‘This,’ Ed looked around him, ‘is the country’s resort?’

The beach was beautiful though, golden sand rolling south towards the Burmese border. The fishing boats, sailing home through the dusk, were half-drowned crescent moons.

‘Watch out for the quicksand,’ grinned one of the hustlers. ‘We lose a few tourists every year at Cox’s.’

At the hotel, Casey rushed up to their room, switching on her laptop.

‘There.’ She pointed at the screen.

As the car was driving down towards Cox’s Bazar, Casey had edged a tiny tracker between the car seat and the floor.

‘Isn’t that risky?’ asked Ed now.

‘I think these men must have quite a big operation,’ Casey explained. ‘With different divisions running out of Dhaka and Chittagong. I thought that they might send a different car for us, if we got the train down to Chittagong. A car based down this end of the country, rather than up in Dhaka. And with any luck, that car will now head back up to Chittagong. And then it might be parked up overnight, somewhere near wherever those girls are.’

‘I suppose it might,’ Ed put the same emphasis on might. ‘But what if they find the tracker?’

‘Did you see how the driver reacted to Dylan?’ asked Casey. ‘Fear. I reckon that Dylan has plenty of enemies. Even if they find it, they won’t know the tracker came from us.’

Tapping her computer, Casey updated the tracker location again. It was 20 miles up the road, at Eidgaon, stuck in slow-moving traffic.

‘OK,’ Ed lay back on the bed, exhausted. ‘Let’s see where it goes.’

She nudged him awake five hours later.

‘It’s arrived,’ she whispered. ‘It’s parked in Sagorika.’

Sagorika was a sprawling industrial zone, just to the north of central Chittagong. Dozens of factories lined the dusty roads, and thousands of workers poured in and out of them every single day.

They aren’t as bad as they used to be, the factory bosses say defensively. But Casey had heard the stories about the Bangladesh garment factories for years.

Small children, splashing through so much bleach that their hands and feet turned white. Women coughing in the chemical air, until the blood spattered red.

And the Rana Plaza, of course, when eight storeys pancaked down into one. Over a thousand people died that day in Savar, when the vast factory collapsed.

All around the world, people wore clothes from the Rana Plaza. It had supplied so many shops, from Bonmarché to Benetton, Mango to Monsoon. They found so many pretty rags in the rubble.

The workers had tried to protest, that morning. They were ordered back to their machines, although you could see the cracks in the walls by then. A month’s salary gone, if you miss just one day, they were told. Get back to work. Get back to work. Get back to work, right now.

The overseers carried sticks too, just in case.