Conferences are Murder

by Val McDermid

  “He could have fallen. It could have been an accident during a struggle.”

  “So what were they doing in my room in the first place if they weren’t up to something funny?” Lindsay demanded.

  “Maybe that was just coincidence. Maybe they just slipped in there to be somewhere more private than the corridor.” Sophie sounded doubtful, even to her own ears. “Anyway,” she continued more strongly, “what’s to connect Laura?”

  “The smell of her. Le Must de Cartier isn’t a common perfume. I’ve only ever known two women who wore it, and if I’m sure of one thing in this whole twisted case, it’s that Cordelia didn’t kill Union Jack.”

  Sophie shrugged. “So Laura was in the corridor. It proves nothing. So was Andy Spence. He had motive, especially if Tom Jack knew about his sexuality. So was Jed Thomas. He had motive too. He wanted his boyfriend to have a crack at the top job before Jack completely wrecked his union. Your old mate Dick McAndrew didn’t happen to mention where he was at the crucial time, did he? And that’s just the ones you’ve mentioned to me.”

  Lindsay pouted. “I still reckon that double-dealing Laura Craig is the best bet.”

  Sophie smiled, but took pity. “Well, maybe she did kill him. But the one thing that sticks out a mile in this whole business isn’t so much the motive. It’s this nine-year gap between Ian’s death and Union Jack’s. Maybe if we explored the time span, it would bring us closer to unravelling what connects the deaths. If indeed there is any connection.”

  Lindsay stared out at the dark Pennine moors through a curtain of drizzle, pondering Sophie’s words. The lowering sky seemed to swallow the afternoon light, forcing drivers to switch on their headlights. “What you’re saying makes a lot of sense,” she said eventually. “But I don’t know where to start.”

  “Speaking as a scientist,” Sophie said, “if I was looking at a condition that had remained dormant for a while and then had suddenly flared up again, the first question I’d ask is, ‘What has changed in the immediate past to provoke this?’ In other words, we should be asking not, ‘Why did Tom Jack keep his mouth shut all those years if he knew about or suspected murder?’ but rather, ‘What has happened to alter the situation? What is different from last week, or last month, or even last year?’ ”

  “Point taken, but I think there’s a flaw in your argument,” Lindsay said.

  “Now there’s a surprise,” Sophie teased.

  Lindsay poked her tongue out at her partner. “Tom Jack may well have taken action nine years ago when he uncovered the evidence that Ian’s death wasn’t as simple as it appeared. Just because we can’t see what he did, it doesn’t mean that he sat on his hands. He could have acted in a secret, underhand way, presumably for his own ends.”

  “That’s not a flaw in my argument, dear heart. In fact, it reinforces the point I was making. The crucial issue is what has happened to change the circumstances and turn Tom Jack into a threat. So what’s different, Lindsay? What are the new circumstances?”

  “Well, there’s the merger for one thing. That went through with indecent haste, according to some. It all happened so quickly that there wasn’t a full audit of both unions’ finances before they took the irrevocable step of joining forces. Apparently, Andy Spence has been complaining that the JU was less than frank about its financial problems. And as usual, people have been muttering about hands in the till. But that’s nothing new.”

  Sophie swung off the motorway and headed cross-country towards Sheffield. “Didn’t I read something in Conference Chronicle suggesting that the finances of the former JU were riddled with corruption? And that under Tom Jack’s leadership, AMWU was going the same way?”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay sighed. “And it was probably not far off the mark. The other thing that’s changed, of course, is Tom Jack’s role in the union. In the past, he was a lay official who could shunt the blame for any financial irregularities at the door of paid officials. This time around, there would have been no hiding place for Tom. Unless, of course, he intended to make himself the hero of the hour by pointing the finger at the person who was creaming cash out of the union accounts.”

  12

  “As you will have to spend long hours engaged in conference business, we recommend that you bring a selection of loose, comfortable clothing with you. Of course, T-shirts supporting a wide variety of radical causes are invariably on sale outside the conference hall for those who have failed to follow this advice.”

  from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

  By the time they returned to Sheffield, Lindsay felt like her head had spent the day in a tumble-drier. Although she and Sophie had continued to discuss the case, she felt they’d made no more progress. Like kittens chasing their tails, they kept coming back to the idea of money. As Sophie pulled up outside the conference headquarters, Lindsay said with a sigh, “If we’re talking money, we’re not going to find the answer here in Sheffield. We need to look at head office.”

  “I had a funny feeling you were going to say something like that,” Sophie said. “Oh boy, you really do know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you? Today Blackpool, tomorrow Watford.”

  “Who said anything about tomorrow?” Lindsay asked sweetly, getting out of the car. She leaned on the roof and winked at Sophie as she locked it up. “No time like the present, is there? Still love me, babe?”

  “Not if you call me ‘babe’ again today,” Sophie said. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Your turn to busk it,” Lindsay said, striding off purposefully towards the conference office. To Lindsay’s surprise, the clerical staff seemed as busy as they’d been the previous afternoon, although logically, there should have been little for them to do so close to the end of the conference. She spotted Pauline’s flat-top above a computer terminal on the far side of the room and made her way over to her. Sophie stayed near the door, idly browsing through a copy of that afternoon’s order-paper.

  “Why does my heart always sink whenever I see you heaving into sight?” Pauline asked resignedly as Lindsay perched on a corner of her desk.

  Lindsay grinned. “And there’s me thinking it was passion that made your heart flutter.”

  “That was before you appointed me your unofficial source. Walls have ears around here, you know. Some people don’t like me talking to you, and they let me know. Frankly, there are times when I think I won’t be sorry to leave,” Pauline replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen as she typed. “Where you been hiding yourself?”

  “Would you believe Blackpool?”

  Pauline shook her head. “I don’t know how you can think of enjoying yourself at a time like this.”

  “Put it this way. Nobody got a kiss-me-quick hat,” Lindsay said grimly. “Let’s just say we had a little ride down memory lane on the ghost train. And I’m sorry if me sticking my nose in has caused you aggravation.”

  “Forget it. I’ve got broad shoulders. How goes the sleuthing anyway?” Pauline asked.

  “Slowly. Uncertainly. A bit like British Rail. You carry on in the hope you’ll eventually reach a destination. Unfortunately, the one you reach isn’t always the one you wanted to arrive at. How come you’re all still slaving away?” Lindsay asked. “I expected you to be partying, with only one session left.”

  “Dream on,” Pauline sighed. “Conference has been extended for an extra day so we can complete the agenda. At least that’s what the officials are saying. The real story is, the cops have asked the NEC to keep the conference in session for a bit longer so they can continue their investigations without the delegates scattering to the four winds. So we’ve all been told to stay on at least till Saturday, maybe even Sunday. Handy Andy pulled this big sob-story routine on us that the poor old union can’t afford to pay us overtime, on account of all the other unforeseen expenditure they’re facing because of conference overrunning.”

  “An appeal to your better natures, eh? I bet he was as popular as a gingham frock at a thr
ash metal gig. So did you all agree to work on for buttons?” Lindsay asked.

  “What do you think?” Pauline said angrily. “There’s enough mugs in this clerical section to open a coffee bar. Anyway, since we’re on the subject of exploitation, what can I do for you?”

  Lindsay had the grace to look embarrassed. “Yeah, right, spot the hypocrite. It’s all right for me to come creeping for favors, but it’s all wrong for Andy Spence to do the same. What can I say?” She shrugged and held out her hands, palms upward. “In my defense, I’ve got to say I’ve always really admired you, Pauline!” She grinned and winked.

  “Dear God! Spare me the charm!” Pauline exploded with a giggle. “What can I do for you, light of my life, joy of my existence, fire of my lions?”

  “Don’t you mean loins?”

  “What, and me a happily married woman? Just be grateful for the lions. What is it you’re after? Come on, spit it out. Some of us have got work to do.”

  “Media House,” Lindsay said.

  “Yes, Lindsay, Media House. It’s where I work. It’s where we all work. It’s the head office of the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union. Also known as Mafia House,” Pauline said sweetly.

  Lindsay pulled a mock scowl. “Careful. I’ve been patronized by experts, you know.”

  “You saying black people can’t be experts?” Pauline counterteased. “Now what was it about Media House?”

  Lindsay swung one foot back and forward, studying her Nike trainer as if seeing it for the first time. “I don’t suppose there are many people there this week, with you all being at conference.”

  “Skeleton staff,” Pauline said. “Switchboard, a couple of clerks in membership records and Phil Jackson from admin as the sort of goalkeeper, there to deal with emergencies. Poor sod has to stay on till eight in the evening just in case we’ve got any problems here with agendas and if SOS or the NEC or the officials need any information from head office records. Was that the sort of thing you wanted to know?”

  “Mmm,” Lindsay said casually, still letting the Nike hypnotize her. “I suppose only a handful of people have got keys to the building?”

  “Wrong,” said Pauline. Lindsay raised one eyebrow. “Nobody has keys to the building. Entry is controlled by security code. Most of us have codes that are only valid between 8.45 a.m. and 6.15 p.m., Monday to Friday. Only department heads, full-time officials and NEC members have codes that allow them access at other times.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay tried not to sound too disappointed. The Nike stopped swinging and she got to her feet. “Sorry to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Pauline said. She tapped her keyboard. “What do you think of this motion, by the way?” She gestured at the screen. Lindsay read, “Gen Sec 0719/Dep Gen Sec 4719.”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, it should achieve something useful, for a change,” she said. “Anyway, I must get on. My bloodhound awaits,” she added, gesturing with her thumb towards Sophie, who was by now completely absorbed in her reading. “I’ll let you know how we get on. Take care.”

  “I suspect I should be saying that to you,” Pauline said, clearing her screen as Lindsay walked away.

  Just after ten, Sophie cruised slowly past the eight-storey office building that housed the headquarters of AMWU. The union’s initials trickled down the side of the building, a gash of red neon in the night. As she checked out the building for lights, Lindsay said, “When the four unions merged, they each found it impossible to accept that any of the others possessed a building suitable for their new mega-union’s headquarters, so, with traditional trade union logic and efficiency, all four put their existing head offices on the market.”

  “At the bottom of the biggest property slump since the Second World War?” Sophie asked resignedly.

  “You got it. At least the lease on this building is relatively cheap, on account of it had been standing empty for eighteen months and the roof leaks. But they’ve got an option to buy after five years. Everyone in AMWU fervently hopes that by then the other buildings will have been sold, the union’s finances will be restored to health, and the election of a Labour government will have given the whole trade union movement a new lease of life. Only about two members actually believe these hopes are going to become reality. They’re the ones who also believe the tooth fairy really exists and that the check is in the post.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, what do you think? Do we go in, or what?” Sophie asked as she swung round the corner to circle the block.

  “I think so. No lights showing. Park up somewhere unobtrusive, and we’ll go for it.”

  They decided to enter the building via the underground car park, rather than the more conspicuous main entrance, next door but one to a busy Burger King. At the head of the ramp, Lindsay suddenly stopped without warning, forcing Sophie to stumble into her back. “Shit!” Lindsay said, “Look, closed-circuit video surveillance!”

  “So?” Sophie said. “We’re not burglars. We’re not going to steal anything, we’re not about to break and enter. You are a member of AMWU, which I reckon gives you a right to be on the premises. And I’m wearing an Amnesty International sweatshirt.”

  “Remind me never to call you if I need legal representation,” Lindsay muttered. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it, against my better judgement. Just keep your head down, and follow me.”

  “Eat your heart out, Catwoman,” Sophie said under her breath as Lindsay set off, hugging the walls and tucking her head down into her chest.

  They quickly worked their way round to the building’s entrance, avoiding the arcs of the cameras as far as possible. Lindsay keyed in the combination Pauline had given her for the general secretary. No one had thought to cancel it following Tom Jack’s spectacular plunge, and the door lock clicked open. The two women slipped inside, finding themselves in a dimly lit corridor. At the end was a lift. Lindsay punched the call button, and in a matter of seconds, the doors slid noiselessly open.

  “Which floor?” Sophie asked, finger poised.

  “Er . . . I don’t actually know,” Lindsay confessed, scuffing the toe of her trainer on the carpet.

  “You—don’t—know?” Sophie demanded, articulating each word slowly and distinctly as the doors closed.

  “Not as such,” Lindsay said. “I couldn’t really ask, could I? Not without making it really obvious in a room full of head office staff that I was about to go off and do a Watergate.”

  “Fine. So we’re in an eight-storey office building without a clue which office we should be looking in? Well, Lindsay, that’s a lot of locks to pick before morning,” Sophie said, pulling a rueful smile to take the edge off her words.

  Lindsay scowled and leaned past her lover to hit the ground floor button. When the doors opened, she marched across the foyer to a semi-circular desk marked “Reception. All visitors must sign in here.” The light from the lift provided enough illumination for a cursory search. Sophie leaned against the lift door, her finger on the “doors open” button, a smile in her eyes. Nothing worked better with Lindsay than a little needle, she thought to herself. Meanwhile, Lindsay pulled open the top drawer of the desk. She took out a clipboard with yesterday’s brief list of visitors and gave it a quick glance. She let out a low whistle. “Police were here yesterday,” she said. “Let’s hope there’s something left for us.” Dropping the clipboard, she rootled through the drawer. “Gotcha!” she said confidently, waving a stapled bundle of paper above her head. “Name, title, extension number, office.”

  She walked slowly back to the lift, flicking through the pages. “Here we are. Tom Jack, general secretary, extension 8111, room 803. Safe to assume that’s on the top floor?” Lindsay said.

  “Good thinking, Batman,” Sophie said, pressing the button marked eight. Moments later, they stepped out into blackness, which became impenetrable as soon as the lift door shut behind them. “I don’t suppose we remembered a torch?” Sophie asked.

  Lindsay rummaged in her bag, finally finding a
small pencil torch with a powerful, narrow beam. “Give the girl a coconut?”

  She shone the light on the doors as they moved along the narrow corridor. 803 was the third door on the left. Lindsay tried the handle, and to her delight and surprise, the door swung open. The torch beam revealed a small, businesslike secretary’s office, complete with filing cabinets, word processor terminal and a low, three-seater sofa, presumably for Union Jack’s visitors. On the right-hand wall, there was another door. Lindsay headed purposefully in that direction, while Sophie made for the computer, which she switched on as Lindsay opened the door to the inner sanctum.

  “Well, Union Jack didn’t stint himself,” Lindsay commented as she swung the torch beam across the room. The office was done out in top-of-the-range hi-tech black and chrome, a style that had already dated. Lindsay walked over to the two walls of windows that made it look as if the corner office extended indefinitely into the sodium-lit night streets. There was an array of buttons in the central pillar, and she pressed the one marked “close.” A sweep of vertical blinds whispered across the windows, shutting out the town below. She moved over to the desk and switched on a black halogen lamp. On a stand to one side was a PC, but Lindsay wasn’t interested in that. She knew her limitations. Besides, she could already hear the sound of Sophie’s fingers on the secretary’s word processor. When she’d had enough of playing with that machine, she could unravel the secrets of Union Jack’s PC.

  Lindsay sat on the edge of a luxurious black leather swivel-and-tilt chair and tried the drawers of the massive black ash desk. They were locked. Of course, the police would presumably have had Union Jack’s keys. They wouldn’t have had to bust open his expensive desk. And she didn’t want to if she could avoid it. “Sophie?” she called.

  “Problems?” came the reply.

  “Are the drawers in that desk open?”

  There was a brief pause while Sophie experimented. “All except the bottom one. Why?”