Conferences are Murder (24 page)

“The Spanish cultural ministry were probably so glad to see the back of it they paid the relocation costs,” Sophie replied. “It's grosso. Having said that, though, looking at the size of it, plus the conservatory, the four-car garage, the swimming pool and the grounds, I'd say we were looking at a pretty substantial investment, even for a trade union baron.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay agreed with a sigh. “That's what was worrying me too. If Union Jack was here right now, I'd want to grip him by the throat and ask how he'd managed to afford Dun-wheeling-and-dealing. Maybe Conference Chronicle ought
to be asking questions about Rancho Jacko rather than slinging mud at me.”

“Run that story past me again,” Sophie asked. “I'm not sure I took in all the implications first thing this morning.”

Lindsay obliged. Summing up, she said, “The bottom line is that the writer of Conference Chronicle knows altogether too much about the murder.”

“Which means that whoever is behind Conference Chronicle is also Tom Jack's killer?” Sophie suggested.

“Either that or else he or she is pretty deeply in Laura's confidence. She may have revealed that she was in fact around at the time of the killing, though she obviously won't have confessed to her own involvement in it. That would make sense if she thought I'd seen her coming out of my room, which she may have done if she'd heard I'd gone to Blackpool to rake up the one bit of the past she can't afford to have disturbed. But whoever it was she trusted has betrayed her, either by writing the tale in Conference Chronicle personally or else by passing it on, wittingly or unwittingly,” Lindsay said.

“There's a lot of ifs and buts there, Lindsay,” Sophie objected.

“I know, but I prefer ifs and buts to the thought that the killer is writing Conference Chronicle and has me in their sights.” They fell silent again, both lost in their respective fears and speculations. The morning trickled slowly past, accompanied by selections from Helen's cassettes, ranging from Annie Lennox to Deacon Blue. “If they haven't got a Scottish accent, Helen won't listen to them,” Lindsay complained, replacing The Proclaimers with Del Amitri.

“Just be grateful she's not a Geordie. Wall-to-wall Dire Straits and Jimmy Nail,” Sophie said with a shudder. She searched her backpack for diversions, and produced the Pocket Scrabble she'd bought to keep Lindsay amused on their transatlantic flight. By two o'clock, Lindsay's stomach was rumbling. At her insistence, Sophie drove off to buy sandwiches, leaving Lindsay leaning on the gate like a refugee from
The Archers
.

Their vigil was finally rewarded just before four, when a newlooking Land Rover Discovery passed them and swung between
the gryphon-topped pillars of Union Jack's drive. They could see it was driven by a woman with long blonde hair, with no passengers. “That's the grieving widow, right enough,” Lindsay said. “I met her once at an office thrash in the good old
Daily Nation
days. Let's give her a few minutes to get the kettle on.”

“You didn't say you knew her,” Sophie complained. “What's she like?”

“I
don't
know her. We met; I was pissed. My overwhelming impression sounds like a cultural stereotype—she was bouncy, a bit brassy, she drank brandy and Babycham, she had terrible dress sense, her voice was too loud and her husband was mildly embarrassed by her.”

“Why?”

“The old story. When they tied the knot, he was a lowly reporter on the
Sheffield Star
. He climbed up the greasy pole, while she essentially remained a working-class lass from Sheffield who steadfastly refused to move to London when his career took him south. I was always mildly surprised that the marriage survived, but it seemed to. Union Jack was always keen to get home at the weekends. They've no kids, by the way. She breeds dogs. Yorkies, I think. Right, let's go. I can hear that kettle whistling from here.”

The Julie Jack who opened the door to the sound of distant yelps was a very different proposition from the lip-glossed loudmouth who had hung on Tom Jack's arm though not his every word. Her eyes were puffy and dark-ringed, her blotchy complexion undisguised with foundation and blusher. Her graying blonde hair was loosely tied back in a pony-tail. Instead of an evening dress which had somehow contrived to look both over the top and cheap at the same time, she wore a baggy Aran sweater over a pair of jodhpur-style leggings. She had aged more than the ten years since they had last met, Lindsay thought. And it couldn't all be laid at the door of bereavement. The disapproving lines round the mouth went too deep for that. She looked the pair of them up and down and said, “I've got nowt more to say to the press.” She began to close the door.

“I'm not press, Julie. Not any more,” Lindsay said. “Remember me? Lindsay Gordon? We met years ago, when Tom was still at the
Nation
.”

“I know who you are,” she replied, her Yorkshire accent as strong as her late husband's. “And you should know better than to try that one on me. Once a hack, always a hack.”

“Hand on heart, Julie, I'm not here as a journo. I'm here 'cause I'm in the shit and I thought you might be able to help me,” Lindsay tried.

“Just why would I want to do that? It was your window he went through. And in my book, that means you know more about my husband's death than you're letting on.” Julie's face settled into a scowl, and one of her ankle-length riding boots began to tap softly on the marble tiled floor of the hall.

“I thought you Yorkshire women were supposed to be shrewd cookies,” Lindsay said, shaking her head sadly. “Do you think if I was going to do anything shady with your husband I'd be daft enough to do it on my own doorstep? Come on, Julie, only the cops would go for something that obvious. You should know better. You've been around the trade union movement long enough to know just how bloody devious we all are.”

“Never mind the flannel. Tell me what you're after and why you're after it and who your oppo is and I'll mebbe think about it.” The scowl hadn't shifted, but the foot had stopped tapping.

“Sophie Hartley, Julie Jack. Sophie's my partner. She's a doctor, not a hack,” Lindsay said.

“Partner as in business or as in knocking off?” Julie demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

“Partner as in lover,” Sophie said coldly. “That can hardly come as a surprise if your husband shared his working life with you.”

Julie gave an unexpected smile, vividly reminding Lindsay of the woman she'd seen dancing the night away in London. “I'm not a bigot like my Tom. I don't have a problem with that, Doctor Hartley.” Then she turned back to Lindsay and her face closed down again. “You've still not told me what you're after or why you're after it.”

“Like I said, I'm in the shit. The police haven't arrested anyone, and I'm the only person they've given a really bad time to. Everybody thinks I had something to do with it, and I didn't. I want to clear my name, because I want to go back home to America. I've got a funny feeling that might not be too easy if the police tell US Immigration I'm a murder suspect.”

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” Julie interrupted. “Like every hack that ever learned a line of shorthand, you think you can find out things no other bugger can. Me, I blame that Woodward and Bernstein. Life were simpler when
Deep Throat
were just a bluey.” The ghost of a smile crept across her eyes.

Lindsay shrugged. “I have been doing a bit of poking around, I don't deny it.”

Julie looked as if someone had cracked a rotten egg under her nose. “And you came out here because somebody told you the Jacks lived in high style.”

Lindsay was genuinely surprised. “No, not at all,” she stammered.

Julie shook her head skeptically. “Oh, bugger it, you might as well come in,” she said, unexpectedly swinging the door open and heading down the hall.

Lindsay and Sophie followed, not too intent on pursuing their hostess to appreciate the professional footballer/Northern comedian school of decor taken to an extreme rarely seen, even in sitcoms. Dazzled by gilt cherubs, silver photo frames, onyx and marble, they followed Julie through the spacious hall into a kitchen that could comfortably have contained the entire Sheffield United first team squad. As they entered, they were swamped with what felt like dozens of furry balls, equipped with more than the normal allotment of teeth and claws.

“Down, you buggers,” Julie roared and four black-and-tan Yorkshire terriers dropped to the floor and scuttled obediently to a large dog basket by the Aga.

Lindsay mustered what dignity she could and moved away from the wall she'd spread-eagled against during the onslaught. “Still breeding them, then?” she asked.

“Keeps me occupied while Tom's away,” Julie said absently,
spooning instant coffee into bone china beakers. Then reality crept up on her again, as it would continue to do until Tom's death became as mundane a part of her daily round as his life had been. Her head dropped, and she rubbed her eyes with one hand. “He loved t'dogs,” she whispered. “I sometimes thought it were t'dogs he come home for, not me.”

“I'm really sorry, Julie. I won't pretend we didn't have our differences, me and Tom, but he didn't deserve what he got,” Lindsay said.

“No, and I'll not have people blacken his name now he's dead. You want to know how we afforded all this?” She swept an arm round, embracing the gleaming kitchen with its array of state-of-the-art appliances, mahogany units and Italian tiles. “I'll tell you how.” She thrust a beaker of coffee at each of them. “Betting, that's how.”

Lindsay looked at Sophie, relieved to see her partner looked as bemused as she felt. “Betting?” she tentatively repeated.

Julie marched across the kitchen and removed the lid of a tall, glazed earthenware jar marked “Meal.” She plunged her hand into it and brought out a small black notebook with elastic keeping it shut tight, like beat policemen use. “It's all in here. Dates, races, horses, amounts. He had a system. It were boring as hell, but it worked. And that's what paid for this place. It were nothing crooked. See for yourself.” She thrust the notebook at Lindsay, who took it and snapped the elastic back. “It means nowt to me,” she added to Sophie. “It's all in shorthand. Mebbe she'll be able to translate it for me, so I can carry on working the system. Only, Tom never explained it to me in any detail.”

Lindsay frowned in concentration. Absently, she pulled a chair out and sat down at the long mahogany table that ran along one wall. She took her notebook out of her handbag and scribbled a couple of notes. The other two women stared at her, the suspense they felt obvious on both faces. “The system's pretty simple,” Lindsay finally said, having studied the first few pages closely, then flicked through to the end, stopping here and there to translate the occasional sentence or paragraph. What she read there made her feel physically sick. Lindsay
forced herself not to reveal her feelings and looked up at the expectant faces. “Though you're right, Julie, it must be bloody boring. It's based on the principle that favorites statistically win more often than not. What you do is, you basically bet on as many races as possible, chronologically. In the first race, you put 50p on the favorite. If it loses, you put £1 on the favorite in the second race. If it loses, you put £2 on the favorite in the third. As soon as you win, you go back to the beginning, with 50p on the next favorite. And so on. You never win huge amounts, but if you do it consistently, you win a substantial amount over time. As your lovely home demonstrates so amply,” she added, managing to keep a straight face.

“It should be lovely, it cost enough,” Julie grumbled proudly. “And I'll need that bloody system to carry on paying for it. Not that he hasn't left me well provided for. Thanks, love,” she added belatedly. “I do appreciate that. I don't trust any of them fellas that do shorthand to tell me the truth. They'd be wanting Tom's system for themselves, selfish bastards, all of them.”

“There's more than his horse-racing stuff in here, Julie,” Lindsay said seriously.

Julie frowned. “How d'you mean? That's all I ever saw him use it for.”

“Nevertheless, that's not all that's in here. I didn't actually get round to telling you what I was after today, did I? Well, the thing is, Julie, I came here with a theory about who killed Tom, only I wasn't sure if I had any motive for that person to kill him.” Lindsay closed the notebook and tapped it against the edge of the table. “Now I have. The only question is, what do we do about it?”

15

Lindsay glanced over her shoulder, checking that Sophie was still on their tail. Her attempts to persuade Julie Jack to stay out of the impending confrontation had resembled water dripping on a stone; carrying on for a thousand years might have had an effect, but in the short term, there was no visible change. Now all Lindsay could hope for was damage limitation. Which was why she was sitting in the passenger seat of Julie's Land Rover, bucketing through the Yorkshire lanes, with Sophie struggling to keep up on unfamiliar roads.

When Lindsay had dropped her bombshell, Julie Jack had seized Tom Jack's notebook from her and flicked frenziedly through the pages, desperately trying to find something that would make sense of Lindsay's monstrous words. Frustrated by his neat shorthand, she'd thrown the notebook back at Lindsay, shouting, “Show me! You just bloody show me were it says owt about getting hissen killed! Don't tell
me
he knew he were for it and he did nowt to stop it!” She raised a fist as if to strike Lindsay.