The weird, and often damaging treatments offered by unregulated wellness retreats.

“Optics remained everything for a company that spent as much as it brought in – and usually more. The bills kept racking up: by late 2015, expenses were $414 million, and in the first half of 2016, it was losing $1 million a day, so Neumann tried to level off the losses by firing seven percent of his workforce. He couldn’t ask them to pack up their desks, obviously – that wouldn’t be WeWork. So instead he relayed the news at a company meeting as trays of tequila shots were handed out, and Darryl McDaniels of Run-DMC performed It’s Tricky to bewildered staff.”

“The drug gangs that are waging war in the Latin American country rely on a surprising ritual to protect them from harm: a witch’s incantation.”

How Jacqueline Susann feverishly promoted Valley of the Dolls into a major bestseller.

The Hatton Garden raid was meticulously planned and orchestrated, but its perpetrators were still caught. The average age of the burglars was 66, all aging members of London’s criminal aristocracy. Is the old school heist a thing of the past in today’s interconnected age of CCTV and GPS-tagged pictures?

An obituary for Britain’s best-known brothel keeper.

When Germany legalised prostitution in 2002 it triggered an apparently unstoppable growth in the country’s sex industry. It’s now worth 15 billion euros a year and embraces everything from 12-storey mega-brothels to outdoor sex boxes. But has any of this brought about better conditions for sex workers?

An art dealer diagnosed with kidney cancer formulates a plan to bury some of his treasure and leave clues to its whereabouts in a self-published book:

“Dal Neitzel is just one of hundreds of people who have contacted Fenn to let him know they’ve been searching for his haul. Before he set out, after poring through historical books and scouring maps, Neitzel, a 65-year-old former TV cameraman, convinced himself the treasure was in the Rio Grande Gorge in New Mexico, close to the border with Colorado. Remarkably, he’d managed to locate a large house on the edge of a steep drop that overlooked a gushing river. Outside that house was a sign that read: “Brown.” He read Fenn’s poem aloud again: ‘Put in below the home of Brown.’ That had to be it.”

On her first morning of school, September 4 1957, Elizabeth Eckford’s primary concern was looking nice. Her mother had done her hair the night before; an elaborate two-hour ritual, with a hot iron and a hotter stove, of straightening and curling. Then there were her clothes. People in black Little Rock knew that the Eckford girls were expert seamstresses; practically everything they wore they made themselves, and not from the basic patterns of McCall’s but from the more complicated ones in Vogue. It was a practice borne of tradition, pride, and necessity: homemade was cheaper, and it spared black children the humiliation of having to ask to try things on in the segregated department stores downtown. In the fall of 1957, Elizabeth was among the nine black students who had enlisted, then been selected, to enter Little Rock Central High School.

Long before the books of Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell shone a light on Sweden’s dark underbelly, there was the murder of Catrine da Costa. It’s a case that continues to shock, baffle and divide the nation.