They had arrived too late to catch the delegates and officials in session. Outside the hall, there were still knots of people standing round, deep in conversation, reluctant even at this stage of conference to relinquish the wheeling and dealing that was meat and drink to them. Seeing Lindsay stopped the conversations dead, and the handful who recognized Julie immediately fell into huddles with their political sidekicks, speculating on what this strange alliance could mean.

They didn’t have to wait too long for their answer. With an instinct born of long experience of trade union and academic conferences, Lindsay swung round on her heel and made straight for the main student union bar. She and Julie paused at the door, as studiedly melodramatic as Clint Eastwood. “All that’s missing is the poncho and the cigar,” Lindsay found time to say under her breath. As if they were in a spaghetti Western, the two women moved slowly forward, scanning the room for their target. Gradually, the buzz of conversation in the bar died away as the drinkers became aware that something out of the ordinary was happening.

One of the last groups to be touched by the atmosphere was centered round a woman, who ran a hand through her crest of wavy brown hair as she laughed too loudly at a remark from one of her companions. The lines of her thigh-length heavy silk shirt flowed round her in a smooth wave as she realized something in the room had changed and slowly turned to face Lindsay and Julie. Lindsay marvelled at her cool. Laura’s face showed no sign of the panic their arrival must have triggered inside. Her eyebrows twitched fractionally, then she forced her lips into a smile of welcome that did nothing to defrost her ice-blue eyes.

“Conference Chronicle got a bit too close for comfort this morning, don’t you think, Laura?” Lindsay asked in a conversational tone.

“Your idea of humor has always been idiosyncratic, dear,” Laura sneered. “You know as well as I do that there wasn’t a word of truth in that stinking heap of innuendo and lies. Apart from anything else, no one who knows the least thing about me could imagine for a moment that I’d dream of sharing anything more intimate than a conference platform with you.” There was a murmur of support from the crowd that had closed in around them.

Lindsay shook her head pityingly. “Nice try, Laura. Pick on the one thing in the piece that genuinely was a load of crap, and try to tar the rest of the article with the same brush. Whereas, you and I both know that Conference Chronicle was bang on the button when it came to your whereabouts when Union Jack was killed.”