“McAndrew. Dick McAndrew. Well, somebody killed Union Jack,” he said. “And whoever it was, the cops are leaving them well alone while they give Lindsay the heavy-duty hassle. Besides, if what I hear about the hooly last night is anything like the truth, there were plenty of people at that ceilidh who wouldn’t piss on Lindsay if she was on fire. Which it sounds like she might be. How bad is it looking?”

Jennifer shrugged. “I’ve seen worse, Mr. McAndrew.”

“The word on the street is that the police have a witness from the ninth floor who says she was woken up by the sound of breaking glass. According to her clock, it was five to three. I take it you’re looking for an alibi witness who was with Linds then?”

Jennifer smiled. “Whether you’re asking as a friend or as a journalist, you must be well aware I can’t answer that.”

As she spoke, a man shuffled up to them. He looked like he’d just crawled out of bed, his shirt rumpled and his eyes red-rimmed. “Excuse me,” he said in tones so soft he was barely audible. “I think you want to talk to me.”

Jennifer said, “Are you the man Lindsay Gordon was talking to?”

He nodded, then immediately looked as if he regretted a motion so violent. He closed his eyes momentarily, then said, “I am.”

“You two need to get away from this mob,” Dick said, his reporter’s eye noticing the attention they were attracting. Almost imperceptibly, people were shifting closer to the three of them, desperate for any gobbet of gossip that would put them in pole position among their peers.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jennifer said. “Where can we . . .?”

“You can use my room,” Dick fished a key out of the pocket of his jeans. “It’s in Wilberforce Hall, second floor. If I’m not here when you’ve finished, just leave it with one of the head office staff in the conference office.”

“Thanks,” said Jennifer, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. Looking at the state of her potential witness, she could only imagine what his room looked and smelled like.

“No bother,” said Dick. “Just get my buddy out of jail. That’ll do me fine.”

Dick’s room managed to look as if he’d been at home there for months. There were a dozen books on the shelf, a Tandy computer and printer on the desk beside a pile of typing paper. On the window-sill, a queue of used mugs displaying a bewildering range of political slogans sat beside a framed photograph of a woman and two children. The Irishman made straight for the armchair and collapsed into it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “After Lindsay went off, I went back to the ceilidh. My head feels like it’s got an army of elephants doing the rumba in there.”