At the head of one of the flights of stairs to the basement floor, Sophie paused. “Sure this is wise?” she asked. “Maybe there was a silent alarm on that door. We could be living on borrowed time.”

“That’s a chance I’m prepared to take,” Lindsay said. “I’ve come this far, I’m not bottling out now.”

The implication that her bottle had gone, clearly meant to sting Sophie into action, merely amused her. But the thought of Lindsay charging headlong and alone into a potentially explosive situation did persuade her to stick by her lover’s side as she plunged down the stairs. “Into the valley of wossname,” she muttered under her breath as she followed.

The basement was home to medium-sized committee rooms and more small offices. As they turned the first corner at the foot of the stairs, both women stopped dead in their tracks. A slender shaft of light spilled on to the floor at their feet. And they could both hear the fast shuffle and hum of a state-of-the-art photocopier.

Chapter 17

17

“And don’t forget. Although conference is about serious business, there’s no reason why you can’t have fun.”

from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

Lindsay was poised to indulge her taste for drama by flinging the door wide and leaping through it like the SAS when Sophie calmly gripped the handle and silently opened the door a crack. She peered through, then moved to one side to let an impatient Lindsay see beyond her. For a seemingly endless thirty seconds, Lindsay just stood and stared. Then she pushed the door open and stood silhouetted in the gap. “I don’t believe I’m seeing this,” she said wonderingly.

The small office looked like a miniature business center. It contained a few desks, one with a PC, another with an Amstrad PCW, a third with an electronic typewriter, all firmly chained to the floor. A fax machine sat on a small side table, and against the far wall stood a photocopier, which was spitting out sheets of paper at an impressive speed. Standing by the photocopier, transfixed with shock, was a tall black woman with an immaculate Grace Jones flattop.

“I just don’t believe it,” Lindsay repeated, moving across the room like a sleep-walker. She picked up one of the sheets from the photocopier and saw the familiar masthead of Conference Chronicle. Pauline was still motionless, her brown eyes wide with shock and fear. She licked her lips, a tiny movement magnified out of all proportion by her frozen stillness.

Lindsay screwed the sheet into a ball and stepped another few paces forward till she was only inches away from Pauline. “Are you satisfied? Now Tom Jack’s dead and Laura’s in jail, are you satisfied? Does that justify all the lies?” she ranted.