‘So talk me through it,’ she says, eyes narrowing as she assesses us. ‘What’s your plan? You haven’t rushed back to the Met to get their comment yet, have you? I know that’s the part you always enjoy the most…’

I sip at my tea. The rhythm of the room feels familiar again. No need for Olivia to know any more about me than she already does. That my name’s also on this story.

‘Nope,’ Dominic mumbles through a mouthful of croissant. ‘But I will, today. Once you’ve approved my script.’ 46

‘No need to rush.’ The sandwich waves again. ‘We don’t want to tip them off too early. Have you sent through a new version?’

‘I made the initial changes, yes, but—’

‘I think you’re going to need to flesh out the victim’s side a little more, for the script to really sing. For it to really make the impact it deserves.’

‘Wait. It’s not enough that we have actual sex traffickers on camera?’

I shrink into my blousy purple cushions. He’d be furious if he knew I could hear the croak in his voice. Here’s a man who’s also been up all night.

‘Dominic,’ she says, putting the untouched sandwich back on the table. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that’s the smoking gun, alright. Of course it is. But think of the viewer. The viewer only sees a grainy shot of a random person … It could be anyone. Where’s the money shot? The one that makes the viewer sit up and listen, instead of zoning out or reaching for the remote? The one that really illuminates the gross perversion of power and control at play here? Settle down, settle down…’

She holds up a hand, silencing Dominic before he can start.

‘I know we’ll have to pixelate, but even so. Right now all the viewer sees, and hears, is a clipped negotiation about a car. You’ve said it yourself. These are professionals. They know how to talk without completely incriminating themselves. I know we’ve got more than enough to stand up what the conversation’s actually about. Your journalism is first-rate, no question. But without hearing from a victim herself, a girl who has been through the terror of trafficking, the whole torrid story of being groomed, being sold, having to escape … well, then the viewer is left with little but your dulcet tones lilting on top of a pile of text messages. I know what you saw, but, as it stands, the viewer misses out on that entirely.’