The climate conference had been held at the Glenridding hotel and attended by dozens of delegates from all over the world. Climate change activists had gathered in the local village, choking it and angering locals. Scuffles had broken out and it was footage of this that she watched on her phone. Rob had sent her several videos as well as stills of known activists; the ones who turned up wherever there was trouble, no matter the cause. Attached were files on the main players, and their histories, and what they might have being doing in the area. The one she watched, to take her mind off the dips and sways of the helicopter’s trajectory, was taken outside the hotel. It had been posted on Twitter; Rob had been going through the footage from the weekend, sent to him by a contact at the security team, which had been tasked with managing the delegates’ safety. A delegate from Italy had been giving a press conference and things turned ugly when a member of the crowd threw an egg. It was clear to Kelly that Lord Reilly was the main target. He’d been standing behind the Italian delegate, and the egg had glided over the speaker’s head, breaking on the head of the peer. Kelly couldn’t help admiring the accuracy of the perpetrator’s aim. Shortly after, a struggle ensued and a couple of security men in dark suits descended on the man who threw the egg: Neil Hardy. He was wearing the usual mob attire: khaki trench coat and jeans. She watched as he was wrestled to the ground, then the video clip ended. She played it again and Johnny nudged her.

She looked out of the window and saw they were flying over Derwent Water, and the landing site in the park was now visible. They would be on the ground within minutes. She put her phone away. The machine descended and her stomach lurched. Finally, they were down and she unclipped her belt. If she’d been religious she might have said a silent prayer of thanks for her survival as she hopped out of the thing and ducked from habit until she was well clear of the rotating blades. Johnny followed her to her car and they got in.

‘What was that on your phone?’ he asked.

‘Footage of the conference, where Lord Reilly was egged by a protester.’

‘Poor bloke. I’d never be a politician if you paid me.’

‘Well that’s the point, contrary to the democratic history of our great country, politicians don’t need paying because they come from the class that don’t need it.’

‘Ouch, cynical,’ he commented. She smiled and started the car.

‘Why don’t you drop me off at home and I’ll spend the afternoon with Lizzie, and I’ll have something ready for you coming in,’ he said.