Swiftly, Sophie gripped the frantic woman by the shoulders, moving her away from Lindsay and into a chair. Julie glared at
them both, then suddenly dropped her head on to her folded arms and bawled like a calf taken from its mother. Sophie patted her shoulder, making “there, there” noises. The storm of weeping stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Julie looked up at them both, wiping her nose on her sleeve like the defiant child she must have once been. “Time you told me what's been going on, Lindsay Gordon. I'd rather hear it from t'horse's mouth than get it second hand on t'telly.”
“Okay,” Lindsay said. If anyone deserved the truth, it was Julie. She'd lost more than anyone, hard though it was for Lindsay to imagine Union Jack's death as any kind of loss. “It wasn't just the geegees that put the jam on your bread, Julie. There's no easy way to say this. There isn't a polite word for what Tom was up to.” She sighed. “Julie, Tom had been supplementing your income for the last nine years with a bit of blackmail.”
Julie shook her head confidently. “You've got it wrong, you've not read his shorthand properly. What kind of a man did you take him for? He might have rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way, for he were never shy about speaking his mind. But blackmail? Not Tom. Blackmail's for cowards. Tom were no coward.”
“The proof's here, Julie, in his own hand,” Lindsay said. “Nearly nine years ago, Tom discovered that one of his union officers was a murderer. Rather than hand them over to the police, he bled the killer dry. There's a list of dates and amounts, ranging from £150 a week to £500. Then, when he became general secretary of the Journalists' Union, he discovered that the officer in question was financing those payments by embezzling union funds. Tom couldn't do anything about it at the time, because he was desperately trying to paint a wonderful picture of the JU so that the merger with the inkies would go ahead without a hitch. The last thing he could afford was the scandal of an officer with a hand in the till.
“But circumstances changed. After the mergers, it became clear that AMWU's finances were far from as healthy as they should be. The pressure was on for a full-scale inquiry into the
union's finances. Tom knew as soon as that happened, the truth was going to emerge, and it was going to look as if his stewardship of the JU was, at the very least, less than careful. He'd be lucky not to end up looking negligent, and his chances of surviving were pretty slim. The only way he could safeguard himself was to cash in his chips and reveal who the guilty party was. That way, he'd end up looking vigilant for making the discovery, and selfless, for not hesitating to expose someone who'd formerly been a JU official.”
Julie was still shaking her head in disbelief. “I can't tek it in,” she said. “He never said owt to me about any of this. I thought everything were sound as a pound now the unions had all come together. Poor Tom! What a thing to carry round with you. He must have been itching to clean the slate and let the union know who'd been stealing their money.”
Not for the first time, Lindsay marvelled at the power of love. Already Julie seemed conveniently to have forgotten that Laura Craig had only started embezzling her employer because Tom Jack had started blackmailing her. If her need to preserve good memories of her man was so strong, Lindsay was relieved she hadn't aroused Julie's wrath by revealing the other secrets of Union Jack's notebook. Just thinking about some of the things she'd read made rage rise in her like a spring tide. She swallowed and said calmly, “It's all here, Julie, I promise you. The circumstantial evidence that pointed to murder nine years ago, the details of the blackmail payments, and his record of a confrontation last week between him and his blackmail victim. He was going to blow the lid off the embezzlement scandal, with the killer as scapegoat. Only, the killer was afraid that when the police started digging, they'd find out about the blackmail, and the reason for it. The killer was more willing to kill a second time than face charges of murder. And that's why Tom was killed.”
“So who was it?” Julie snarled. “Which of those double-dealing bastards killed my Tom? Tell me that!”
“Only if you promise me you'll leave it to me and the police from here on in. What I propose is to take this notebook to
them and tell them what I've uncovered. Then we can leave it to them to do the rest,” Lindsay said, getting to her feet.
The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back on the floor, with Julie Jack straddling her and clawing at her hand to get at the notebook. With her other hand, Julie clutched Lindsay's hair in a tight grip. “Hand it over, you arrogant bitch,” she yelled. “Hand it over or I'll split your head open.” Sophie moved towards Julie, but the angry widow gave Lindsay's head a threatening shake in response.
Immediately, Lindsay released the notebook, and Julie released her, letting her head crack on the tiled floor. “You're not the only one as can read shorthand,” she panted, pushing herself back to her feet. “I'll ask somebody as knows widows have got rights when it comes to knowing who killed their husbands.”
Desperate to retain some control over the situation, Lindsay pushed herself up on one elbow, trying to ignore the splitting pain in the back of her skull. “It was Laura. Laura Craig, the broadcasting organizer.”
“Julie,” Sophie said softly. “I know this has all come as a hell of a shock. But Lindsay's right. We should go to the police now. I know she didn't put it very tactfully, but they're the ones to handle this.”
Julie shook her head vehemently. “He was my husband. I've got rights. I've got the right to see the look on her face when she realizes she hasn't got away with taking my Tom's life. Anyway, you said she'd already murdered someone else and got away with it. Who's to say the police won't make a bollocks of this one as well?”
Lindsay struggled to her feet, clutching her head. “The police weren't even involved last time. And believe me, if it comes to having axes to grind, you're not the only one. The man she killed nine years ago was one of my closest friends. If you're going to front up Laura Craig, then I'm going with you. Besides, you need my evidence. I'm the only person who can put her at the scene of the crime at the right time.”
In spite of Sophie's protests that they should go to the police,
that had been the end of the argument. Now, hurtling towards the conference center at a speed calculated to get them the worst kind of police escort, Lindsay couldn't stop herself returning to the notebook, like a child irresistibly drawn to picking the most painful scab. Her first reaction to the discovery that Union Jack had dug into the Blackpool files long before her had been chagrin. Then she'd grown puzzled, wondering what had set him off on his search, wondering what she had missed that had pointed all those years ago to Laura as a killer.
But reading the notebook had made everything clear. It was no mere chance that had taken Tom Jack to the coroner. It had been just another step in his highly organized plan to arm himself with dirt on everyone in the Journalists' Union who was potentially either a help or a hindrance in his relentless climb to the top. It was all there, all the dirt, in tiny, immaculate shorthand. Who was sleeping with whom, who had been driving while disqualified, who was having money problems, who had an illegitimate child. Most of it wasn't the sort of stuff you could use to blackmail cash out of people; but it was certainly the kind of information most of the victims wouldn't want to be public knowledge. And that had been enough to extort the favors and support Union Jack had wanted. But what had really engaged Lindsay's contempt was a section where he'd recorded snippets of information he thought he could use to undermine opponents, real and imagined. Amongst them one date had leaped out at her. It was a date she'd never forget. Against it, Tom Jack had noted, “Frances Collier died. Use to demoralize LG if she's difficult.” It wasn't just the malice that hurt. It was the paranoia of a man who felt the need to act like that against someone as insignificant in union terms as she had been back in 1984.
Lindsay forced herself not to brood on this discovery, and tried to remember exactly what the notebook had said about Laura. After Ian's will had been probated, Union Jack had checked it out and discovered Laura was the sole beneficiary. Then he'd decided to go to Blackpool in search of something that he might be able to use as a lever against Laura. It was clear
that he hadn't seriously suspected her of anything, merely thought there might be some little detail he could persuade her would interest the police. What he'd found instead had been a gold-mine.
Lindsay sighed. Poor Ian. His kindness and support had been a vital factor in her winning the battle to rediscover reasons for living after Frances' death had shattered her world. He had helped her to realize that failing to be the best she could be was a betrayal of the love that she and Frances had shared. But most of all, he had reminded her that laughter hadn't died with Frances.
It had been easy at the time to ignore the circumstances of his death. The fact had been all that had mattered. It had been the harshest year of her life, a year when death closed in on her life like a fist crushing a flower. But Lindsay couldn't help feeling guilty now that she hadn't paid more attention to Ian's death. Not that uncovering the murder would have made her feel any better. But at least Tom Jack would still be alive now, and regardless of how she felt towards him while he was alive, he had been a human being and he hadn't deserved to be murdered in cold blood by a selfish and ruthless killer. But what she desperately wanted to know was why Ian had had to die. What benefit had Laura gained from his death that made it worth killing the man she'd supposedly loved? Surely it couldn't just be the money?
Lindsay's reverie was shattered by Julie's strident voice. “I said, we've lost your oppo,” she repeated. Lindsay swung round in her seat. The evening rush-hour had choked the main roads in and out of the city with traffic. In the clogged road behind her, Lindsay could see no sign of the sky-blue metallic roof of Helen's car. “She fell behind at last roundabout,” Julie said. “I thought she'd catch us up, but we've lost her, I reckon. Does she know where she's going?”
“She knows where she's headed. I'm just not sure if she knows how to get there,” Lindsay said with an indulgent smile.
Behind the wheel of the little sports car, Sophie was in no doubt about that. There was nothing wrong with her sense of
direction. Besides, she'd checked out the whereabouts of police headquarters within half an hour of crossing the Sheffield city boundary only two days before.
Â
Michael Jackson getting on down in Oxford Street at noon would have stood more chance of escaping unnoticed than Lindsay and Julie's arrival at Pennine University campus. Julie hadn't even switched off the engine before there was a knot of delegates staring at the pair of them, muttering excited identifications to each other. “Let me handle this?” Lindsay said.
Julie unfastened her seat belt and let it snap back with a crack. “Only as long as I like the way you do it,” she replied, opening the driver's door and climbing out. As they marched towards the main building, they accumulated a trail of followers, like a pair of Pied Pipers. Some of the pursuit tried to head them off, circling round in front of them like wasps driven demented by the smell of raspberry jam, buzzing questions at them which the two women brushed aside indifferently.
They had arrived too late to catch the delegates and officials in session. Outside the hall, there were still knots of people standing round, deep in conversation, reluctant even at this stage of conference to relinquish the wheeling and dealing that was meat and drink to them. Seeing Lindsay stopped the conversations dead, and the handful who recognized Julie immediately fell into huddles with their political sidekicks, speculating on what this strange alliance could mean.
They didn't have to wait too long for their answer. With an instinct born of long experience of trade union and academic conferences, Lindsay swung round on her heel and made straight for the main student union bar. She and Julie paused at the door, as studiedly melodramatic as Clint Eastwood. “All that's missing is the poncho and the cigar,” Lindsay found time to say under her breath. As if they were in a spaghetti Western, the two women moved slowly forward, scanning the room for their target. Gradually, the buzz of conversation in the bar died away as the drinkers became aware that something out of the ordinary was happening.
One of the last groups to be touched by the atmosphere was centered round a woman, who ran a hand through her crest of wavy brown hair as she laughed too loudly at a remark from one of her companions. The lines of her thigh-length heavy silk shirt flowed round her in a smooth wave as she realized something in the room had changed and slowly turned to face Lindsay and Julie. Lindsay marvelled at her cool. Laura's face showed no sign of the panic their arrival must have triggered inside. Her eyebrows twitched fractionally, then she forced her lips into a smile of welcome that did nothing to defrost her ice-blue eyes.
“Conference Chronicle got a bit too close for comfort this morning, don't you think, Laura?” Lindsay asked in a conversational tone.
“Your idea of humor has always been idiosyncratic, dear,” Laura sneered. “You know as well as I do that there wasn't a word of truth in that stinking heap of innuendo and lies. Apart from anything else, no one who knows the least thing about me could imagine for a moment that I'd dream of sharing anything more intimate than a conference platform with you.” There was a murmur of support from the crowd that had closed in around them.
Lindsay shook her head pityingly. “Nice try, Laura. Pick on the one thing in the piece that genuinely was a load of crap, and try to tar the rest of the article with the same brush. Whereas, you and I both know that Conference Chronicle was bang on the button when it came to your whereabouts when Union Jack was killed.”