Conferences are Murder (6 page)

Though she'd never have admitted it to Paul, it was a secret relief to Lindsay when they returned to the Winter Gardens and discovered that the bad news had travelled with its usual swiftness. The hall was virtually empty. Standing Orders Sub-Committee were in a huddle by the door, discussing whether to move suspension of standing orders; to bring conference to an end; or simply to make a brief announcement from the stage, followed by a minute's silence.

The delegates stood around in subdued groups, talking softly about what they'd heard had happened. Lindsay couldn't help noticing that there wasn't a national newspaper reporter in sight. She knew exactly what most of her delegation would be doing now—they'd either be at the hospital or the police station. And she knew that any minute now, her newsdesk would start looking for her to write the definitive piece on the life and death of Ian Ross. Part of her wanted to go on the missing list, but the other, professional part of her wanted to be the one who would give shape to the way Ian would be remembered.

Leaving Paul in the capable hands of the JU's assistant general secretary, a former colleague from
The Watchman
, Lindsay systematically worked the fragmented groups to discover where Laura was. It soon became apparent that the police had been led to the conference as a result of the organ donor card Ian carried. The card still gave Laura as his next of kin. Since her business card and a selection of photographs were also in his wallet, it hadn't taken them long to work out she was likely to be at the JU conference. Once they'd got that far, it had been straightforward. Instead of the tragic news being broken by someone she knew, Laura had heard about Ian's death from a strange police officer. Lindsay could only imagine what that had felt like. Even in imagination, it made her shudder.

There was no reason to hang about at the Winter Gardens, so Lindsay slowly walked back to the Princess Alice to collect her bag. She wandered through to the bar and checked out their selection of whiskies. She ordered a large Glenfiddich, the only
malt on offer, added a dribble of water to the pale liquid and took a small sip. As she took a cigarette from her packet, a hand snapped a flame into life in front of her. She looked up into the dark blue eyes of Shaz Morton, who was noted for managing the seemingly impossible, blending her job as a high-profile television company press officer with her role as a campaigning lesbian. Wherever Shaz went, controversy followed. So, usually, did her girlfriend, a polytechnic lecturer in women's studies. But this week in Blackpool, Shaz was unaccompanied. Probably, Lindsay had decided, because her girlfriend knew how few opportunities Shaz would have to stray at a JU conference.

“I heard about Ian,” Shaz said, lighting Lindsay's cigarette. “Not what you needed just now, right?”

“Right,” Lindsay agreed.

“Especially not after Frances.” Shaz took a deep drag of her own cigarette and ordered a large gin and tonic, and another malt for Lindsay.

“No thanks,” Lindsay started to say.

“You need it. I meant to speak to you earlier before about Frances, but you know how it is. I was really upset to hear about her death. She was very special,” Shaz said.

Lindsay looked surprised. “I didn't know you knew her.”

Shaz smiled and topped her gin up with tonic. “We did some work together on a briefing pack for lesbian mothers involved in custody fights. It was a few years ago, long before she met you. We bumped into each other now and again, at meetings. I don't know if anybody's thought to mention this to you, but she was really happy with you.”

Lindsay's throat closed in the familiar emotional uprising. One step away from tears, she forced a mouthful of whisky down, then sucked in the comfort of nicotine. “Thanks,” she finally managed to say. “I was really happy with her.”

Shaz nodded towards Lindsay's bag. “What train are you catching? Fancy some company?”

“I'd like that. I don't have a reservation, though. I expected to be going back in the car with Ian.” An involuntary shudder set her whisky swirling in her glass. She put the glass down with a
bang. “I keep thinking how bloody awful it must be for Laura. I know they'd split up, and she treated him like shit, but they were together for years. You don't just switch off your feelings for someone after all that time. No matter what's happened between you.”

Shaz nodded. “She'd have to have a heart of stone not to be upset. She'll feel guilty too, probably. You know, all that, ‘if we hadn't split up, it would never have happened,' business.”

“Yeah.” Lindsay sighed. “She's not one of my favorite people, but if she's feeling a fraction of what I felt about Frances, then my heart goes out to her.”

Before they could say more, there was a disturbance behind them. A familiar voice floated through the door, focusing every drinker's attention on the speaker. “Will you for God's sake leave me alone, Tom? I'm not a piece of bloody china,” Laura Craig was shaking off Tom Jack's protective arm and stalking into the bar.

“But Laura, you shouldn't be left alone, you're in shock.” For once, thought Lindsay, he actually sounded sincerely concerned.

“Tom, piss off,” Laura said slowly and clearly. “Watch my lips. I want to be alone.” She sounded more like Margaret Thatcher than Greta Garbo.

Tom Jack stepped back. There was no mistaking the determination and anger in Laura's voice. He put his hands up at chest level, palms towards Laura. “Okay. Okay. I'll be through in the lounge if you want me.”

She watched him leave before turning back towards the bar, face set in a hard, expressionless mask. Shaz leaned forward to say softly, “Sounds like your sympathy might be a bit misplaced.”

Lindsay shook her head. “She's in shock, like Tom said. Grief does funny things to you.”

When she realized who her companions at the bar were, Laura sighed in exasperation. “Oh God,” she said. “Is there no peace in this bloody town?” Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Laura said sharply, “Don't say it. Don't for God's sake say you're sorry. Is anyone serving here?” she
demanded, turning to the barman. “Good. Give me a very large vodka and ginger beer. When I say very large, I mean four.” The barman took one look at her face, decided not to comment and scuttled off towards his optics.

Lindsay moved towards Laura and said, “Laura, I know what it's like. After Frances died, I sometimes felt it was only the anger holding me together.”

Laura shook her head, as if to clear the vision. “That's what comes next, is it? People giving me permission for my emotions?” Lindsay felt as if she'd been smacked in the face, but tried to subdue her reaction. When Laura's drink came, she swallowed half of it in one. As the alcohol hit, her shoulders straightened.

A BBC radio producer chose that moment to come over and put his arm round her. “Laura, love, we're all so very, very sorry,” he said.

Laura pulled herself clear. “You're dripping beer on my suit. I doubt you earn enough to have it cleaned, never mind replaced. Now piss off,” she hissed.

The man dropped his arm as if he'd been stung. He backed away, his face a mask of shock.

Laura finished her drink and slammed the glass down on the bar. “What a waste,” she said bitterly. “What a bloody, bloody waste.”

“I know,” Lindsay persisted. “I can't believe it either. I can only imagine how much worse it is for you.”

“Can you?” Laura asked dangerously. “Can you? Sure you're not just fishing for an angle for your story, Lindsay?”

Lindsay clocked the look of shock on Shaz's face, and suspected it was mirrored on her own. “For Christ's sake, Laura,” she protested.

“How come you didn't make it to the hospital like the rest of the pack, Lindsay? Oh, of course! You came in
Ian
's car, didn't you? You didn't have any wheels to get there. Well, you missed a great show. Your cronies were in fine form. ‘How do you feel, Laura? What was the last thing he said to you, Laura? What was he really like, Laura?' ” she mimicked. “My God, to think my job puts me on the same side as you vultures!” Laura turned away
and signalled to the barman. “Just a double this time, please.”

Lindsay moved forward, shaking off Shaz's restraining arm. “Whatever you might think, Laura, I'm not interested in sneaking a couple of juicy quotes out of you. Ian was my friend, and in case you hadn't noticed, you don't have a monopoly on grief.” She spoke softly, but there was no mistaking her sincerity.

Laura turned to face Lindsay and looked her up and down. “My god,” she said, her drawling voice heavy with contempt. “I thought you were as bad as the rest of the vultures. I was wrong. You're a hundred times worse. You stand there, trading on the fact that Ian was too soft-hearted to treat you with the contempt you deserved. Have you any idea how much it pissed him off to have you hanging round, always badgering him with questions, thrusting your bloody grief down his throat? And now you stand there with your crocodile tears like he was something to you. Christ! You should get a T-shirt printed. Lindsay Gordon, queen of the jackal pack. Just for the record, Gordon, let me tell you that your pathetic posturings of grief made Ian sick. And not just Ian. Let's face it, no normal person's going to shed a tear because there's one less dyke on the planet.”

Lindsay could feel the scarlet tide of anger and embarrassment that swept through her body. She was dimly aware of Shaz's hand on her arm again. This time she let herself be drawn away from the bitter, bereaved woman at the bar. “Come on,” Shaz said. “She doesn't deserve your support.”

At the door, Lindsay looked back, Laura was still leaning against the bar, the center of all the other drinkers' wary attention.

“I'll never forgive her that,” Lindsay said, her voice cold, her face set. “I don't care how shocked she is, she's gone too far. One day she's going to regret this.”

PART TWO

Sheffield, April 1993

1

The custody sergeant picked up his pen and gave Lindsay a shrewd look of appraisal. “Been drinking?” he asked. It was the first indication he'd given that she wasn't invisible. The two detectives who had brought her into the police station also turned towards her. She'd listened patiently while they'd informed the sergeant she was required for questioning relating to a suspicious death. The stocky detective sergeant had grumbled at her refusal to say anything, either at the scene of the death or in the car on the way to the station.

In answer to the custody sergeant, Lindsay nodded. “I had a few whiskies earlier.”

The custody sergeant nodded grimly. “Okay lads, no questions for a couple of hours. Give the lady time to sober up.”

“No problem. We've got plenty to keep us busy back at the scene of the crime,” the detective constable said.

“Alleged crime,” the custody sergeant corrected him absently.

The two detectives shouldered their way past Lindsay. She heard the DS mutter, “Bollocks to that,” as he opened the door.

“A few details, if you please, miss,” the custody sergeant said.

“I'd like a lawyer,” Lindsay said.

“Do you know one locally? Or would you prefer me to call the duty solicitor?”

“The duty solicitor will do fine,” Lindsay sighed. “Thanks.”

The custody sergeant picked up the phone on his desk and dialled a number. Almost immediately, he spoke. “Pager number 659511. Please call Sergeant Meadows, Central Police Station. End message.” He paused. “That's right. Thanks.” He put the phone down and smiled at Lindsay. “Now, while we're waiting, a few details.”

“Name, rank and serial number, that sort of thing?”

“Name, address and fingerprints, more like. And you don't get Red Cross parcels here, neither.”

 

The cell they took her to was cold and smelled stale. The solicitor had agreed to come soon, so she could interview Lindsay before the police decided she was sober enough for interrogation. She sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and stretched in a huge yawn. Then, elbows on her knees, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with her knuckles. She had sobered up the moment she had realized what the jagged hole in her window meant. But that couldn't stop the drink taking its physiological toll. Besides, it was nearly six in the morning. She was entitled to feel tired. She should be tucked up in bed, fast asleep, not locked up in some scruffy, dismal cell.

Lindsay began to wonder if leaving her to kick her heels was a deliberate ploy; perhaps they intended her to become more
nervous and panicky the longer they left her. Then the voice of realism shouted down the paranoia. She knew how chronically understaffed the police always claimed to be. These guys were investigating what was either a highly dramatic suicide, a mystifying accident or a horrific murder. Maybe they simply had more pressing things to do before they were overtaken by events. After all, they knew she wasn't going anywhere now.