‘How come you’re not out with the rest of your team?’ Casey tried distraction. ‘I just saw them all leaving.’

‘I’m following them. Running late. We’re off to do a feature on that big new shopping centre out in west London. Each member of the team is trying to track down a certain look in . . . Oh,’ Cressida flicked her hand. ‘I know you’re not really interested, Casey. Just take the wretched top.’

A quick smile. ‘You’re a star.’

‘I’ll tell Juniper that I must be buried in it, or something.’ Cressida smiled beatifically. ‘Now, do bugger off, Casey. I simply must go and shop.’

Casey sauntered back to the little investigations room, chucking the navy top on the sofa and throwing herself into her chair.

‘Here.’ She passed one coffee to Miranda and another to Hessa, and stared unenthusiastically at her own computer screen. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that shopping professionally might be more fun than this?’

‘You’d get bored.’ Miranda glanced up.

Miranda was Casey’s boss, technically, but they had forgotten about that a long time ago.

‘Bet I wouldn’t.’

Hessa passed Casey some notes. ‘I got what you wanted on that Manchester project. And I’ll drop that navy top off with Sagah in a bit.’

Sagah – a grumbling genius – would bury an unnoticeable camera in the folds of that beautiful navy top. A tiny microphone would be sewn into place close to the collar.

‘Thanks, Hessa,’ Casey grinned at her, taking an unenthusiastic sip of her coffee. ‘This actually does taste like descaler.’

‘What?’ Hessa glanced up.

‘Nothing.’ Casey waved the words away, and they all turned back to their work; three investigative journalists: a quiet conspiracy.

A few years earlier, Miranda had been poached from the Argus, the Post’s deadly rival.

‘You can set up your own team at the Post,’ Dash, the head of news, had promised. ‘Hand-picked. Whoever you want. And we’ll give you a free rein on whatever you want to investigate.’

‘But I’m in a good place at the Argus,’ Miranda had said. And she was: running their investigations team with a ruthless efficiency. She had just brought down a cabinet minister, for having both his wife and his mistress on the public payroll. The public was indifferent to the infidelity, but furious about the waste-of-taxpayers’-money. It was the cartoonists who destroyed him, in the end.

‘We’ll make you even better, here.’

Miranda caught sight of Casey the first day she arrived in the post. The young reporter was swearing fluently as she rushed to print out Ross’s story list for conference. A flame of energy, grey eyes missing nothing. Casey had glanced across at Miranda, just for a second, scepticism in every line.

But Casey had pounced on Dash later, as he was showing Miranda around the newsroom.

Me. Casey had insisted. I can do it. Please.