‘Miranda,’ she said. ‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’

Miranda turned around, scowling.

‘These people have set up a factory in Bangladesh, Casey. An actual human farm. Exploiting some of the most vulnerable people in the world. And these two, this pretty little couple, wandering down lovely Georgian streets, they know exactly what they’re doing.’

‘We think they know what they’re doing,’ said Casey. ‘They probably haven’t had the details spelled out to them.’

‘You mean they haven’t asked the right questions?’ spat Miranda. ‘Like Vivienne, sitting in her old farmhouse? Half these people probably think that having a baby made in Kenya for forty-five thousand dollars a pop is an absolute bargain. They’d spend that much on a boob lift and getting rid of the stretch marks after a standard delivery. Plus it doesn’t interrupt their busy schedules.’

‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘But maybe if we just went to Greystone? Told him we knew what he was doing. Told him we knew about Romida.’

‘We don’t have anything linking Romida to Greystone,’ snapped Miranda. ‘We’re not even sure if they are part of the same operation. For all we know, Romida’s disappearance is a complete coincidence.’

‘We could tell him that we knew, though.’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ve met Greystone, and I know. And we can’t have a baby made to a formula just to prove a story. Not even us.’

Back in the Harley Street clinic, the receptionist had finally called Miranda’s name.

‘Again, Mrs Lancaster. I am so sorry for the wait.’

‘It really is no problem.’

‘He does work such very long hours, Dr Greystone.’ The receptionist looked supportive. ‘He’s here day and night.’

Miranda had been shown into the elegant room across the landing. Dr Greystone was sitting behind a beautiful walnut desk, half-rising as she came in.

It was a large room. Intricate old medical devices lined the shelves, juxtaposed by glistening technology worth millions. On a side table, a large ship in a bottle, a schooner in full sail. Next to Greystone’s desk, Miranda could make out a silver-framed photograph of a ravishing blonde woman and two immaculate children.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Lancaster,’ Dr Greystone had said. ‘How do you do?’

He had sharp eyes and a weak chin. He must have been a good-looking teenager, thought Miranda, but his forties were being less generous. His hair was thinning and greying. His tan had faded, as if he had been back from skiing for a few weeks. He was quick though, and unctuously charming. They talked about the weather, just for a minute, and then ran through some of the treatments and problems Verity Taylor had described.

‘I got OHSS in the last round of IVF,’ Miranda ended, with a brave smile. ‘I was in hospital; it was pretty awful.’