I knew the building, of course, from the photograph Carter had shown us. Dream Time’s headquarters were above the Café Debussy, which was in the middle of a row of half-derelict shops a few minutes’ walk from the River Thames. It was hard to believe that a charity worth millions of dollars could operate from such a small, shabby place. But maybe that was the point. Maybe they didn’t want to spend the money they raised on plush offices in the West End. It’s the same reason why Oxfam shops always look so run-down. That way they can afford another ox.

But the inside of Dream Time was something else. The walls had been knocked through to create an open-spaced area with carpets that reached up to your ankles and leather furniture you couldn’t believe had started life as a cow. The light fixtures looked Italian. Low lighting at high prices. There were framed pictures on the walls of smiling children from around the world: Asia, Africa, Europe, and so on. The receptionist was smiling, too. We already knew that the place was being shut down, and I could see that she didn’t have a lot to do. She’d just finished polishing her nails when we walked in. While we were waiting she started polishing her teeth.

At last a door opened and Fiona Lee walked in. At least, I guessed it was her. We’d called that morning and made an appointment. She was tall and slim, with her dark hair tied back in such a vicious bun that you’d expect it to explode at any moment. She had the looks of a model, but I’m talking the kind they give away free at McDonald’s. All plastic. Her makeup was perfect. Her clothes were perfect. Everything about her was perfect, down to the last detail. Either she spent hours getting ready every morning, or she slept hanging in the closet so that she didn’t rumple her skin.

“Good morning,” she said. Joe Carter had been right about her. She had such a posh accent that when she spoke you heard every letter. “My name is Fiona Lee.”

We introduced ourselves.

She looked from Tim to me and back again. She didn’t seem impressed. “Do come in,” she said. She spun around on her heel. With heels like hers I was surprised she didn’t drill a hole in the floor.