Sexed Up
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There were a dozen people in the inquiry room, all dressed in dark suits with stern faces to match the atmosphere. Phoebe recognised them as senior civil servants, and she saw the junior minister she’d noticed on her journey to work that morning. His parliamentary assistant sat beside him looking spitefully competent and efficient with her notebook and pencil. They all glared at Phoebe with such silent severity she instantly felt lonely, miserable and scared.
‘Go to the foot of the table,’ Professor Walsh said tersely. ‘Let’s see if we can clear up this unpleasantness without the usual parliamentary rigmarole.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ Phoebe insisted. ‘I’m not responsible for the leak. You know I’m not responsible
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