Conferences are Murder (14 page)

“About half an hour, I suppose,” he stuttered.

“Fine. Well, when you've done all you can to make yourself look like a respectable citizen whose word could be accepted by a police officer, we will go to the police station where you will tell them exactly what you have told me,” Jennifer said briskly.

She got to her feet. “I have some calls to make, since I'm clearly not going to be at the magistrates' court this morning. I will see you outside the conference hall in thirty minutes.” As Desmond hauled himself out of the chair and moved towards the door with all the care of a man balancing a tray of eggs, she said, “And Mr. Joyce? Thank you for coming forward. I appreciate that, and so will my client.”

 

“What do you mean, she isn't there?” Sophie demanded of the telephone. “You took her into custody, didn't you? Well, what have you done with her?”

Whatever the beleaguered police officer on the other end of the phone was saying, it was clearly what Sophie wanted to hear. Her shoulders dropped back from their stiff, hunched position and her breathing became more calm. “I see. And when exactly was this?” As she asked the question, the sixth sense that informs lovers of each other's presence checked in. She swung round to see Lindsay walk into the conference office. Sophie's face broke into a huge grin of welcome and relief. “It's okay,” she gabbled into the phone. “She's just walked in. Thanks.” She dropped the phone back into its cradle. For a moment, the two women simply stared at each other. Then Lindsay opened her arms and they fell into a hug.

The atmosphere their reunion created was so tangible that a handful of the clerical workers in the room broke into spontaneous applause. “Thank God you arrived when you
did, Lindsay,” Pauline Hardy called across the room. “I thought she was going to throw that phone through the wall.”

Sophie laughed. “Sorry. But you must know what Lindsay's like. I had visions of her starting to tunnel out of her cell. Either that or doing the usual Scottish trick of remonstrating with the arresting officer with a chair leg.”

Pauline winked as she headed for the door. “Didn't they tell you that's why they released her? The council tax payers of Sheffield couldn't afford to pay for any more damage to their cop shop. I'm off to the station to pick up some parcels of stationery,” she added, “otherwise I'd offer to buy you a celebration drink. So have one for me!”

“It wasn't a drink I had in mind,” Lindsay murmured in Sophie's ear.

“I had a feeling it might not be,” Sophie replied. “That's why I took the precaution of booking into a hotel.”

 

Sophie, had barely closed the door behind them before Lindsay was pulling her clothes off.

“Hang on,” Sophie protested mildly. “At least give me a chance to phone room service for a bottle of bubbly.”

“Feel free,” Lindsay said, dragging her shirt over her head. “But I've got to get out of these clothes. They stink of sweat and smoke and drink and police cells.”

Sophie giggled. “And there was me thinking you were desperate for my body.”

“Oh, I am, I am. So get the fizz on ice while I wash away the night.”

“Yes boss,” Sophie said, snapping to mock attention and waving a vague salute at her partner.

As Lindsay towelled her hair dry, she heard the blissful sound of the champagne cork easing out of the bottle with a soft pop. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” she inquired as she emerged into the bedroom.

Sophie, by now naked too, handed her a glass and said, “Actions speak louder . . .” She held out her arms and Lindsay stepped into her embrace.

After the love came the tears. Lindsay sobbed and rocked in the safe circle of Sophie's arms.

“I don't know, I let you out of my sight for two days, and you end up embroiled in another murder,” Sophie said gently, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I'm beginning to wonder if I need danger money to live with you.”

Even Sophie's embrace and the surge of desire that accompanied it couldn't stop the shadow that passed through Lindsay's mind. “Tell me about it,” she murmured. “Sometimes I feel like the bloody angel of death.” She sighed, and stroked the smooth, cool skin in the small of Sophie's back. “I was so bloody scared,” she gulped. “And I couldn't show anyone how scared I was in case they thought I'd done it. Oh, Sophie, you'll never know how pleased I was to see you when I walked through that office door. It was like the light coming on.”

Gradually, Lindsay grew calm, and they lay quietly together sipping champagne. “How did you find out about it?” she asked.

“You know Helen,” Sophie said. “The world would end if she didn't wake up to Radio 4. I was spark out in the spare room, sleeping like the dead after a night on the jungle juice with her and Ros when the whirling dervish bounced in.”

“Oh God,” Lindsay groaned. “What a start to the day! You know, I sometimes wonder how you managed to live with her for so long without caving her head in one morning.”

“You're not the only one,” Sophie said with a grin. “Anyway, she announced that the general secretary of AMWU had perished in suspicious circumstances during the night. Before my eyes were even open, she was informing me that I'd better get down here, given your track record of sticking your nose in wherever it's none of your business. We both agreed there was no way you'd be able to stay out of this one.

“Of course, neither of us had any idea exactly how far your nose was already in. So I borrowed Helen's car and agreed to keep her posted. You can imagine how I felt when I walked into the conference office and they told me you'd already managed
to get yourself arrested! I thought you'd given up cozy chats with policemen.”

“Be fair, Sophie, you know I never wanted to hear about another murder after Alison Maxwell. And I swear that if Tom Jack's killer had chosen any other window to throw him out, I'd have given the whole thing a body swerve.”

“But . . . ?” Sophie said, her heart sinking. “I hear a but in there, Lindsay.”

“Well, I feel like I'm involved whether I want to be or not. Let's face it, my love. Unless the police actually find out what went on in my room last night, there are going to be a lot of people wandering around convinced that Lindsay Gordon really had a lot more to do with it than she's letting on. Besides, I've got my own suspicions.”

Sophie moaned. “Oh, Lindsay. Can't we just get in the car and go back to Glasgow? I mean, does it matter if the entire AMWU membership thinks you pushed Tom Jack out of the window? You don't work in this country any more, you'll never have to see any of them again. Who cares what they think?”

“I do,” said Lindsay stubbornly. “I care. I'm sorry, Sophie, but I want to stick around long enough to see which way the wind is blowing at least. Besides, I'm on police bail. I'm not supposed to leave town without their say-so.”

Sophie smiled and cuddled into her. “I had this feeling you were going to say something like that,” she said ruefully. “Oh, well, why worry? You've only got about 400 potential suspects to offend.”

“Should be a piece of piss, then, shouldn't it,” Lindsay said sweetly.

Sophie gave a sigh of resignation. “In that case, I'd better ring Helen and check it's okay to leave her without wheels for a few days longer.”

“Just a minute,” Lindsay said, pulling Sophie back as she moved towards the bedside phone. “Helen can wait.”

“Shouldn't that be, heaven can wait?”

“You want heaven? Then come back here.”

7

“Emergency Motion 17. This conference deplores the death of AMWU's General Secretary and instructs the National Executive Council to express the union's condolences to Tom Jack's widow and family. It further instructs all delegates and officials of the union to extend their full and free cooperation to the South Yorkshire Police in respect of their inquiry into Tom Jack's untimely death. It further calls upon any person involved to come forward immediately.” Lindsay read the words with a sense of unreality. Only a trade union could believe an emergency conference motion was the way to handle something like this, she thought, looking around to check there
wasn't a white rabbit or a hookah-smoking caterpillar around.

She was standing in the shadows at the side of the stage with Sophie, reluctant to return to her exposed position among the other observers on their dais. She was going to have to face the questions of the mob sooner or later, but the longer she could postpone it, the happier she'd be. Silently, she handed the copy of the motion, currently being proposed by Central London Print Branch, to Sophie, who couldn't keep a bemused grin from lips that felt bruised from their recent close encounter. Suddenly, a man Lindsay vaguely remembered having seen waiting for the lift on her floor of Maclintock Tower ran up the steps of the opposing podium and seized the microphone.

“Jed Thomas, London Broadcast Journalists' Branch, proposing an amendment to the motion.” In spite of the cries of “Out of order” from the handful of procedural bureaucrats on the floor, he persisted. For some reason, no one on the platform cut off his mike. Scarlet, he said, “This Annual Delegate Conference offers its congratulations to anyone who was involved in ridding this union of a man who was largely responsible for the dissent, disorganization, dishonesty and dissatisfaction he presided over. While we regret the undemocratic methods chosen for his removal, we applaud the result and the benefits that will accrue to the union as a result.”

Jed Thomas stood defiantly at the podium, through a stunned silence that lasted longer than anyone who hadn't experienced the earlier two-minute version would have believed possible. Then, as the room erupted into shouting, booing and even a few calls of “Hear, hear!” he turned and bolted, not down the stairs and into the body of the hall, but down the side of the platform, towards the doors at the rear.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sophie asked. “I've never heard anything like it in my life.”

“I've no idea,” said Lindsay. “But I'm going to have a bloody good go at finding out.”

Lindsay and Sophie's attempts to catch up with Jed Thomas were thwarted as soon as they emerged from the side exit into the corridor. One of the delegates who had missed the outburst
was hurrying back towards the hall clutching a handful of the now familiar flyer sheets of Conference Chronicle. When he saw Lindsay, he stopped short and said, “Lindsay Gordon, isn't it? Charlie Dominic,
Sunday Trumpet
. I'm really glad they saw sense and released you. Have you got a minute?”

“No comment,” Lindsay said. Turning to Sophie, she added, “You can have no idea how much I've longed to say that to a journo.”

“Aw, Lindsay, just a word,” Charlie pleaded, eager beaver from head to foot. “Unless I get something to myself, I'm going to look a real dickhead to my newsdesk. I mean, here I am, right on top of the best trade union story of the decade, and the daily boys will have left me not a sausage.”

Against her better judgement, Lindsay relented. She could still remember the pressures inside the hothouse of national newspaper journalism. Besides, Charlie was one of the few Fleet Street hacks at the conference who hadn't tried to give her a bad time; and it was already too late to catch Jed Thomas.

“Just a word it is, then. And if it makes you any happier, I won't talk to the rest of the pack. All I ask is that you keep quiet about me saying a dicky-bird to you until I've left Sheffield. Deal?”

“Deal!” he agreed fervently. She wondered how long it would take the hammer of newsdesk attrition to beat him into the cynical mold of his colleagues.

“Five minutes, then,” she said. Sophie stifled a sigh and leaned against the wall. Lindsay threw her an apologetic look.

“Who do you think killed Tom Jack?” he began, inevitably.

“I don't know that anyone did. I only know for sure that I didn't. I arrived back in my room to find the window broken and Tom's body lying in the car park below. It was one of the worst moments of my life,” she said, unconsciously slipping back into the tabloid prose that had earned her living for years.