

And at the bottom of the article, the careful warning: All names have been changed.

And Laura, the Post’s chief opinion writer, had written a searing evisceration of the surrogacy industry, scalpel-clinical and burning with rage.

Casey peered at Laura’s words, forcing them into her mind.

‘Casey.’ Dash appeared beside her. ‘We need to move on this.’

‘Dash . . .’ But his jaw was fixed.

‘Go and front up Greystone.’ It was an order. ‘Get it done. Get him.’

57

57

Casey hesitated outside the opulent house. The gold sterile mansions stretched away on both sides of the avenue. The house next door to the Greystones’ was still empty, windows boarded. Someone had graffitied the garage, in an angry flash of red. Turning away, Casey pondered the Greystone house, safe behind its tall black gates. The Porsche Cayenne she’d seen on her last visit was parked next to a silver Aston Martin.

A pickup, private security, cruised down the street. As it passed Casey it slowed, just fractionally, just for a second. Almost unnoticeable, but that most discreet of warnings: We’ve noticed you.

Casey’s eyes followed the pickup as it grumbled along the street, past where Ed was waiting in his car. He had insisted on driving her up to north London, with one of Dash’s new security people tense in the passenger seat.

‘But you’re not coming in with me,’ she said. ‘I need to go in alone.’

‘It’s not safe,’ he had insisted. ‘The Dhaka team may have warned him about the raid on the Beauvallet. You can’t.’

Casey thought about Ed waiting patiently in the airport. The kindness, the concern: so unfamiliar.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘But I have to go.’