The sound of a harpist playing in the corner mingled with the tinkle of laughter and crystal. A waitress passed through the guests with a silver tray of canapés, each spiked with a miniature Olympic flag. When the PM caught sight of Clem, he broke off from his conversation with the American ambassador and made his way over, glass in one hand, a nibble in the other. ‘You have no idea how tough this is, Clem,’ he said. ‘Everyone is freaking out about the shooting. If they ever found out . . .’ He looked at his bite-sized chunk of mozzarella, tastefully speared to a cherry tomato, and sighed. ‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Clem. ‘Do we need some privacy?’ Clem eyed the guests. The great and the good from all around the world. Each celebrating the first day of events at the Olympics, being manipulated by the Downing Street team into talking about something, anything, other than Thomas Frasier. None of them must ever find out what had been in that rucksack, of that Clem was certain.
