“My colleagues on SOS and I are attempting to ensure that conference will therefore continue. But before we proceed with this morning’s first order-paper, I have an appeal to make to you all. Police inquiries into Tom’s death are proceeding, and one of our number is, as they say, helping with their inquiries. Many of you will know Lindsay Gordon of old, and I for one am convinced that she had nothing whatsoever to do with an event that I feel certain will finally be seen as a tragic accident rather than something more sinister. Those of you who don’t know Lindsay may have noticed her sitting among the observers at the back of the hall yesterday. She’s the one with the rather noticeable Californian suntan; medium height and build, short brown hair, blue eyes, Scottish accent. There is a point to this,” he added peevishly, frowning down into the floor of conference, where delegates had begun to move around and chat excitedly to each other.

The mutter subsided and Brian resumed. Jennifer couldn’t help being impressed by his stage presence, since delegates deprived of conversation appeared to be like plants deprived of light and water.

“Lindsay was at the Scots-Irish Ceilidh last night, and in the early hours of the morning, she was introduced to a delegate who has been offered a job in America. They left the ceilidh together so she could offer him some tips about working among the barbarians, and they chatted for some time. Unfortunately, it’s been so long since Lindsay was a working journalist that she’s forgotten some of the cardinal rules. She failed to ascertain the name of the person she was talking to, and it is imperative that her solicitor talks to the gentleman in question. Ms. Okido, if you could just step forward . . .?”

Feeling more self-conscious than she ever had in court, Jennifer stepped away from the group of people round the door at the rear of the hall. Hundreds of heads swivelled round to look at her. She smiled bleakly.

“Ms. Okido up at the back there is the person in question. So if you were at the ceilidh last night, and you know the identity of the Irishman Lindsay was talking to, or if indeed you are that soldier, please let her know. I can’t stress how important this is, and I know you’ll all be as eager as I am to ensure that Lindsay isn’t in custody for a moment longer than necessary.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Jennifer heard in a rumbling baritone by her side. She turned in surprise to see a tall, burly man who resembled a battered teddy bear. “I’m a friend of your client,” he said as Brian moved on to run through the order-paper.

“What exactly did you mean, Mr. . . .?” Jennifer asked.