Sophie put her head in her hands and groaned. “Me and my big mouth. Why couldn’t I have held my tongue till we were safely back in Glasgow?”

“Look at it this way. It’s saved you having to drive all the way back. Let’s go through this logically,” Lindsay said. “After the dramatic events of tonight, there’s bound to be a Conference Chronicle tomorrow morning. So whoever is behind it has to be writing it and distributing it tonight. Okay so far?”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Thinking about it logically, they must be using a photocopier somewhere within the campus,” Lindsay went on slowly, thinking out loud.

“How do you work that one out?” Sophie asked.

“Elementary, my dear Hartley. At least one of the morning issues has featured events that didn’t take place till late the night before. In other words, it happened way too late for any commercial operation to have done the copying. Which only leaves the conference center.”

“Unless someone’s got one of those portable desktop computers.”

Lindsay shook her head obstinately. “The quality’s too good. Besides, they cost more than your average conference delegate would be willing to spend just to make life a misery for a handful of union activists. There’s also the sheer volume of paper the writer has gone through. Best place to hide a needle is a sewing-box, not a haystack. I’d still put my money on the conference center.”

“Surely if it was that easy, someone would have discovered who’s responsible before now?” Sophie asked.

Lindsay shrugged. “Well, who would actually have bothered? Only the victims—everybody else was enjoying it too much. Besides, they wouldn’t waste good drinking and bonking time in the pursuit of idle curiosity. And it was too late for the victims anyway.”

“So?”

“So get that lasagne down your neck. We’ve got an appointment with a photocopier.”

“I told you you’re crazy,” Sophie muttered as she stumbled over another small shrub. The soft Yorkshire rain was inching down the inside of her jacket collar and she’d already stripped a layer of skin off her knuckles. She was closer than she’d ever been to falling out with Lindsay.

“There’s got to be a way in,” Lindsay repeated, oblivious to Sophie’s hostility, thrusting her way through the undergrowth that covered the steep slope behind the hexagonal building.

“Why? The place is all locked up. Everyone with any sense has gone home. The entire building is in darkness. It’s ten o’clock at night. The editor of Conference Chronicle is almost certainly getting legless in a bar somewhere. Oh shit!” Sophie cannoned into Lindsay’s back as she stumbled on the slope.

“There!” Lindsay exclaimed triumphantly. “An open window.” She pointed at a small frosted-glass window that was cracked open an inch.

“Oh whoopee,” Sophie groaned. “It’s too high,” she added, giving the window a second look.