‘Darling, this is Cassandra,’ Clio sang out. ‘I’ve told her all about you.’ Clio finished the introductions, and then grabbed her car keys. ‘I’ve just remembered. Got to pick up Tamara. Back soon.’

The daughter, Casey remembered. Just thirteen. She would be ensconced in the expensive London day school just around the corner. Or bunking off to the shopping mall, more likely.

Greystone and Casey stood awkwardly as Clio’s boots clattered down the stairs.

Still smiling, Casey started to speak, sympathetically at first, because she often tried sympathy first. ‘Sorry to bother you. I’m Casey Benedict from the Post. Just a few questions . . .’

It rocked him.

I’d like to ask you about your clients . . . I’m sorry, I know this is difficult . . .

He couldn’t speak for a moment, but then his face tautened, the anger surging.

‘Dr Greystone?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’ The words were strangled. ‘Who did you say you . . . Go away . . .’ He paused, then almost a shout. ‘Get out of my house.’

Casey held her ground.

‘You do know, Dr Greystone, I’m afraid.’ Harder now. ‘The Post has been investigating your activities for several weeks . . .’

‘Get out of my house, or I will call the police.’

Familiar as a dance.

‘We’ve spoken to two different women who say you 
coordinated their illegal surrogacy programme in Bangladesh,’ said Casey. ‘I personally visited one of the sites where women are being held against their will in Chittagong.’

‘I’m calling my lawyers. I’m calling the police.’

Greystone was walking towards the door with the jerky movements of extreme shock. He was thin under the blue shirt, Casey noticed, almost scrawny. The unctuous charm was quite gone.

‘Just so I am clear with you, Dr Greystone. The Post is planning to publish several articles about your activities in both Harley Street and Bangladesh. The articles are due to appear in tomorrow’s paper.’

Greystone yanked open the front door.

‘Get out. Get out.’

‘There’s one last thing,’ said Casey. ‘Were you working alone, Dr Greystone? Was it you doing all this by yourself?’

She stepped out of the door, turned back to look at him.

Knowing he could slam the door, he calmed down very slightly.

‘I will be writing about the ownership of Portunus Marine,’ Casey tried again. ‘The company that bought the Tephi and the Beauvallet, where the women were being held. Do you have any comment to make about Portunus?’

Greystone froze, his eyes gleaming, the gold-rimmed glasses askew. Then he snapped back to the moment. ‘Leave me alone,’ he snarled, and the door slammed shut behind him.

It was rarely dignified.