“Poppy.” Sam is turning toward me, and I jump.
“Yes! Here.” I nod, thrusting my phone away. I have to concentrate now. I have to put Magnus from my mind. I have to be useful.
“These are Mark and Robbie. They work for Vicks.”
“She’s on her way down.” Mark consults his phone as we all head up the steps. “Sir Nicholas is staying put for now. We think Berkshire’s the best place for him to be if there’s any chance of being doorstepped.”
“Nick shouldn’t hide. ” Sam’s frowning.
“Not hiding. Staying calm. We don’t want him rushing to London, looking like there’s a crisis. He’s speaking at a dinner tonight; we’ll regroup tomorrow, see how things have played out. As for the conference, we keep going for now. Obviously Sir Nicholas was due to arrive here in the morning, but we’ll have to see”—he hesitates, wincing slightly—“What happens.”
“What about the injunction?” says Sam. “I was talking to Julian; he’s pulling out all the stops.”
Robbie sighs. “Sam, we already know that won’t work. I mean, we’re not not going to apply for one, but—”
He stops midstream as we arrive in a big lobby. Wow. This conference is a lot more high-tech than our annual physiotherapists’ one. There are massive WHITE GLOBE CONSULTING logos everywhere and big screens mounted all round the lobby. Someone is clearly using some kind of TV camera inside the hall, because images of an audience sitting in rows are being beamed out. There are two sets of closed double doors straight ahead of us, and the sound of an audience laughing suddenly emanates from them, followed, ten seconds later, by laughter from the screens.
The whole lobby is empty except for a table bearing a few lonely name badges, behind which a bored-looking girl is lolling. She stands up straighter as she sees us and smiles uncertainly at me.
“They’re having a good time,” says Sam, glancing at the TV screen.
“Malcolm’s speaking,” says Mark. “He’s doing a great job. We’re in here.” He ushers us into a side room and shuts the door firmly behind us.
“So, Poppy.” Robbie turns to me politely. “Sam’s filled us in on your … theory.”
“It’s not my theory,” I say in horror. “I don’t know anything about it! I just got these messages, and I wondered if they could be relevant, and Sam worked it out.”
“I think she has something.” Sam faces up to Mark and Robbie as though daring them to disagree. “The memo was planted. We all agree on that.”
“The memo is … uncharacteristic,” amends Robbie.
“Uncharacteristic?” Sam looks like he wants to explode. “He didn’t bloody write it! Someone else wrote it and inserted it into the system. We’re going to find out who. Poppy heard the voice. Poppy will recognize it.”
“OK.” Robbie exchanges wary glances with Mark. “All I will say, Sam, is that we have to be very, very careful. We’re still working on breaking this news to the company. If you go crashing in with accusations—”
“I won’t crash in with anything.” Sam glowers at him. “Have a little trust. Jesus.”
“So what are you planning to do?” Mark looks genuinely interested.
“Walk around. Listen. Find the needle in the haystack.” Sam turns to me. “You up for that, Poppy?”
“Totally.” I nod, trying to hide how panicked I feel. I’m half-wishing I never took those messages down now.
“And then … ” Robbie still looks dissatisfied.
“Let’s cross that bridge.”
There’s silence in the room.
“OK,” says Robbie at last. “Do it. Go on. I guess it can’t do any harm. And how will you explain away Poppy?”
“New PA?” suggests Mark.
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve appointed a new PA, and half the floor has met her already. Let’s keep it simple. Poppy’s thinking of joining the company. I’m showing her round. OK with that, Poppy?”
“Yes! Fine.”
“Got that personnel list?”
“Here.” Robbie hands it to him. “But be discreet, Sam.”
Mark has opened the door a crack and is looking into the lobby.
“They’re coming out,” he says. “All yours.”
We head out of the room, into the lobby. Both sets of double doors are open and people are streaming out of them, all wearing badges and chatting, some laughing. They all look pretty fresh, given it’s 6:30 p.m. and they’ve been listening to speeches all afternoon.
“There are so many. ” I stare at the groups of people, feeling totally daunted.
“It’s fine,” says Sam firmly. “You know it’s a male voice. That already cuts it down. We’ll just go round the room and rule them out, one by one. I have my suspicions, but … I won’t bias you.”
Slowly, I follow him into the mêlée. People are grabbing drinks from waiters and greeting each other and shouting jokes across other people’s heads. It’s cacophony. My ears feel as though they’re radar sensors, straining this way and that to catch the sound of voices.
“Heard our guy yet?” Sam says, as he hands me a glass of orange juice. I can tell he’s half joking, half hopeful.
I shake my head. I’m feeling overwhelmed. The sound in the room is like a melded roar in my head. I can barely distinguish any individual strands, let alone pick out the exact tones of a voice I heard for twenty seconds, days ago, down a mobile-phone line.