Lindsay looked over her shoulder. Tom was flanked by a handful of his sidekicks. Ian was hovering on the edges of the bunch, trying to work his way round to her. She spoke softly, so her words wouldn’t carry farther than their small group. “Keeping the truth from people doesn’t solve anything, Tom,” she said wearily. “It tends to filter through in the end. Then what people will remember is that you bull-shitted them over your deal with Wilson.” She would have said more, but Ian put a warning hand on her arm.

“You’re too bloody smart by half. You should remember whose side you’re on. Leave playing devil’s advocate to that fancy lawyer you’re shacked up with. You’ve been spending too much time listening to Miss Frances Collier.”

Lindsay felt suddenly light-headed. Tom Jack’s mouth carried on moving, but she could hear nothing. It was as if a glass bubble had enclosed her, cutting her off from the world around her. Without a word, she pulled away from his restraining grip and pushed through the group of men behind him.

As she began to run down the hall, the wall of silence shattered and she heard Ian Ross shout at Tom Jack, “You stupid, insensitive bastard. You’re about as out of touch as you’re out of order. Don’t you know anything about your chapel members? Frances Collier died six weeks ago. How could you not know that?”

Chapter 3

3

“An inevitable consequence of the volume of work demanded of conference delegates is that they will suffer from a lack of sleep as conference week progresses. In order to avoid feeling like dead dogs, we recommend you bring a substantial supply of Vitamins C and B Complex as well as the painkiller of your choice.”

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

The shingle crunched beneath Lindsay’s feet as she charged headlong down the beach. At the water’s edge she stopped, her chest heaving for breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She stared out at the gray Irish Sea, glad of its bleakness. Recovering herself, she squatted down to make herself a smaller target for the sharp northerly wind. She pulled a crushed packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, straightened one out, cupped a hand round her lighter and inhaled deeply. In spite of the cancer that had taken three months from its diagnosis to kill Frances, Lindsay still couldn’t bring herself to quit. Most days she felt only the nicotine and the caffeine were holding her together.