They stared at each other for a second.

‘I have no idea’ – Emily had to unclench her jaw to speak – ‘what to do.’

Casey was silent. Emily kept her eyes on the swans, turning in their graceful swirls as the wind whisked across the water.

‘Has your colleague’ – Emily struggled with the words – ‘gone to the authorities yet?’

‘No,’ said Casey, watching Emily relax, just slightly. ‘Not yet.’

The tension returned. ‘But she will?’

‘I don’t know.’

Miranda had spun in angry laps around the office, whirling past Business, Sport, Production. These people. These fucking people.

‘On the way here,’ Emily said, ‘up on the train, I thought I would know what to do. At one station, I was going to tell you to do your worst. Bloody call whoever you’ll call. Get on with it. But then at the next station, that girl, Romida’ – Emily hesitated over the name – ‘would be there. It was as if she were just waiting on the platform. I can’t get away from her.’

A small child scooted up to the pond, and began throwing bread for the ducks. Raucously cheerful, they crowded round.

‘Romida,’ Emily said again, turning the syllables over in her mouth. ‘Romida.’

The little girl was throwing the bread with an intense concentration. Wide eyes and freckles, she was neatly buttoned into her tiny red coat. Green mittens on a string dangled from her sleeves. Emily’s eyes followed her hungrily.

Emily pulled out a photograph, shoving it blindly at Casey.

‘They sent us that, you know. The clinic.’

Casey looked at the photograph. A young Rohingya woman, standing in front of a pale-blue painted wall, a shy smile on her face. To her left, there was a poster: a grinning child in the arms of a beaming nurse, with some stern advice about vaccinations. To the right, a Doppler machine sat on a white steel filing cabinet. A neat bed, crisp sheets, was partly hidden by bright curtains.

The room looked immaculate, cosy.

‘They send us regular scans,’ said Emily. ‘They look after these girls, you know.’

‘What is her name? That girl.’

‘I don’t know.’ Emily looked back at the swans. ‘They never . . . But Dr Greystone said he can provide all the documentation we need from the Harley Street clinic . . . All the . . .’

Her words drifted into silence. Greystone, the man who must be forging pages of documents to allow the babies to slip into the British system.

‘I can’t sleep.’ Emily cleared her throat. ‘Dominic said to forget you ever came. That you wouldn’t just tell the police. That you would find another way to do this story. He said that what you’re doing is just as bad, in its own way.’

He probably wasn’t wrong, thought Casey. But aloud she replied: ‘We have a duty to report things to the police. When we know that something terrible is happening. We can’t just walk away.’