Conferences are Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

“One of my favorite authors, Val McDermid is an important writer—witty, never sentimental, taking us through mean streets with the dexterity of a Chandler.”
Sara Paretsky

 

“If you haven't discovered this award-winning trailblazer in lesbian detective fiction you're missing out on a good one.”

 

“There is no one in contemporary crime fiction who has managed to combine the visceral and the humane as well as Val McDermid . . . . She's the best we've got.”

 

“Val McDermid is one of the bright lights of the mystery field.”

 

“McDermid's a skillful writer—comparisons with such American novelists as Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton are appropriate.”

 

“Lindsay Gordon has got a heart of gold and a nose for trouble.”

 

“Lindsay Gordon is smart, tenacious, daring, lusty, loyal, and class-conscious to the bone.”
Barbara Neely

Also by Val McDermid

 

Lindsay Gordon novels
Report for Murder
Common Murder
Deadline for Murder
Conferences are Murder
Booked for Murder
Hostage to Murder

 

Kate Brannigan novels
Star Struck
Blue Genes
Clean Break
Crack Down
Kick Back
Dead Beat

 

Tony Hill and Carol Jordon novels
The Mermaids Singing
The Wire in the Blood
The Last Temptation
The Torment of Others

 

Non-fiction
A Suitable Job for a Woman

NOTE TO READERS

For the best part of a decade, I was an active member of the National Union of Journalists, holding a variety of posts at local and national level. During that time, I was elected as one of Manchester's representatives for several Annual Delegate Meetings. My experiences in the union provided me with the knowledge that underpins this book. But I should emphasize that neither the events nor the characters in
Conferences are Murder
are even remotely based in fact. The truth is that, just as thousands of delegates to union conferences have told their spouses, we spent our time in earnest debate, working tirelessly to improve the lot of our members. If we looked worn out by the time we returned home, it was simply because of the energy we had expended in passionate argument. Would I lie to you?

On a more serious note, I'd like to thank the many fellow trade unionists who became friends over those years for their help, conscious and unconscious, in the preparation of this book. These include Sue Jackson and Kerttu Kinsler, Diana Muir, Scarlett MccGwire, Gina Weissand, Malcolm Pain, Eugenie Verney, Nancy Jaeger, Pauline Norris, Sally Gilbert, Colin Bourne, Tim Gopsill and Dick Oliver. Most of all, I want to thank BB, who gave me inspiration when I needed it most.

Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely in the mind of the reader.

PROLOGUE

Mid-Atlantic, April 1993

“I could murder some proper orange juice,” Lindsay Gordon grumbled, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the plastic cup of juice on her airline breakfast tray. She sipped suspiciously. It managed to be both sharp and sickly at the same time. “You know, something that tastes like it once met an orange. This stuff hasn't even been shown a photograph.”

“You'd better get used to it,” Sophie Hartley said, peeling the lid back from her own cup and knocking back the liquid. She winced. “Not that it'll be easy. Think you can survive two weeks without freshly squeezed juice?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Who knows? If it was only the juice . . .”

Sophie snorted. “Hark at it. This is the woman whose idea of healthy eating used to be adding a tin of baked beans to bacon, sausage, egg and chips. Listen, Gordon, you can't come the California health freak with me. I can remember when the nearest thing to fruit juice in your flat was elderberry wine.”

“Huh,” Lindsay grunted. “Don't get superior with me just because you used to eat your vegetables raw even though you could afford the gas bill. Anyway, I'm not a California health freak. It would take more than a bunch of New Age born-again hippies to change Lindsay Gordon, let me tell you. First thing I'm going to do when I get off this plane is head for a chip shop and get tore in to a fish supper.”

Sophie shook her head, smiling. “You can't fool me, Gordon. Three years in California and you're working out, eating salad twice a day, swallowing vitamins like Smarties, even wearing
jumpers made from reclaimed wool. You're a California girl now, like it or not.”

Lindsay shuddered. “Rubbish. The odd jog up the beach, that's all, and I was doing that long before America.”

Sophie grinned affectionately at her lover, and wisely held her peace.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now commencing our descent into Glasgow Airport. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Please extinguish all smoking materials . . .”

“Looking forward to it?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Yes and no. I've been out of the game a long time. I'm not sure I even know what the issues are for trade unionists in the UK any longer.”

Sophie squeezed her hand. “It'll be just fine.”

Lindsay smiled. “Shouldn't it be me saying that to you, Dr. Hartley? You're the one delivering a keynote paper at an international conference.”

“Play your cards right at this media conference, and you'll be a doctor soon too. Pick the right brains for your thesis, and they'll be begging you to accept a Ph.D.”

Lindsay pulled a face. “I'm not so sure. I'm not even sure I've still got the old interview techniques. Teaching journalism's a long way away from practising it.”

“You'll be fine,” Sophie assured her. “You'll soon adapt to being back in the old routine. After all, you'll be among friends.”

Lindsay gave a shout of laughter that turned heads three rows away. “Among friends? At a union conference? Soph, I'd feel safer in the lion's cage half an hour before feeding time. One thing I'll never be able to forget is the aggro level of Journalists' Union conferences. You'd think we were arguing over life and death, not politics. I can't imagine that amalgamating with the broadcasting and printing unions has made the atmosphere any friendlier. It's not culture shock I'm afraid of—it's being trapped in a time warp.”

PART ONE

Blackpool, April 1984

1

“This traffic's murder,” Ian Ross complained, easing the car forward another couple of feet. “Look at it,” he added, waving his arm at the sea of hot metal that surrounded them.

Lindsay Gordon did as she was told, for once. In the distance, Blackpool Tower's iron tracery stood outlined against the skyline like an Eiffel Tower souvenir on a mantelpiece. “Only the Journalists' Union could organize a conference that involves 400 delegates travelling to the biggest holiday resort in the North of England on Easter Monday,” he remarked caustically. “Bloody Blackpool. It's taken us an hour to travel six miles. By the time
we get to the hotel, the conference will be over and it'll be time to come home. I bet you wish you'd taken the train, don't you? You could have been walking along the prom by now, eating candy-floss and wearing a kiss-me-quick hat.” Ian glanced sideways and saw the bleak look on Lindsay's face. He sighed. “Sorry, love. I wasn't thinking.”

“It's okay. I've told you. You don't have to treat me like a piece of porcelain.” An awkward silence filled the car. Lindsay patted Ian's hand and repeated, “It's okay.”

Ian nodded. “Time for
The World At One
. Shall I stick the radio on?”

“Sure.” Lindsay leaned back in her seat and tried to let the radio obliterate her thoughts.

“A hundred arrests are made in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire in the worst violence of the miners' strike so far. Police clash with miners outside several collieries, and NUM leader Arthur Scargill accuses officers of intimidation. Anti-apartheid protesters besiege the Home Office after last week's decision to grant British citizenship to the South African runner Zola Budd. And Senator Gary Hart fights to continue his campaign against Walter Mondale for the Democratic nomination in the US Presidential race.” The announcer's voice droned on, fleshing out the day's headlines. But Lindsay's mind was already miles away.

It had been a mistake to come. She had been too easily persuaded by Ian. She wasn't ready for this. It was hard enough coping with the day to day routine of life, a routine that was manageable precisely because it was familiar, because her mind could drift off into free-fall while she gave the appearance of being in touch with what was going on around her. But to plunge into something so strange and challenging as her first national union conference was madness. It had been bad enough just reading about conference. She'd had to give up on the “Advice for New Delegates” booklet half-way through, her head spinning with such bizarre and diverse items as “taking a motion seriatim” and “compositing sessions.” How on earth was she going to wrestle with the real thing with only half her brain functioning?

Ian had meant well, she knew that. He was a news sub-editor on the tabloid newspaper where Lindsay, at twenty-five, was the most junior staff reporter. When she had started to show an interest in the union, speaking up at the meetings of the
Daily Nation
's office chapel, it was Ian who had taken the time to explain to her how their union functioned in national newspapers. He had spent the weary, slow hours of several night-shifts outlining the organization and the internal politics that governed the union far more than the rule book.