‘Oh, great idea,’ he barks, trying and failing to zip himself back into his jacket. ‘Let’s all tip up to Warchester together, along with the rest of the travelling circus. Never mind that I had to stalk social services in Essex for months to get even the slightest tip … No. All I need right now is to be left alone to work this. What you need to do is get all over Thomas. It’s more than likely he’s got hold of some officious prat at the Met who’s been passed over for a promotion one too many times and decided to run their mouth. I need to know what he’s got if we’re to have any chance of being in front.’

My mind snaps back to Thomas. But before I can ask any more questions, Dominic’s disappearing down the street and around the corner, the yellow smear of his jacket becoming smaller and smaller like he’s a candle burning out.

‘Marie?’ I flinch as Jemima tugs at my arm again. ‘Are you alright?’

I nod, watching the jabbering mass of reporters as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

‘You may as well go back to the newsroom,’ she mutters. ‘It’s fine if you want to go home, to be honest. I’ll handle Thomas. Realistically, he’s not going to tell you anything, and trafficking’s on the shelf for the foreseeable, for sure. I’ll call if I’ve got anything for you, OK?’

She’s walking away before I can even nod again, yet another 109grey raincoat splashing through the flood in a hurry. I float, just for a moment, on a cacophony of memory: Andromeda this, Andromeda that, Andromeda, Andromeda, Andromeda; fingers typing into my phone as if they belong to someone else, blue screen flashing the usual instruction almost immediately. Horns scream and tyres squeal as I step straight out in front of a moving taxi, climbing into the back before the swear words have left the front seat. This storm is so heavy the water’s almost over my head.

‘St James’s Park, double time,’ I shout, slamming the door behind me. No one in the newsroom will miss me for a few minutes. No one ever does. Much like no one missed Andromeda, the impossibly beautiful maiden chained to a rock and left to be eaten alive by the monster who desired her most of all. The Romans or Greeks, or whoever they were, got that bit right, at least.

110

Carly ~ Warchester ~ 1997

‘Sister? How old is she?’

Words move over my head like the pricks of light dancing in my eyes.

‘She’s not said. She was chundering most of the way here…’

‘I presume the mother’s on her way?’

‘God, I doubt it. She could barely stand for booze.’

‘Ugh. Have social services got themselves involved yet?’