Clement was winding up and I could hear him again.

'And so, thank you, each and every one, from the bottom of our hearts and I beg you to reach to the bottom of your pockets. Donation letters are on the way. Tell your secretary to expect one and put it at the top of your pile. Thank you, thank you.'

He finished. The dark-haired woman got there before me and grabbed the mike.

'Mr Clement, do you have any comment about your connection with American arms manufacturers who supplied weapons to rebels in Sierra Leone and-'

Rhys Thomas was there in a flash, but not before Clement hissed 'You slimy bitch' audibly. Thomas jerked the microphone from the woman's grasp and shouted to the musicians to start playing: they did, loudly. Thomas's grip on the woman's arm was vice-like and she was wincing with pain. I moved in quickly and dug into the nerve in his shoulder so that he let go. 'There's a guy filming this back there,' I hissed. 'Want to make it look worse?'

Clement, momentarily nonplussed, recovered quickly when he heard me. 'Let her go, Rhys. She's nothing. You,' he pointed at me, 'get her out of here.'

She was still gasping from the pain of Thomas's grip and let me escort her back past the musicians towards the steps leading to the house. By the time we'd gone up a step or two she'd recovered and resisted.

'What the fuck are you doing? There was no one filming.'

'I know, but he could've paralysed your arm. Let's see it.'

She slipped off her jacket and her bare, lightly tanned arm showed a redness that would probably become a deep, dark bruise where Thomas's meaty hand had been.

'Jesus,' she said. 'You're right.'

'Better get moving. Thomas'll be looking for the video maker. He'll be very pissed off when he doesn't find him.'

We went up a few steps and she gave a short laugh. 'No, not to worry. You can video with a mobile phone. He'll never know. Still, I made my point.'