Miranda had been known to move glasses, salt and pepper, a bottle of wine, into a shot. People love the undercover filming, you know. You want it to look the part, in the clips.

But Casey just wanted a clear line of sight, and peace and quiet.

And now she watched as Bantham crumbled.

It doesn’t take much, I assure you.

You make it sound so easy.

It is.

Around them, Washington’s commuters slammed out of their houses and set off for the metro.

‘Who are you?’ Bantham’s voice was ragged. He leant against a burr oak, as if he might stumble and fall. ‘What’s happening?’

For Romida.

‘Shall we go into your house?’ Casey suggested politely.

‘No.’ He glanced around, thought of the neighbours. ‘Yes.’

Bantham’s hand shook as he put the key in the door. There was a narrow shared corridor with polished floorboards, and a flight of stairs at the end. One floor up, his apartment was elegant and neatly tidy. Old political cartoons were framed on grey walls. In the sitting room there were dozens of books, an expensive television and a very lavish sound system. There was no sign of anyone else living in the few rooms.

Bantham collapsed onto a brown tweed sofa in the sitting room. Casey waited for a second, then perched unasked in one of the armchairs. Hessa lingered in the doorway.

In the bedroom behind him, Casey could see that Bantham had made his bed before setting out for the day. She imagined him smoothing the blue-and-white striped duvet cover, just before the sky fell in.

‘Who are you?’ His voice was choked. ‘Journalists, I suppose?’

‘Maybe,’ said Casey.

‘You’re like vultures,’ he hissed. ‘Going for the eyes.’

‘Maybe.’

They gave him time to think, though, because they didn’t want his first, panicked reaction. As they watched, his hands slowly stopped shaking.

‘What,’ he said, in the end, ‘do you want?’

‘Bangladesh,’ said Casey.

‘Bangladesh?’ She watched him recalibrate, reassess. Not what he had expected, she could see. Her thoughts recalculated, again.

‘We want to know exactly what happened out there,’ she insisted.

‘I don’t know . . .’ The words caught in Bantham’s throat. ‘I don’t know what you mean . . .’

But there was a hesitation somewhere.

‘I think,’ Casey said coldly, ‘that you do.’

Bantham’s eyes roved around the comfortable room, and everything he had to lose. His back straightened.

‘This is ridiculous.’ He tried anger. ‘You’re completely mad.’

‘Don’t,’ said Casey patiently. ‘Don’t.’

‘How dare you?’ The outrage bubbled up, real now. ‘How dare you approach me like this? It is absolutely disgraceful.’

Bantham leapt to his feet, his movements still jerky, and took the few steps to the fireplace. A mirror hung above the mantelpiece, and Casey knew he was watching her in it.