Conferences are Murder (11 page)

4

Lindsay tried unsuccessfully to stifle the yawn that gripped her suddenly. “Aagh,” she groaned. “I'm really sorry, the night's beginning to catch up with me.”

“It's okay. I'm in no hurry,” Jennifer reassured her. “What's most important is that we get as many of the facts clear at this stage so we can convince the police there's no point in holding you here.”

“Okay. I can't think of anything else that happened during Tuesday that has any bearing on anything. I spent most of the day doing interviews for my thesis with the women who were around during the big equality issue rows of the eighties, getting them to dredge their memories for the human stories behind the dry recorded facts of motions passed and leaflets issued. All very boring stuff to someone who wasn't involved at the time, I suspect.” Lindsay avoided the revelation that she too had found much of it excruciatingly tedious, and was beginning to wonder how she was going to give her supposedly
groundbreaking thesis the bite she wanted it to have. “Anyway, while I was interviewing, one of the guys I used to work with in Glasgow when I was a reporter on the
Scottish Daily Clarion
came over and invited me to the Scots-Irish Ceilidh Night.

“The JU always held one. You could only go if you were Scots or Irish, regardless of where you worked. A handful of outsiders always used to get invited if they were prominent in the union and had the right political credentials—and I mean right. In spite of which, I'm ashamed to say I've always enjoyed it. The music was always terrific—we've got some really talented singers and musicians in the union, and it always felt to me like the music and the dancing was at least as important to the people there as the rest of the Celtic male-bonding stuff. So when I was invited, I handed over my tenner like a shot. We each chip in a tenner for the drink.”

Jennifer couldn't hide the look of surprise. “That's a lot of drink,” she commented.

“The Celts are a thirsty people. Historically, we've got a lot of sorrows to drown. Anyway, it always used to be one of the few events at conference where political differences were forgotten as we forged our sentimental bonds of spurious camaraderie. Unfortunately, like so many other things in the trade union movement, it's changed beyond recognition.”

 

The joyous energy of the jigs and reels that filled the room did nothing to dissipate the atmosphere of simmering rancor that filled the post-graduate common room of Wilberforce Hall. For once, the old Celtic alliances were failing to diminish the strains of AMWU's newly discovered tensions. The brains who had dreamed up the terms and conditions of the most complex merger in the history of the British trade union movement had somehow failed to consider the volatile effect of lumping printers, clerical workers, broadcasters, researchers, journalists, camera crew and distribution workers together to find common cause, something they'd signally failed to achieve in the 500-year history of the mechanical mass media.

As the drink flowed, so too did the old resentments. At first,
Lindsay had managed to steer clear of disputes by grabbing a bottle of White Horse and squeezing into the corner behind the fiddler, two guitarists, concertina player and tin whistle blower who were currently providing the music.

But her hiding place was exposed soon after midnight when the impromptu band took a break and gave way to a Newcastle printer who played the Northumbrian pipes. Their mournful notes always made her feel melancholy. Or maybe it was just the whisky. Either way, she wished Sophie was with her, instead of at a conference a hundred miles away. If Sophie was here, the atmosphere would be irrelevant, Lindsay told herself.

Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a familiar face, bleary with drink. Stewart Grant had been one of her fellow reporters on the
Daily Nation
in London years before. A diehard misogynist, Grant had been one of those who had exploited her grief at Frances' death in a series of supposedly innocent remarks whose barbs twisted like fish hooks in her stomach. Even before then, she'd never liked him. But his behavior when she'd been at her most vulnerable had turned dislike to contempt in a handful of sentences.

“Hey, if it's not Lindsay Gordon, come back to lord it over us. You've got some nerve, lady,” he slurred.

“As usual, Stewart, you make as much sense as a square toilet seat. Go away and bother somebody else, eh?”

He giggled, a high, edgy sound. “Cannae face the truth, eh?” He turned back to face the room. “Hey, guys, come and see this. It's no' often you get a chance to see one of the rats that deserted the sinking ship. They're usually running too damn fast. Get a load of this.” He turned back to Lindsay and leered. “You always did wish they all could be California girls, didn't you? Mind you, I cannae imagine them going for the likes of Flash Gordon. A wee bit more taste they've got over there, I'd say.”

“Do us all a favor, Stewart. Go and find a tall building and jump off.” She got to her feet and tried to push past him, but she was too late. A handful of his cronies had moved forward to form a tight ring around her.

“D'you know the boys, Flash?” Stewart demanded. “All
real
journalists. None of your equality reps here, eh, boys?” There was a chorus of “no way”s. “Naw, we get out there at the rock face and do the business. Out there, stitching up the punters, shafting the oppos, getting stuck into the real job. But you couldnae hack it, could you, Flash? Naw, it all got too much for you. You had to go running off with your tail between your legs to the soft life in the States.”

“Not that we've got anything against America,” one of the other drunken Scots piped up. Lindsay vaguely remembered the face. He'd been a reporter with the
Glasgow Tribune
when she'd worked for the
Scottish Daily Clarion
.

“Of course not,” another added. Lindsay recognized Chic McBain, a down-table sub-editor on the
Clarion
. “Some of my best pals work in America now. You know why that is, don't you Flash? It's because there's no jobs here for them. And do you know why that is, Flash Gordon?”

“I'm sure you're going to give me the version according to macho man,” Lindsay said wearily, “so why don't I just shut up and save time?”

“It's because when people like you were our union reps back in the eighties you were too busy playing politics and screaming about AIDS and sexism instead of fighting for jobs. Youse all just stood back and let Thatcher and Tebbit kick the union movement to death. Youse said yessir, no sir, to the Maxwells and Murdochs and Carnegie Wilsons while they decimated our jobs and wrecked our industry. And then you buggered off to a cushy number in the sun while we run about the country like headless chickens, desperate for casual shifts anywhere that'll pay our bus fare.” Chic stopped suddenly, his flow of invective in need of fuel.

He stumbled away, in search of more whisky, while Stewart, refreshed by support, returned to the attack. “Squandered our birthright, you and your pals did,” he shouted, his bloodshot eyes blinking wildly as he thrust his purple face close to hers. For the first time since the harangue had started, she felt slightly nervous, not convinced that she could get out of this
unscathed. “Did you come back to laugh at us? Is that what you're doing here, drinking our whisky?” Stewart yelled. “It's not on, you bitch, it's not on!”

Lindsay's heart sank even further as she saw Tom Jack shoulder his way through the men who surrounded her. All she needed right now was for the general secretary to add his weight to the bully boys.

“You're damn right it's not on,” Union Jack roared loud enough to stop the Northumbrian piper in mid-phrase. His pipes died with a wheezing groan.

Lindsay steeled herself for his onslaught. But to her astonishment, he moved to her side and grabbed Stewart Grant by the shirt-front.

“This is supposed to be a ceilidh,” Union Jack growled. “Who the hell do you think you are, turning it into a war? Bloody hell, it's come to a pretty pass when a Yorkshireman's got to tell a bunch of drunken Jocks how to behave at a ceilidh.”

Stewart's mouth kept opening and closing without a sound.

“This isnae anything to do with you, Tom,” Chic said, his voice placatory. “We were just having a wee word with Lindsay here.”

“Anything you've got to say to Lindsay, there's a time and a place for, and it's not here. And as long as I'm general secretary of this union, anything that happens at conference is to do with me. You'd all do well to remember that. Now, Lindsay, I want a word with you.” Abruptly, Tom pushed Stewart away from him and steered Lindsay across the room to a quiet corner.

“I'll not forget this, Tom Jack,” Stewart spluttered vainly at their retreating backs.

“Neither will I,” Lindsay said. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I'll want paying back,” Tom said with a broad wink. “I've not got where I am by giving owt for nowt. There's something I want to discuss with you. What you might call a proposition. Something you can help me with.” He looked around and realized there were eager ears all round. He drew Lindsay close and said softly in her ear, “I've had a few drinks, so this isn't the
time. Tomorrow, during the first order-paper. There's a coffee shop about half a mile down the hill from the conference center. Polly's it's called. I'll see you there.” He stepped back. “I'll see you later, Lindsay. I know we can do business together.”

 

Jennifer leaned forward with the look of a prospector who's just spotted the glister of gold. “Did anyone hear him make this arrangement?”

Lindsay shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose someone could have. There were plenty of people around.”

“Can you think of anyone who was particularly close to the pair of you at that time?”

Lindsay closed her eyes and tried to visualize the scene. She could almost smell the smoke and the alcohol, she could picture Union Jack's unflinching eyes, but the other figures were unidentifiable blurs. Reluctantly, she shook her head again. “I'm sorry. The room wasn't well lit, and I'd had a few drinks. It was all I could do to concentrate on what Tom was saying.”

Jennifer tapped her pad with her pen. “What I'm far from clear about is why Tom Jack was in your room later that same night when he'd made an arrangement to meet you the following day.”

“You and me both,” Lindsay said. “I haven't a clue. Maybe he decided that what he had to say to me wouldn't wait. Or maybe he was on that floor for reasons that were nothing to do with me. After all, there are another dozen or so delegates with rooms there. He might have had an assignation with any one of them.”

“But wasn't your door locked?” Jennifer asked, with that tone of despairing incredulity that lawyers reserve for clients who appear to be clinically brain dead.

Lindsay shrugged. “Probably not. The lock was really fiddly, so half the time I didn't bother. I wasn't the only one who'd been having a problem. It was the main topic of conversation at breakfast on Tuesday once we'd all exhausted Conference Chronicle. I just took to carrying my passport and traveller's checks around in my bag.”

Jennifer began to look as if she wished she'd stayed in bed and let someone else have the joy of handling Lindsay Gordon's little problem. She massaged the back of her neck with one hand. “Okay, let's go back to this ceilidh. What happened after you and Jack had arranged to meet?”

“The music started up again, and Tom went off to talk to some of his cronies from the print sector. I was collared by some Irish guy who's been shortlisted for a job in Minnesota teaching journalism. He wanted to pick my brains about doing the business in the States. Anyway, we couldn't hear ourselves talk, so after about ten minutes, we went outside. We walked across to the fountain in that sort of plaza in the middle of the campus. I don't know if you noticed, but it was a really mild night. Either that, or we'd both had enough drink not to notice the cold. Anyway, even the breeze felt warm, and my new friend had a quarter bottle of Irish, and so I just sat there and had the odd swallow and told it like it is in the US of A.”

“Okay. Two things. Did you leave before Tom Jack? And how long did you sit talking to this Irishman?” Jennifer asked, flipping back a couple of pages in her notebook and checking her notes of what Lindsay had already said.

“Tom was still in a huddle when we went out. As for how long, I can't be sure. What I can tell you is that I parted company with the Irishman just after three o'clock. And before you ask, the reason I can be so precise about it is that I'd run out of things I felt I could usefully tell him, but he seemed happy to rabbit on all night. So I asked him what time it was and he looked at his watch and said it was ten past three. So I did the ‘Good God, is it really that time? I have to be up in the morning' routine and got to my feet. His room wasn't in Maclintock Tower, so we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.”

“His name?” Jennifer asked, pen poised like a stake over a vampire's heart.

Lindsay pulled a wry face. “Good question. I wish I knew the answer. He's the nearest thing I've got to an alibi, since there
can only have been a few minutes between me leaving him and screaming my head off to raise the alarm.”

Jennifer looked close to exasperation. “You mean, your alibi witness is a man you've never met before, whose name you don't know, and who was quite probably drunk?”