Conferences are Murder

by Val McDermid

  “There’s got to be a way in,” Lindsay repeated, oblivious to Sophie’s hostility, thrusting her way through the undergrowth that covered the steep slope behind the hexagonal building.

  “Why? The place is all locked up. Everyone with any sense has gone home. The entire building is in darkness. It’s ten o’clock at night. The editor of Conference Chronicle is almost certainly getting legless in a bar somewhere. Oh shit!” Sophie cannoned into Lindsay’s back as she stumbled on the slope.

  “There!” Lindsay exclaimed triumphantly. “An open window.” She pointed at a small frosted-glass window that was cracked open an inch.

  “Oh whoopee,” Sophie groaned. “It’s too high,” she added, giving the window a second look.

  “Not if I climb on your shoulders,” Lindsay enthused. “Come on, over here.”

  “You shouldn’t go in by yourself,” Sophie protested uselessly as Lindsay dragged Sophie over to the wall and started to scramble up her body, depositing sticky yellow mud on her clothes as she went.

  Lindsay prized the window open and gripped the sill. “Why the hell not?” she gasped as she pulled herself up, nearly kicking Sophie in the head as she struggled for leverage. “We’re only talking one maverick journo here, not the Boston Strangler.”

  As Lindsay hauled her upper body over the sill, Sophie recovered her breath and said, “Not necessarily. There is one other way Conference Chronicle could have known that Laura was in the right place at the right time to have been spotted by you and translated into prime suspect for Union Jack’s murder.” Lindsay’s legs suddenly stopped thrashing. “That’s right, sweetheart. Whoever writes Conference Chronicle might just be Union Jack’s real killer.”

  Lindsay’s voice, muffled by her position, floated back to Sophie. “We just passed a fire exit. About twenty feet back. I’ll open it from the inside, okay?” She gave a final heave and pulled herself over the sill. There was an ominous crash, followed by, “Don’t worry, I’m all right, I just knocked some chairs over.”

  Lindsay groped round in the dark till she found a door and emerged into the gloom of a corridor dimly lit by emergency lighting. Cautiously, she headed in the direction of the fire door she’d spotted from the outside. Praying it wasn’t alarmed, she pushed down on the bar and felt the door give. Sophie grabbed the edge and hauled it towards her, slipped inside then grabbed Lindsay in a tight hug. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said.

  “I know, I know, you just didn’t want to miss the fun,” Lindsay mock-grumbled.

  “I just like to keep you on your toes. What’s the plan of action?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “I guess we just wander round till we find our rogue photocopier.”

  Sophie ran a hand through Lindsay’s tousled hair. “That’s what I love about you, Gordon,” she said fondly. “Always first on the block with a clear strategy.”

  They moved down the silent corridors, trying to keep quiet. On the ground floor, the conference hall occupied the central area of the building, surrounded by a corridor. The opposite side of the corridor was lined with different sized offices, like a motley ring of covered wagons. It was easy to eliminate them simply by walking the corridors; there were no strips of light showing under doors, no telltale humming and paper-shunting of photocopiers to be heard. It took less than fifteen minutes for Sophie and Lindsay to be certain that wherever Conference Chronicle was being produced, it wasn’t on the ground floor.

  At the head of one of the flights of stairs to the basement floor, Sophie paused. “Sure this is wise?” she asked. “Maybe there was a silent alarm on that door. We could be living on borrowed time.”

  “That’s a chance I’m prepared to take,” Lindsay said. “I’ve come this far, I’m not bottling out now.”

  The implication that her bottle had gone, clearly meant to sting Sophie into action, merely amused her. But the thought of Lindsay charging headlong and alone into a potentially explosive situation did persuade her to stick by her lover’s side as she plunged down the stairs. “Into the valley of wossname,” she muttered under her breath as she followed.

  The basement was home to medium-sized committee rooms and more small offices. As they turned the first corner at the foot of the stairs, both women stopped dead in their tracks. A slender shaft of light spilled on to the floor at their feet. And they could both hear the fast shuffle and hum of a state-of-the-art photocopier.

  17

  “And don’t forget. Although conference is about serious business, there’s no reason why you can’t have fun.”

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

  Lindsay was poised to indulge her taste for drama by flinging the door wide and leaping through it like the SAS when Sophie calmly gripped the handle and silently opened the door a crack. She peered through, then moved to one side to let an impatient Lindsay see beyond her. For a seemingly endless thirty seconds, Lindsay just stood and stared. Then she pushed the door open and stood silhouetted in the gap. “I don’t believe I’m seeing this,” she said wonderingly.

  The small office looked like a miniature business center. It contained a few desks, one with a PC, another with an Amstrad PCW, a third with an electronic typewriter, all firmly chained to the floor. A fax machine sat on a small side table, and against the far wall stood a photocopier, which was spitting out sheets of paper at an impressive speed. Standing by the photocopier, transfixed with shock, was a tall black woman with an immaculate Grace Jones flattop.

  “I just don’t believe it,” Lindsay repeated, moving across the room like a sleep-walker. She picked up one of the sheets from the photocopier and saw the familiar masthead of Conference Chronicle. Pauline was still motionless, her brown eyes wide with shock and fear. She licked her lips, a tiny movement magnified out of all proportion by her frozen stillness.

  Lindsay screwed the sheet into a ball and stepped another few paces forward till she was only inches away from Pauline. “Are you satisfied? Now Tom Jack’s dead and Laura’s in jail, are you satisfied? Does that justify all the lies?” she ranted.

  Sophie moved closer, partly because she was baffled by the line Lindsay was taking, partly to prevent things getting out of hand. She picked up a copy of Conference Chronicle and glanced down at a strangely anodyne story about Laura’s arrest. Her movement more than Lindsay’s bitter words seemed to shake Pauline out of her rigid immobility. “What do you know about it?” she snapped scornfully. “They got what they deserved.”

  “And me? Did I get what I deserved too? I thought we were friends, for fuck’s sake. Why the hell did you print all those lies about me? You of all people!” Lindsay said angrily.

  Pauline shrugged her straight shoulders. Her face was as expressionless as an Easter Island statue. “I had to say something. With your track record, you were the best bet. Then Laura.”

  Lindsay shook her head, unable at first to make sense of what she was hearing. Then she saw a faint glimmer of light. In a hard, clipped voice that Sophie had never heard before, she said, “This is complete crap.” She tossed the crumpled ball of Conference Chronicle straight at Pauline’s face. Pauline scarcely blinked as it bounced off her left cheek. “You know it is. Don’t you think it’s time for the truth?” she challenged. “Haven’t you had enough of the lies? Come on, Pauline, you’ve proved you can get your audience hooked with the fairy-tales. What about giving them the truth? What really happened? Because, damn it, if you don’t tell them, I’m going to.”

  Pauline shook her head, like a boxer trying to clear his vision. But Lindsay continued relentlessly. “You think because you knew enough to peddle the lies that you’re the only one who knows the truth? That’s bullshit. But if you don’t start to tell the truth now, then you’re going to be stuck forever with somebody else’s version, just like Laura is right now. Come on Pauline,” she goaded her. “What are you so fucking scared of? After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?” She gripped Pauline by the arm, and shook her angrily.
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  Pauline pulled free. “You’ve got no idea, have you?” she said bitterly, turning away.

  “Let’s cut the crap and get right to the heart of this. Let’s talk about the night Union Jack died. Let’s talk about how you knew Laura Craig was there at the same time as me. The truth, Pauline! I want the truth!” Lindsay yelled.

  Suddenly Pauline’s legs seemed to fold under her. She stumbled, but Sophie caught her and steered her into a chair. Pauline’s body seemed to collapse into itself, her wide shoulders stooped and hunched, her chin tucked into her chest, her arms tightly folded round her. Almost at once, two fat tears splashed on to the desk in front of her. Then her body began to shudder convulsively. Lindsay mimed a shrug of uncertainty at Sophie, who waved her back before crouching down beside Pauline and placing a hand on her knee.

  “It’s going to be okay, Pauline,” she said gently.

  Pauline shook her head, and her body, held rigid, shook with her. “N-n-no it’s n-n-not,” she stuttered through chattering teeth. Her body began to sway from side to side.

  Sophie looked up at Lindsay. “A hot drink?” she asked softly.

  “I think there’s a machine upstairs,” Lindsay said, heading straight for the door. By the time she returned with two cardboard cups of what was alleged to be drinking chocolate, Pauline was clinging to Sophie and weeping quietly. Lindsay handed one of the drinks to Sophie, who shifted Pauline’s head and held the cup to her lips. She drank greedily, then found the strength to take the cup from Sophie and finish it on her own. She sniffed, then rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  Pauline looked up at Lindsay, her eyes both wary and beseeching. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. Lindsay said nothing, merely handing her the second hot chocolate. Pauline drank half of it, then shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Try the early hours of Wednesday morning,” Lindsay said, a hard edge still noticeable in her voice.

  “You really think that’s where the story begins?” Pauline asked, anger and contempt in her voice.

  “So begin at the beginning,” Lindsay said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’m going to produce a special edition of Conference Chronicle telling the whole world how you killed Union Jack to get back at him for his plans to make you and your colleagues redundant,” Lindsay answered coldly.

  “For God’s sake, Lindsay!” Sophie protested. “The pair of you are behaving like five-year-olds. Will you both remember you’re supposed to be friends!”

  “Friends?” Lindsay scoffed. “The things she printed about me my enemies would have been hard pressed to come out with.”

  “I told you, I had to say something,” Pauline said. “You think I wanted to slag you off? You think I don’t feel guilty about it? Look, do you want to hear this or not?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “You’ve proved how good you are at fiction with Conference Chronicle. Let’s see how you get out of murdering Union Jack. Don’t tell me, let me guess—it was an accident.”

  Pauline drew herself erect, finding some reserves of inner strength to combat Lindsay. “You’re damn right it was an accident. Now, are you going to listen, or are you just going to interrupt with smartass remarks every other sentence?”

  Lindsay held her hands up. “Okay. I’ll listen. But I reserve the right to disbelieve every word.”

  “Feel free. Just before he was elected general secretary of the JU, Tom Jack sexually harassed me,” Pauline said in a curiously empty voice. “Not once, but a few times. A couple of times it was just verbal, but on two occasions, it got physical. The second time, if another member of staff hadn’t come in, I think it might have got out of hand. Anyway, after that second occasion, I told him that if he ever laid a finger on me again or made a sexual innuendo in my hearing, I would take out a formal complaint against him. He couldn’t afford the risk of that, so he backed off. It ended the hassle, but it left me feeling like shit. Every time I saw him, I got the taste of bile in my mouth. That’s how I started with this stuff.”

  She rummaged in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum. She unwrapped a piece and slipped it into her mouth. “When the redundancies were announced, it brought all the anger back to me. It was like I’d been turned into an object all over again, something him and his cronies could throw on the scrap heap. I felt like I’d got nothing left to lose, so I decided to get my own back on the lot of them. One day, a couple of weeks before conference, I was photocopying a whole pile of amendments to motions and I came up with the idea of Conference Chronicle. I thought at least I could make Union Jack and his sleazy sidekicks look like the bunch of wankers they really are.”

  “You certainly succeeded,” Lindsay said drily. “Pity you had to take me with them.”

  Pauline pulled a face. “It was just bad luck that it was your room it happened in.”

  “So what did happen?”

  “Tuesday was my birthday. A bunch of us from head office and a few of the Equality Committee people got together and went out for dinner, then on to a club in Sheffield. I was going to ask you, but you were going to the Scots/Irish night. Afterwards, we went back to Mandy Martin’s room in Maclintock Tower for a drink. When I left and got into the lift, it must have gone up instead of down, but I was a bit drunk, so I didn’t pay attention. When the lift stopped, I stepped out, and that’s when I realized I wasn’t where I should have been. Before I could do anything about it, the doors closed and the lift went down without me. I pressed the button, but before it came back, that slimeball Tom Jack came lurching round the corner. I was wearing a red sequinned off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, so I suppose when the News of the World get hold of the tale, it’ll all be my fault!” Pauline gave a bitter laugh.

  “Tell me about it,” Sophie said with feeling. “Surgeons get so used to thinking about people as pieces of meat, they forget women have the right to say no.”

  “Anyway, he leered at me, then jumped me. I know I look pretty big and strong, but just because I work out doesn’t mean I know how to fight. And like I said, I was a bit pissed. He started smacking me about the head, giving me all the stuff about how I was just a black slag, a whore . . .” She tailed off and sighed deeply.

  “I’m sure we can fill in the blanks,” Sophie said reassuringly.

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Pauline snapped back. “Believe me, being working class and black gives you access to a whole new range of insults. Shit, just remembering it makes me boil up inside.” It took a visible effort for her to regain a grip on herself, but she managed it.

  “He grabbed me by my hair, and dragged me away from the lift. Do you know, I didn’t even think about screaming? Isn’t that crazy?”

  “It happens more often that you’d think,” Sophie said. “I’ve had patients who were raped who have said exactly the same thing.”

  “He tried the first couple of doors, but they were locked. Then a door opened and he dragged me into the room. All the time, he was kicking at me, slapping me with his free hand and pouring out all this foul abuse. It was like hate was flowing out of him all over me.” Pauline’s hands clenched and the muscles in her jaw bunched tightly at the memory.

  “He threw me on the bed and then he was on top of me, forcing my dress up, ripping my knickers. I managed to get a grip of myself and I screamed that I’d tell everyone what he’d done to me. Can you believe it, he just laughed and said no one would believe a black whore who’d just been made redundant. I guess I just snapped then and I used the muscles I spent all that fucking time building up. I pushed him off me and he staggered back. I jumped off the bed and followed him, pushing him and telling him what I thought of him. I wasn’t shouting or anything, just letting him have it.

  “He was staggering away from me, and he tripped over the chair and crashed into the window. It just gave way behind him, and he tipped right out.” Pauline paused, her eyes on the middle distance, seeing yet again that slo-
mo topple that had sent Union Jack into oblivion.

  Lindsay reached out for Pauline’s hand. Her friend gripped it tightly and took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to go on forever. “I’m so sorry,” Lindsay said uselessly. “I had no idea.”

  “It was an accident,” Pauline said bleakly. “It was an accident. I keep telling myself it was an accident. But it won’t go away.”

  For a long time, the three women were silent, each reflecting on the chain of circumstance that had brought them all to this point of decision. Typically, it was Lindsay who broke the silence. “So, having started Conference Chronicle for revenge, you continued it for self-defense?”

  “That’s right. I never really cast any serious suspicion at you, you know. I wouldn’t have stood by and let them arrest you. But Laura was different. After the way she betrayed all of us over the years, she deserved all she got.”

  “Not to mention what she did to Ian. Incidentally, how did you find out about Laura being a Special Branch plant?” Lindsay asked.

  Pauline giggled. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “You know my little boy Sam? Well, about a year ago, I had some time owing, so I took him for some days out in London. We went to the zoo. And there, by the penguin pool, like some crap spy movie, was Laura with a man I vaguely recognized. At first, I couldn’t think where I’d seen him. Then I remembered. He used to drink occasionally in a pub that I go to once a month or so with my bro and my sister-in-law in Lewisham. So the next time I saw them, I asked them about this bloke, and my bro Arthur laughs and says this guy lives near the pub, but he’s Special Branch, everybody knows that. So I found out his name and I asked one of my tame paranoid leftie journos if he could find out what the guy did, and it came back that he specializes in labor subversion. It didn’t take much to work out what he was doing with Laura.”