‘I’ve always liked it here.’ She gestured round at the rows of second-hand books, safe from the rain below Waterloo Bridge.

‘Me too.’

‘Shall we walk?’

‘Sure.’

He put Churchill back on the table and they wandered along Southbank, towards the City. The air was full of mist, and the threat of rain. There were only a few people walking beside the grey of the Thames, hand in hand or hurrying with their briefcases. The skateboarders clattered, bright as graffiti, while another huge building soared up, room by room, gouging scoops of air from the sky.

‘How are you?’ Ed looked sideways at her.

‘Fine. You know. You?’

‘Fine.’

The pause lengthened.

‘Are you working . . .’ She gestured back towards the Savoy on the other side of the river.

His stride hesitated. ‘How did you know?’

She shrugged. He smiled.

‘It’s a good job, you know, working for him. I know his reputation, but . . .’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Really, I am glad.’

‘And what are you working on?’

‘You know,’ she gestured. ‘This and that.’

‘I saw that you got some of the shooters.’

‘Some of them, not all.’ Casey scowled towards the city. ‘We couldn’t prove a few of them had definitely done it, and they lawyered up fast. Others we never even got near.’

Ed watched a seagull wheel over the river. Casey shook her head, dispelling her thoughts. ‘How’s your shoulder, anyway?’

‘Fine.’ Ed spun his arm as if he were bowling. ‘Those doctors were brilliant.’

And your mind? She didn’t ask. Because she didn’t know how. ‘I’m very glad,’ she said.

They walked on, towards Blackfriars. It was raining properly now, the rain pattering across the river.

‘What do you want, Casey?’ Ed’s voice was abrupt.

‘I don’t want . . .’

‘You must want something.’

Is that what you think?

‘I’m working on a new project,’ Casey admitted. ‘We’ve been told that there are women . . .’

Her voice stalled for a second, her eyes prickling unexpectedly. Ed kept walking, waiting for her to speak.

‘They’re stuck in Bangladesh, these women,’ said Casey. ‘Refugees from Myanmar. Or what used to be called Burma. They’re been trafficked to a farm somewhere, forced to be surrogates . . . For British women. I think they’re being held near Cox’s Bazar.’

‘Cox’s Bazar?’

‘Down in the south of Bangladesh.’

Ed stopped walking, turned towards her. She couldn’t look at him.

‘And what are you planning to do, Casey?’

‘There’s a couple in England.’ Casey couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Their baby is due any week now. They say I can travel out to Bangladesh, instead of them. Meet up with the traffickers, and try and find out where the women are being kept.’

‘Why would they let you go out there in their place?’ asked Ed. ‘They must know the risks are . . .’ He turned away. ‘Oh, Casey.’