She was so tiny. It was quite impossible to imagine this small bundle as a whole human being. Is this all that we fight for?

As Casey walked, thoughts flickered through her mind.

Romida, and a dress of red roses.

Zohra, screaming in the dark.

Clio, teeth red with blood.

The lift, all gilt, slid open. In the lift, a woman in a neat business suit smiled longingly at the tiny baby. ‘Isn’t she a darling?’

You never know how you can run, until you run for your daughter.

Like a dream, Casey was at the door to the hotel room. She didn’t have to knock. The door was torn open, and Emily erupted into the corridor.

Later, they sat in the hotel room, Casey perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. On a sofa by the window, Emily’s head was bent over Poppy. Dominic was beside them, and for a moment, they looked photogenic, perfect, despite Dominic’s bruises. Come as a couple, leave as a family.

Emily looked up at Casey, meeting her eye squarely. She looked older. Tougher. She’d lost weight since those spring days in Bath. Barely eating, Casey thought. Barely sleeping. There was a new determination in her eyes.

‘You saw the footage?’ There was no embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ said Casey unemotionally.

‘I managed to warn you the first time. But then . . .’

‘I know.’

‘I had to do it.’

‘I know. I can hardly blame you. It’s what I . . .’ Casey’s voice trailed off. ‘You do what you have to do.’

Emily nodded, shifting Poppy’s weight. Her face darkened. ‘They’ll investigate Clio now,’ she said. ‘The police might find that footage, and then . . .’

Casey shrugged, exhaustion settling like snow. ‘They might. They may not even look. If they do look, they may not be able to get past Clio’s passwords.’

‘But . . .’

‘Go and look after Poppy,’ said Casey. ‘If something happens, we will work it out.’

Emily looked down at Poppy, her finger tracing a cheek, a tiny nose.

‘Dominic told me about Zohra,’ said Emily. ‘I’ll always think about her.’

Her voice was light, blithe.

They sat there in silence. Casey remembered Emily, standing in the cold breeze of Kensington Gardens, clutching the photograph of a young, smiling girl. Zohra. Zohra, beside the kindly stern poster, of a nurse with a needle.

The photograph that let Emily believe it was all a kindness; or was it a photograph that let her pretend it was all a kindness?

We always expected the men to fight, Casey realised suddenly. And now . . .

‘You got your story,’ said Emily, after a minute.

‘Yes.’

Casey stood stiffly, shards of pain everywhere.

‘I must go,’ she said.

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Emily said.

‘No,’ Casey said flatly. ‘I don’t.’