by Holly Watt
‘Fine.’
‘Give me a few minutes then.’
Casey hurried back towards Dash, spoke fast. Dash rolled his eyes, and nodded.
Casey reappeared beside Toby. ‘He says get on with it.’
It took Toby a few hours to put together his system. The tennis article was published first.
‘It’s ugly, that sentence,’ Arne protested. ‘I don’t like it. And we are hours behind everyone else.’
‘It’s fine,’ Dash cut him off. ‘Publish it.’
Then Hannah’s story on trade union protests in Dhaka went live, Casey inserting a list of garment companies into the copy just before it was posted. A few minutes later, Nicky pressed the button on the shipping insurance story, sending it speeding around the world.
And then Casey and Toby sat by his desk, and its chaos of wires, waiting and watching and hoping.
67
Twenty minutes later, Toby looked up.
‘Your toy’s doing its thing.’
The Post published dozens of articles every day, and the data from each story ran into a sophisticated analytics tool. The tool calculated how many people read the article, how they located the article, and then how long they spent interacting with it. Ross glowered at the metrics all day, tweaking headlines and snarling when only a few bored commuters clicked through to an article about a lion escaping from the zoo.
The tool also showed where people were reading a story. An article about Montevideo might see a surge of interest from IP addresses in Uruguay. A story about bullfighting would light up in Madrid.
For the three articles just published, Toby had built an extra gadget that captured a list of IP addresses as they clicked onto the articles.
‘That way,’ Casey explained to Dash, ‘we can see everyone who is interested in these precise three topics. Whoever it is might well be particularly vigilant about coverage if they are the sort of people who actively don’t want publicity.’
‘Bait over a trap,’ said Dash. ‘Electronically. But the IP addresses might not give you enough.’
The IP addresses – Internet Protocol addresses – could be linked back to a geographical area, but they might also mislead.
‘If we can find one IP address that’s interested in all three of these articles,’ explained Casey, ‘Toby will be able to make a pretty good guess at where that person is right now.’
‘OK,’ Dash shrugged. ‘But how can you be sure the person will know the articles have been published?’
‘Hopefully, they’ve got news alerts set up for their companies,’ said Casey. ‘And those alerts will be triggered by the Post publishing any reference to those companies.’
Dash read through the three articles. ‘Arachne Incorporated. Portunus Marine. And what’s the third?’
‘I added one letter to “aces”,’ said Casey. ‘And then started the next sentence, “Limited crowd enthusiasm . . .”’
Dash winced. ‘No wonder Arne wasn’t thrilled. Aceso Limited,’ Dash spelled it out. He laughed. ‘Honestly, Casey.’
‘It might work,’ she protested. ‘And we haven’t got many options.’
‘Don’t you think you might just end up with a whole load of addresses that read everything on the Post website?’ said Dash.
‘Toby’s analysing a few other Post articles,’ said Casey. ‘So we can eliminate the bots.’
‘Might work.’ Dash turned to her. ‘And then what?’
‘And then . . .’ Casey stared across the newsroom. ‘Then I don’t know.’
It was very late when Toby came into the investigations room. Hessa and Miranda were working. Casey was curled up on the tatty sofa, half-asleep. Emily and Dominic were prowling round her mind; Zohra screaming in the dark.
‘I think I’ve found it,’ Toby said, and Casey sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes.
‘Show me?’ she asked.
Toby kneeled down on the floor beside her with his laptop.
‘There are about twenty addresses that have read all three articles,’ he said. ‘Addresses that aren’t routine Post readers or from some automated system.’
‘And then you . . .?’
‘Cross-referenced the ownership against that list of companies named after Greek deities.’
‘And?’
Toby turned the laptop towards her. A huge house filled the screen. Jacobean, Casey guessed. Rows of stone-mullioned windows gazed out over rolling parkland and an exquisite lake.
‘Christ,’ said Casey.
‘That IP address has only ever visited the Post site a few times,’ said Toby. ‘But the moment the three different news alerts went out on those stories, that address clicked on.’
Hessa was behind Toby. ‘It’s called Tawton Court,’ she said. ‘It’s down in the New Forest. Owned through a company called Hestia Limited.’
‘Goddess of the hearth,’ recited Casey. ‘It would be. Any guesses about who really owns it?’
‘Nothing in cuts,’ said Hessa. ‘Although the locals might know. They almost always do.’
‘They won’t welcome calls right now though.’ Casey glanced up at the big clocks on the wall, showing the time in London, Sydney, Delhi, New York.
‘We could ask Carlos?’ Carlos ran the property pages for the Post. His children’s godparents were all estate agents.
‘I don’t think the agents would be thrilled to hear from him at this time of night either.’
‘Stay in this office,’ Dash had ordered. ‘Promise me, Casey?’
‘Probably.’ With her fingers crossed, and they both knew it.
Casey was calculating rapidly, thoughts whirling. ‘Hessa,’ she said. ‘What do we know about Clio now?’
Clio, muse of history.
There was a brief rustle of papers. ‘Clio’s mother comes from one of the Greek shipping families,’ said Hessa gingerly. ‘The Mantzaris family.’
‘Bugger,’ said Miranda. ‘How the hell did we miss that when we were checking Greystone?’
The Mantzaris family had the same stratospheric wealth as the Alexakis dynasty. Houses all around the world, and careless millions splashed for fun.
‘There’s very little available on Clio. Slightly more on her parents. Clio’s mother married the Hon Rupert Eyre.’ Hessa sounded apologetic. ‘So when we did a check, Clio showed up as growing up in the Home Counties, the daughter of Rupert and Helena Eyre. It all looked quite ordinary.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Never mind,’ said Casey. ‘The Mantzaris connection explains how Clio knew about the shipping industry, and shipbreaking.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Hessa.
‘And the Eyres had money either way?’ asked Miranda.
‘Some,’ said Hessa. ‘I mean, a lot by almost any standards. A nice house in Wiltshire. Mansion flat in London. Clio went to all the right schools, and I found a snap of the mother in Tatler.’
‘But not by Mantzaris standards?’
‘Exactly,’ said Hessa. ‘The mother was the youngest of four, and the only daughter.’
‘And the Greeks believe in keeping their fortunes intact,’ Miranda thought aloud. ‘A bit of the cash would have splashed out to Clio’s mother, but they don’t like to dilute things too much. The women were expected to marry well, anyway. ’
‘So Clio grew up within touching distance of unimaginable wealth,’ Miranda said slowly. ‘But not quite there.’
‘Well.’ Casey peered at the photographs of Tawton Court. ‘She’s certainly made up for it since.’
‘Rupert Eyre was a sort of man-about-town. Good-looking when he was younger, if you like that sort of thing.’ Hessa’s voice made it clear that she didn’t. ‘But probably spent money rather than made it. He wrote poetry,’ she finished darkly.
‘What are you thinking?’ Miranda was behind Hessa and Toby, stretching languidly.
Casey met her eye. ‘That it’s probably worth a visit.’
Her phone rang.
68
It w
as Emily, voice twisted tight. ‘Casey?’
‘Emily!’ Casey struggled for the words for a second. ‘You . . . Where are you?’
‘I’m in a hotel near Guildford.’ Emily sounded as if every word was a struggle. ‘Dominic and I decided to come here for the night. There was a flood at the cottage – all the electrics blew . . .’
Casey listened to the careful lie, the truth a guess.
‘It was just easier than staying at Tilney, and we thought . . .’
‘Are you all right?’ Casey spoke calmly, slicing through the babble. She wished they had organised a duress code, a distress signal. Too late, too late. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ There was an irritation in Emily’s voice. ‘But I am desperate to see Poppy. Right now. If she’s ill, I’ll drive up to London. I’ll . . .’
Casey thought of Tawton Court, sixty miles beyond Guildford.
‘I’ll come to you,’ she said hastily. ‘I can bring Poppy Naomi.’
‘I have to see Poppy,’ Emily said again. ‘We’re in the Easton Hotel. Please come now.’
Emily spelled out the name of the hotel, gabbled the room number.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘I need to see her.’
‘I know.’
Miranda was by Casey’s side as she ended the call. ‘Emily and Dominic have somehow got out of Tilney Cottage,’ said Casey. ‘They’re at a hotel near Guildford.’
‘And you’ve said we’ll go?’ said Miranda.
‘Yes. But Emily’s made up some odd excuse for leaving the cottage. I don’t know what is going on.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Stressed. But she’s been stressed for weeks. She didn’t respond to Naomi, but I don’t know if she even picked up on it.’
They sat there for a moment, contemplating the risks.
‘We can’t take the baby,’ Miranda said eventually.
‘No,’ said Hessa quietly.
‘But Emily’s frantic to see her,’ said Casey. ‘She’ll lose it if we don’t take Poppy. She sounds on the brink.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Miranda objected. ‘You have no idea what is going on there. Look at the airport, and Tilney Cottage. This could be the third attempt to trap you.’
‘Emily offered to come to London,’ said Casey. ‘It didn’t sound like she was trying to manoeuvre us to the hotel. She’s warned us before, and I didn’t get a signal this time. And there will be other people in the hotel. It’s not in the middle of nowhere, like the house. We can ask at reception if they’re alone. We can—’
‘Not the baby.’ Miranda was firm. ‘We just can’t.’
‘Fine,’ Casey threw up her hands. ‘But we need to go now.’
‘OK,’ Miranda conceded. ‘We’ll go.’
69
Miranda drove through the night. ‘Try and sleep, Casey. You’re exhausted.’
‘So are you.’
Casey couldn’t sleep. She stayed awake, all the way down the motorway towards Hampshire, blinded by the necklace of lights blurring back into the capital. She leaned back on her headrest, and thought of nothing much. She half-listened to the radio, some woman talking about rivers, poisoned from the source, and the Rio Tinto in Spain, which runs blood-red, so acidic that almost nothing can survive, trickling through the mountains like a leaking venom.
Wriggling in her seat, Casey tugged fretfully at her top. One of her favourites, soft grey. Made in Bangladesh, she had noticed as she put it on this morning. Sorrow here, joy there. The usual pattern. The morning seemed days away.
Now Casey watched the moon, floating far above the motorway. Not long, Emily. I promise. And her mind twisted and turned as she thought about what she would find at the Easton Hotel.
The gravel crunched as they turned into the hotel drive. It was a rambling Victorian building, with an ugly newbuild wing tacked on to the left. The concrete and the rows of identical windows clashed awkwardly with the bay casements and random turrets of the old building. The place looked shabby, unloved, a long way from the expensive gloss of Dominic and Emily’s home.
Miranda strolled into the 24-hour reception, manned by a sleepy teenager.
‘Hello.’ Miranda gave a glowing smile. ‘We’ve got a room booked. Twin beds. Thank you so much.’
Miranda stood on the faded lino, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘Can I just check if our friends have arrived? The Burton-Smiths. Room 209.’
The receptionist broke off from her tapping for a second, squinted at her screen.
‘They’ve checked in,’ she said perfunctorily.
‘Did they arrive with anyone else?’ Miranda pushed. ‘They said they might be bringing some friends.’
The teenager glanced up. ‘Don’t think so,’ she mumbled. ‘I saw Mrs Burton-Smith arriving. Nice lady. Didn’t see anyone with her.’
Casey felt her body relax, very slightly.
The receptionist handed them a key, nodded towards a lift. She was fiddling with her phone before the lift creaked closed.
They hurried to the twin room Hessa had booked just a few minutes earlier. The carpet was worn, the twin beds half-covered in red nylon throws. The matching cushions were rubbed shiny, and plastic curtains dangled tiredly. The TV was slightly skewed on the wall.
‘I’ll go and talk to them,’ said Casey.
‘On your own?’
They like me, Casey didn’t say. You threatened them.
‘It means you can call the cavalry if something happens,’ she said firmly.
They walked past the room once though, the briefest of recces. Room 209 was at the end of a corridor in the newbuild section, separated from the main stairs by a fire door, wire in the glass.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Miranda. But the corridor was silent, still.
‘We don’t have time to wait,’ said Casey. ‘I have to speak to them now.’
70
Casey knocked quietly on the door. The door banged open, and Emily stood there, shivering with nerves. She took in Casey with a glance, and her panic boiled over.
‘Where is she?’ It was almost a scream. ‘Where the hell is Poppy? What’s happened to her?’
‘I left her in London.’ Casey tried to peer around the room.
‘Why?’ For a second, Casey thought Emily might attack her. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I didn’t know what was going on,’ Casey said gently. ‘I was concerned, Emily.’
The room looked empty. There was a leather holdall thrown on the bed, and a thin plywood wardrobe, with its doors slightly ajar. A cheap mirror was fixed to the wall, and the door to the bathroom was half open. No one else there, and Casey felt the adrenalin tick down.
Emily made a despairing gesture. Moving calmly, Casey closed the room door. Emily was glued to the floor, her arms falling to her sides.
‘Where is Dominic?’ Casey asked.
‘He had to drive back to Tilney Cottage’ – the words rattled out of Emily. ‘We’d forgotten Poppy’s cot, and we needed it . . .’ She sank onto the bed, tears bursting to the surface. ‘And now you haven’t even brought her.’
‘I didn’t know what was happening.’ Casey made her voice soothing. ‘We came to Tilney Cottage and we saw . . .’
She stood awkwardly next to the bed, waiting for Emily to stop crying.
Emily looked up sharply.
‘This is all your fault.’ Rage burned from Emily’s delicate features. ‘All of it. You took our passports, you blackmailed us. You told us we would never see our baby.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Casey. ‘I really am. It was never meant to be . . .’
‘You blackmailed us,’ Emily shouted again. ‘Dominic warned me, and I didn’t listen. It was blackmail.’
‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘But we can fix this.’
‘You bloody journalists think you can do whatever you want. You just walk into people’s lives and ruin them. How can you live with yourself? How can you do this?’<
br />
‘It’s not . . .’
‘I believed Dr Greystone when he told me we were helping people.’ Emily’s voice rose higher. ‘He’s a respectable doctor. And then you . . . You . . .’
‘I am sorry,’ Casey repeated. ‘But you have to tell me what is going on, Emily. Why is Dominic back at Tilney Cottage?’
Emily swallowed. ‘I told you.’
‘No,’ said Casey. ‘We don’t have any more time for lies, Emily. What is happening at the cottage?’
Emily stared at her.
‘I can help you,’ said Casey. ‘But I have to know what is going on.’
Casey waited, staring at the scuffed magnolia walls. At last, Emily stood up. She walked to the bathroom, splashed water on her face. Then she came to the bathroom door, calmer now.
‘A man came to the house.’ Emily swallowed. ‘He broke in while we were asleep. When we woke up he was in our bedroom, his torch in our faces. It was terrifying. Completely and utterly terrifying. You don’t understand . . . You couldn’t. And now he’s at the house with Dominic, while I . . . He said I could leave the cottage. I could go and get the baby. But Dominic had to stay, so I had to do whatever they told me. Dominic . . .’
‘What does he want?’ asked Casey. ‘Who is he working for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Emily sagged. She was wearing a black top, buttoned to the neck, and old jeans. She looked exhausted, bruised. Casey felt a twist of pity, almost protective.
‘Did you get his name?’
‘No.’ A quiet syllable. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave us alone? Why did it have to be us?’
‘I think I might know who is behind it all,’ said Casey carefully. ‘We think we have an address.’
Emily glanced up, eyes dull. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything at all.’
‘Look,’ said Casey. ‘You’re safe. Go to London. Go straight to the Post offices. I’ll tell my colleague Hessa that you’re coming in. We will get Poppy to you as soon as possible, I promise.’
For a second, they stared at each other.
‘It’ll be OK,’ said Casey, trying to smile at her.
‘But . . . Dominic . . .’
‘I’m going to get him out,’ said Casey. ‘I’ve got to hurry, Emily. I’ll give you the address of the Post. I am sorry. But I promise it will all be OK.’
