Frozen Read Online Free PDF Page A

the main entrance. It was freezing cold and the towering concrete buildings created a wind tunnel that took her breath away.
    Despite the bitter cold, the city was heaving with Christmas shoppers. The traffic had made her late and she hated being late. Now the security man on reception was wasting more time checking her in. She sank into one of the low sofas. It was lime green and brand new. So was the decor. How long had it been since she was in this building? Must be getting on for two years, she thought.
    Yes, two years exactly; that awful Christmas party with Tony’s other woman in the same room …
    â€˜Doctor Rhys!’ Perhaps it was his accent, but Megan thought the security man emphasised her title with the hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘Miss Lobelo will see you now. Do you know your way up?’
    He must be new too. She didn’t think she had seen him before. Did he know that her husband used to work in the building and that she had hung around the corridors of BTV waiting for him more times than she cared to remember? Don’t be ridiculous. How could he? she asked herself.
    Without acknowledging the man she swept up the open staircase. Thank goodness she was wearing trousers. The architect who had designed this building just had to be male, she thought grimly. That security guard probably spent most of his time looking up the skirts of unsuspecting female visitors.
    Delva Lobelo was standing by the window when Megan walked in. Her African profile contrasted oddly with the icy grey backdrop of the canal. The wind was whipping up the water into white-capped ridges and people walking along the towpath were muffled in scarves, hats and heavy overcoats. In the warmth of the office Delva looked like an exotic bloom, long legs wrapped in a sarong skirt with a matching jacket of orange silk.
    Megan suddenly felt drab. In her own office she had felt overdressed – not difficult amongst male academics – but here the black linen suit and cream wool sweater seemed dowdy. And her hair! Windblown wisps were trailing from the tortoiseshell clasp that was supposed to hold it in place. It was the same colour as Delva’s, but there the resemblance ended. Delva’s was braided into scores of tiny plaits drawn together in a dramatic swathe.
    â€˜Megan! Great to see you.’ Delva was her usual, welcoming self. She had a knack of putting people instantly at ease. ‘Let me get you a drink – I bet you’re freezing, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Thanks, Delva – can I have a cup of tea? I’ve drunk about a gallon of coffee already today.’
    Delva fetched the tea herself and led Megan through to a windowless room, one wall of which was lined with TV monitors.
    â€˜We only finished editing it this morning. There’s a gap at the very beginning where it’s just shots of you in the office and at police headquarters – I’ll be doing a voiceover to go with it, but I haven’t had a chance to record it yet. You can see a transcript if you want to. It’s a potted history of you: your meteoric rise to fame, that sort of thing.’
    Delva smiled as Megan winced. ‘Come on, don’t be modest – it’s all true! How many other women in this country have made it to head of a university department at the age of 36, not to mention being a.k.a. Britain’s Sexiest Sleuth!’
    â€˜God, Delva, you’re not quoting the gutter press in this documentary, I hope!’
    Delva had a very loud laugh – the kind that made people smile when they were trying to be serious.
    â€˜Don’t worry, I wouldn’t stoop to their level. Apart from the intro the fact that you’re a woman is hardly mentioned. Mind you, I had a bit of a tough time convincing the producer. A real old dinosaur – came into TV from being a reporter on one of the tabloids in the seventies – he wanted shots of you “relaxing at home”, as he puts