Dash rarely handed out compliments. Casey stared at him blankly. Savannah had sent her a photograph that morning. Romida and Shamshun, wrapped around each other, Shamshun crying with joy. In a new tent, tiny, barely high enough to stand upright. Back where they started, but with a strange sort of happiness.

‘There is more to the story,’ Casey said stonily, trailing off towards the conference room. ‘Much more. But everyone involved will dive for cover now.’

Hessa ricocheted in a few minutes later, Miranda just behind her.

‘Tom is barely speaking to me,’ Miranda said, almost to herself. ‘I don’t know how this is supposed to work.’

‘What’s going on with Greystone this morning?’ Hessa asked, not listening.

‘Greystone’s being investigated by various authorities,’ said Casey. ‘Tillie’s outside the house in Hampstead, with a crowd of hacks. I imagine Greystone will be arrested at some point.’

‘Are the wife and kids there?’ Miranda asked.

‘Not as far as anyone knows. Certainly no photographs of them going in or out.’

‘The thing is,’ said Miranda thoughtfully, ‘that we can promise anonymity to Vivienne Hargreaves and so on. But Greystone can take the whole pack of cards down with him. He’ll have all the names.’

‘I know.’ Casey had been worrying about it. ‘But surely it would just make things even worse? And Vivienne said he’s been careful with documentation at the clinic if nothing else.’

‘So what now?’ Hessa was electric with energy this morning, bouncing from one foot to the next.

‘Now,’ Casey said thoughtfully, ‘we try and work out what the hell has happened to the Burton-Smiths. We try and figure out if there is anyone else behind Greystone. And we find out who is hunting us.’

Miranda waited until Hessa was out of the room. ‘When should we call the police? About Dominic and Emily?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Casey despondently. ‘If we call the police, they could lose Poppy for ever. We don’t actually know anything has happened to them yet.’

She stood up, and began to roam around the big newsroom. The room was filling up slowly, reporters scuttling to their desks as Ross glowered at them.

‘I liked how that democracy piece turned out, Sophie,’ the Comment editor was saying, all joviality. ‘Or Sophia, should I say? Demos, kratia . . .’

Casey spun around, striding back towards the investigation room.

‘Hessa.’ Casey hurried to her desk. ‘What is the name of the company that owns the Harley Street building?’

‘Aceso Incorporated.’ Hessa didn’t have to glance down at her notes.

‘Aceso,’ Casey said. ‘Portunus. Arachne.’

‘Arachne?’ Miranda asked. ‘Where did Arachne come from?’

‘Could Arachne have been the name of that garment factory in Chittagong?’ asked Casey. ‘Hessa, you said that the name on the sign didn’t make any sense in Bengali. That it wasn’t a normal Chittagonian word.’