The clock told her it was stupid o'clock in the morning. She should be asleep, snuggled into the warmth of Shades beside her. At the very least she should be sleepy and snuggled. Instead the prospect of that awful meeting with Daisy's father loomed ahead of her every time she closed her eyes. It was no good, she had to do something.

Wincing at every movement, she slid as slow as continental drift from under the cover and away from the sleeping body that was becoming all too familiar in her bed. She padded across the floor, opened the door just wide enough to slip out and eased it closed behind her.

She set up her laptop on the kitchen table, made herself a tea and opened up the browser. The first name she searched was City Investigations. They had a swish website, all corporate themed and professional-looking. A quick trawl through the search engines told her nothing.

Next she searched for Allen Whitmarsh. The man was almost a ghost. He didn't seem to have his own profile on any of the social sites. Wherever his name did crop up, it was inevitably alongside the man in whose shadow he seemed to live.

She heard a movement behind her. She turned, saw Shades and snapped her head back to the screen, furious at the blush that she could feel rising. She hammered Davenport's name into the search engine as Shades drew up a chair next to her.

"Whatchya doin'?" he asked.

"Working. Go back to bed."

"Not sleepy. The perils of extended night work."

Davenport was a career politician. He'd been in his present seat for fifteen years. He had a vanilla profile on some of the media sites. He had a smiling wife and two smiling kids, all scrubbed antiseptic clean for the camera. He'd been unremarkable in both his political and private life.

"I'm not wearing any panties," said Shades, nudging her. She shoved him away without looking at him. She was only too aware of his clothing and lack thereof.

And then two weeks ago Davenport started to raise his head over the parapet. Interviews in the papers, and not just the local ones. His name cropped up in the political gossip columns. The Dupont Interview was his first TV appearance as far as she could see, but he was lined up for a couple of more in the coming week, even guesting on a comedy panel show. Whitmarsh was right, his star did seem to be in the ascendancy.

"In fact, I'm not wearing anything at all." Shades nudged her again.

She whirled round to face him, eyes resolutely on his. "I'm working! Leave me alone. You're being a real pain."

Shades looked contrite. "You're right. And I'm distracting you. I'm a very naughty boy. You should spank me."

Ess screwed her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She would not laugh at him, she would not. He was making her angry, even if he was funny and gorgeous and, yes, naked as the day he was born.

"Just... just... go to your room."

He shook his head. "Oh no. You just want to watch me parade my naked body across the floor."

"Duh! I'm on the Internet. I can ogle as many naked bodies as I want. Just leave me alone."

He stroked her shoulder. "When are you coming back to bed? I miss you."

"Yeah, yeah. Go take a cold shower. I'll be back later."

He leant in closer and treated her to a naughty grin. "We could shower together."

"Look, be a good boy and sod off for a few minutes, and then maybe I'll come back to bed."

"Okay then. But if you don't soon I'll come out and have you on the table." He leant in, and just as she pursed her lips he jerked back. "Hurry up." He rose and strode back to the bedroom. "I know you're looking at my arse," he said, without looking round.

As distractions go, his bum wasn't half bad. But a distraction was what it was. She could bury herself in distractions for the rest of the week, but it wouldn't make the problem go away.

Her eyes scanned the political articles, but her mind skimmed over them, uninterested. What could be his motivation? Only an idiot would risk something so stupid on the eve of his career taking off, and Davenport didn't strike her either as stupid, or indeed as criminal. Whitmarsh, maybe, but even his concern appeared to be for his boss.

She searched for Lord Hever. Most of the hits were about his portrait photography, with another tranche of his glamour shots. Socially he made the rounds of the aristocracy and blue-chip business leaders. Clicking on one link her stomach lurched as Daisy stared back at her, her face full of innocent playfulness. She could see why Nick Hever was so successful as a photographer.

A sex crime? Who could do that to her? Well, a man, obviously. It never ceased to amaze her how high and how low a man could reach, but honestly, why would anybody hurt her? Was it a spy thing? Had she got too close to someone the security forces were interested in? Was she locked up somewhere in a windowless cell, awaiting the next round of waterboarding? Not here, surely not in Britain.

"Where are you, Daisy?" she asked the face on her screen. Daisy smiled back but didn't answer. She looked up at the clock. It was now half past stupid o'clock. She shut the lid of her laptop. There was nothing she could do now, anyway, and how often did she get Shades to herself for more than an hour or two?