They worked well together, Dash averting his eyes from the worst of Ross’s temper, and sometimes exploiting it when a reporter slipped up.

The structure meant Dash managed the investigations team, and their long-running inquiries. Or just kept out of their way, more often.

Miranda explained, Hessa and Casey listening carefully.

‘They take the girls,’ Miranda finished crisply. ‘They take the girls to a baby factory.’

‘Haven’t I heard about that sort of thing?’ said Dash. ‘Don’t they do surrogacy stuff out in India?’

Dash was glancing across at Casey. He worried about her, she knew, ever since that journey to the Sahara.

‘That sort of surrogacy has been banned in India.’ Casey ignored Dash’s concern. ‘And those women had a choice in the matter.’

‘Or as much of a choice,’ said Miranda, ‘as you have, when you have almost nothing.’

‘And children to feed,’ Hessa added.

‘But couldn’t it be straightforward surrogacy?’ asked Dash. ‘Bangladesh taking over where the Indians left off. I know they don’t allow it in the UK, paying for surrogacy. You only get expenses, don’t you? But it wouldn’t surprise me if someone found a way round the rules. People always do.’

‘We know surrogacy happens in countries all over the world,’ said Miranda evenly. ‘With variations in the rules. They pay a fortune in America.’

‘So it may be something like that,’ said Casey. ‘But from what we have seen in the embroidered notes I don’t think these women have any choice. At least in America, there are rules. A factory, this says. A baby factory.’

Casey paused, fiddling with the skirt, crumpling the scarlet taffeta.

Dash looked across at Casey. Next to her, Miranda shrugged at him.

‘Do you really,’ Dash asked, almost gentle, ‘want to get stuck into this now, Casey? You could do something else, for a while. Defence or politics, or something. You can come back to investigations in a bit.’

‘I’m fine.’ Casey was staring past him at a faded print tacked quite incongruously to the wall. The Fighting Temeraire, a grand old warship off to be pulled apart in the sludge of Rotherhithe.

In the silence, they could all hear one of the reporters, walking past the investigations office. ‘Got sent on a bloody doorstep in sodding Shropshire yesterday.’ Casey could hear that it was Eric, one of the junior reporters. ‘And the bugger pulled a fucking gun on me. I rang the newsdesk, and Ross just said, “Give him an hour to calm down and knock again.” God, I hate him. And then I got marooned in twatting Newport for hours. Drink?’

Casey and Miranda tried to suppress their grins.

‘Why would anyone bother snatching refugee girls?’ Dash asked. ‘There must be thousands of very poor women in Bangladesh. Surely whoever is behind this could pay them a pittance. Wouldn’t this just create an unnecessary risk?’