Conferences are Murder, Page 4

  “You’re not fit to be let out,” he commented, looking up from his copy of The Watchman. “And that poison won’t help.” Self-righteously, he dunked his herbal teabag in his cup, then dropped it in the ashtray.

  Ignoring him, Lindsay drained her first cup of coffee and shuddered as the shock hit her system. “Come on then, Siobhan, don’t keep me in suspense. Did you crack it?”

  Siobhan giggled. “Sure did. Four men in four nights.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Monday, Toby Tranter from Brighton; Tuesday, Peter Little, the Manchester branch chairman; Wednesday, Danny Stott, that radio reporter from Newcastle with the cutest bum at conference. And then last night. I’ll be glad to get home. I need the rest.”

  “So who was the lucky guy last night?” Lindsay asked.

  “Search me. I went for a meal with the Racial Equality Caucus, and I got pissed as a newt. We ended up back in my room, and when I awoke, he’d gone,” she reported.

  Ian tutted. “I don’t know, you spent the seventies slagging us men off for treating you like sex objects, and the minute you get liberated, all you do is do exactly what you gave us a bad time for,” he said in mock reproach.

  “Shut up, Ian,” they chorused.

  Lindsay added, “You’re failing to understand that by definition, the oppressed cannot themselves be oppressors. Go back and read your Germaine Greer again.”

  Ian pulled a face. Then he said, “You sure you did it? I mean, if you can’t even remember the guy’s name, I’m not sure we can award you the Legover of the Conference award.”

  Siobhan giggled. The sound was like a hot wire splitting Lindsay’s head in two. She’d been right about that giggle. “Oh, we did it all right. Take my word for it, Ian, I know we did it. Let me tell you, it’s only his name I can’t remember. I can recall everything else about him.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “He was Irish, he had freckles, he had brown hair and ginger pubes . . .”

  “Enough, enough,” Lindsay groaned. “I already feel naseous.” She eyed a piece of toast, wondering if she could stand the noise crunching it would make inside her skull. Before she could decide, Ian helped himself to the last piece. Lindsay looked around for a waitress, and spotted Laura standing a couple of tables away, talking to one of the delegates.

  Their conversation ended, and she walked towards the exit. As she approached their table, she turned back to call something to the man she’d been talking to. She carried on walking and cannoned into their table, sending Ian’s plate of toast, his cup of rosehip tea and his pot of hot water flying.

  The confused hubbub that followed made Lindsay feel like her ears were bleeding. Ian was on his feet, shouting more from shock than anger. “You stupid, clumsy bitch,” he yelled. “You could have really hurt someone. Why don’t you look where you’re going, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Laura said in exasperated tones. “It’s only a bit of water. It hasn’t even splashed your trousers. Do you have to make such a fuss?” She crouched down and picked up the empty pot. “If it’s such a big deal, I’ll fetch you some more.” She marched past a waitress who had scurried up, and straight through the door into the kitchen.

  The waitress brought Ian clean crockery, but before she could bring fresh supplies, Laura had returned with a rack of wholemeal toast and a fresh pot of hot water. She dumped them unceremoniously on the table, saying, “I didn’t do it deliberately, you know. There was absolutely no need to make such an exhibition of yourself. Why don’t you grow up, Ian? Most women prefer men to small boys, you know.”

  Laura marched off, head held high. Grimly, Ian stared at the table as he poured himself a cup of water and dropped his herbal teabag in.

  “At least you know she didn’t do it deliberately,” Siobhan said.

  “How d’you figure that out?” Lindsay said, right on cue.

  “If she’d done it on purpose, his balls would be in the burns unit by now!” Siobhan said raucously as Ian winced.

  Lindsay cautiously worked her way through a slice of toast, discovering that if she sucked it before chewing, the noise was just about bearable. Ian sipped his tea in silence, absorbed once more in his newspaper. Siobhan shovelled a cooked English breakfast down her neck, eyes swivelling constantly round the room in search of potential prey.

  At five to nine, Ian glanced at his watch, folded his paper and got to his feet. “I’ll see you two at the Winter Gardens in a bit,” he said. “I’ve got to pop to the shops. I promised my sister’s kids I’d bring them back a present from the seaside. Somebody told me there’s a really good toy shop up the back of the town, so I’m going to take a drive up there.”

  “I wish he’d said a bit sooner,” Siobhan grumped as Ian strode off. “I was relying on him to give us a lift. Now we’re going to be late.”

  Lindsay and Siobhan slipped into their chairs at twenty past nine. The hall was less than half-full, which was more than could be said for the platform. A man with a hoarse voice was proposing a motion which appeared to have something to do with child care. Lindsay shoved her voting card at Siobhan, made a pillow of her forearms on the table and carefully lowered her head. She was drifting in the comfortable half-world between sleep and wakefulness when Siobhan dug her in the ribs and announced in a voice loud enough to turn heads three tables away, “That’s him, Lindsay! That’s the man I was with last night!”

  Siobhan’s urgent revelation caused enough stir to ripple forward to the platform. The young man at the podium was thrown off his stride mid-sentence as he struggled to see what was going on. He clearly couldn’t believe it was the power of his oratory that had caused the commotion. It took only moments for him to realize who was at the center of it. Even at that distance, Lindsay could see him flush. A slow ripple of mirth began in the corner of the hall.

  Overcome with confusion, he gabbled, “Support the amendment,” turned tail and fled. By then, the ripple had become a wave of laughter. The noise around their table was so loud that Lindsay could scarcely make out the words of Paul Horne, who arrived at the delegation table pale and sweating.

  “Say again?” she said.

  Paul’s lips trembled as he struggled for his rapidly disintegrating self-control. “It’s Ian. He’s dead.”

  4

  “In view of the increasing tendency of delegates to sneak off before conference ends at Friday lunchtime, SOS is considering methods of enforcing delegates’ attendance. We await with eagerness reports of experiments in the probation service with electronic tagging; not that we imagine for one minute that we would want to know exactly where people are at crucial moments. Meanwhile, as a trial deterrent, this year delegates will not be paid their conference lunch expense allowance until noon on Friday. So be there or be poor.”

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

  It was hard to imagine the crumpled concertina of red metal had ever been a Ford Escort. It didn’t look as if it could ever have been longer than a Mini. The signpost it had hit first had sliced the car almost in two, before the brick wall of the shopping center had compressed it to half its length. As she watched a salvage crew struggle to get the wreckage away from the shattered wall, the churning in Lindsay’s stomach had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. She turned away and threw up unceremoniously in the gutter.

  When she recovered herself, she saw Paul had turned away and was staring unseeingly at the traffic.

  “I was passing when it happened,” he said emptily. “I’d popped out for five minutes to buy some rock for the kids. He came round the corner at the end of the street there like a bat out of hell. The car was fishtailing all over the road. I didn’t even realize it was Ian. If I thought anything at all, I thought it was some teenage joyrider.”

  Lindsay tentatively put out a hand and touched Paul’s arm. He gripped her fingers tightly.

  “He just kept going faster and faster. Then he tried to take the bend, but he must have been
doing seventy, and it’s a really tight turn. He was completely out of control. He just kept going faster and faster.” Paul shook his head. “Then I saw his face, in a kind of blur, and I realized it was Ian. I knew he didn’t have a chance.”

  “Let’s go somewhere and have a cup of tea,” Lindsay suggested gently, steering Paul towards a nearby café. Luckily, it was the lull between morning coffees and lunches, and they had no trouble finding a quiet table. Because Paul’s dramatic announcement hadn’t penetrated the general laughter, Lindsay had been able to get the shocked branch chairman out of the hall before he could cause general consternation. Outside the conference, he had simply said, “Come and see,” and led her in silence to the scene of the accident.

  As they waited for the waitress to bring them a pot of tea, Paul started to shiver, like a dog in a thunderstorm. “He looked . . . he looked really weird,” he said in a puzzled voice. “His eyes were really staring, and it was like he was pushing himself up on the steering-wheel. And he’d gone a funny color. Sort of purply.” “He had bad asthma,” Lindsay said. It didn’t seem very helpful, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I know,” Paul said. “Ian’s been my friend for years. But I’ve never seen him in a real state with it. Not like that.” The waitress deposited a tray on the table. Lindsay poured the tea and Paul instantly clutched a cup, warming his hands like a man dying of cold. “He looked completely out of control, and I’ve never seen him like that. He always had his drugs with him, always.”

  Lindsay sighed and lit up a cigarette. “Maybe he didn’t take them soon enough. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about asthma.”

  Paul shook his head. “I do. My eldest son is mildly asthmatic. But I’ve never seen him like that either, not even when he was a baby and he couldn’t use inhalers. But Ian was always really careful, really methodical. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? Look what an organized branch secretary he was.” Paul gave a hysterical laugh. “Listen to me. The poor bastard’s in the past tense already.”

  “You’re sure he was dead?” Lindsay asked, clutching at straws.

  Paul gulped his tea. “I’m sure. No one could get the door open. We tried. The fire brigade had to cut it open. When they finally got him out, they . . .” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat noisily and said, “He didn’t come out in one piece, Lindsay. His face was covered when they took him away. They didn’t have their siren going or their light flashing.” He stared into his cup.

  Lindsay felt numb. It was too much, after Frances. Her grief had overloaded in an emotional short circuit that left her incapable of feeling anything more. In self-preservation, her mind was moving only in practical channels. “I think you should go to the hospital, Paul. You’re in shock.”

  Paul gave a short sharp bark that was a long way from laughter. “I can’t go to hospital. You think I’m in a state? You just wait. Who’s going to tell Laura? I should do that, I saw him die, I was their friend.” The shivering started again.

  Lindsay gently took the cup from him and placed it on its saucer. She took his hands in hers. “You’re not the person to tell her, Paul. Not right now.”

  She saw a sudden flash of relief as his eyes met hers. It disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “But I should,” he said guiltily.

  Lindsay shook her head. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll tell her,” she said softly. She released Paul’s hands and lit another cigarette. “I know what it feels like,” she added distantly.

  Though she’d never have admitted it to Paul, it was a secret relief to Lindsay when they returned to the Winter Gardens and discovered that the bad news had travelled with its usual swiftness. The hall was virtually empty. Standing Orders Sub-Committee were in a huddle by the door, discussing whether to move suspension of standing orders; to bring conference to an end; or simply to make a brief announcement from the stage, followed by a minute’s silence.

  The delegates stood around in subdued groups, talking softly about what they’d heard had happened. Lindsay couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t a national newspaper reporter in sight. She knew exactly what most of her delegation would be doing now—they’d either be at the hospital or the police station. And she knew that any minute now, her newsdesk would start looking for her to write the definitive piece on the life and death of Ian Ross. Part of her wanted to go on the missing list, but the other, professional part of her wanted to be the one who would give shape to the way Ian would be remembered.

  Leaving Paul in the capable hands of the JU’s assistant general secretary, a former colleague from The Watchman, Lindsay systematically worked the fragmented groups to discover where Laura was. It soon became apparent that the police had been led to the conference as a result of the organ donor card Ian carried. The card still gave Laura as his next of kin. Since her business card and a selection of photographs were also in his wallet, it hadn’t taken them long to work out she was likely to be at the JU conference. Once they’d got that far, it had been straightforward. Instead of the tragic news being broken by someone she knew, Laura had heard about Ian’s death from a strange police officer. Lindsay could only imagine what that had felt like. Even in imagination, it made her shudder.

  There was no reason to hang about at the Winter Gardens, so Lindsay slowly walked back to the Princess Alice to collect her bag. She wandered through to the bar and checked out their selection of whiskies. She ordered a large Glenfiddich, the only malt on offer, added a dribble of water to the pale liquid and took a small sip. As she took a cigarette from her packet, a hand snapped a flame into life in front of her. She looked up into the dark blue eyes of Shaz Morton, who was noted for managing the seemingly impossible, blending her job as a high-profile television company press officer with her role as a campaigning lesbian. Wherever Shaz went, controversy followed. So, usually, did her girlfriend, a polytechnic lecturer in women’s studies. But this week in Blackpool, Shaz was unaccompanied. Probably, Lindsay had decided, because her girlfriend knew how few opportunities Shaz would have to stray at a JU conference.

  “I heard about Ian,” Shaz said, lighting Lindsay’s cigarette. “Not what you needed just now, right?”

  “Right,” Lindsay agreed.

  “Especially not after Frances.” Shaz took a deep drag of her own cigarette and ordered a large gin and tonic, and another malt for Lindsay.

  “No thanks,” Lindsay started to say.

  “You need it. I meant to speak to you earlier before about Frances, but you know how it is. I was really upset to hear about her death. She was very special,” Shaz said.

  Lindsay looked surprised. “I didn’t know you knew her.”

  Shaz smiled and topped her gin up with tonic. “We did some work together on a briefing pack for lesbian mothers involved in custody fights. It was a few years ago, long before she met you. We bumped into each other now and again, at meetings. I don’t know if anybody’s thought to mention this to you, but she was really happy with you.”

  Lindsay’s throat closed in the familiar emotional uprising. One step away from tears, she forced a mouthful of whisky down, then sucked in the comfort of nicotine. “Thanks,” she finally managed to say. “I was really happy with her.”

  Shaz nodded towards Lindsay’s bag. “What train are you catching? Fancy some company?”

  “I’d like that. I don’t have a reservation, though. I expected to be going back in the car with Ian.” An involuntary shudder set her whisky swirling in her glass. She put the glass down with a bang. “I keep thinking how bloody awful it must be for Laura. I know they’d split up, and she treated him like shit, but they were together for years. You don’t just switch off your feelings for someone after all that time. No matter what’s happened between you.”

  Shaz nodded. “She’d have to have a heart of stone not to be upset. She’ll feel guilty too, probably. You know, all that, ‘if we hadn’t split up, it would never have happened,’ business.”

  “Yeah.�
� Lindsay sighed. “She’s not one of my favorite people, but if she’s feeling a fraction of what I felt about Frances, then my heart goes out to her.”

  Before they could say more, there was a disturbance behind them. A familiar voice floated through the door, focusing every drinker’s attention on the speaker. “Will you for God’s sake leave me alone, Tom? I’m not a piece of bloody china,” Laura Craig was shaking off Tom Jack’s protective arm and stalking into the bar.

  “But Laura, you shouldn’t be left alone, you’re in shock.” For once, thought Lindsay, he actually sounded sincerely concerned.

  “Tom, piss off,” Laura said slowly and clearly. “Watch my lips. I want to be alone.” She sounded more like Margaret Thatcher than Greta Garbo.

  Tom Jack stepped back. There was no mistaking the determination and anger in Laura’s voice. He put his hands up at chest level, palms towards Laura. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be through in the lounge if you want me.”

  She watched him leave before turning back towards the bar, face set in a hard, expressionless mask. Shaz leaned forward to say softly, “Sounds like your sympathy might be a bit misplaced.”

  Lindsay shook her head. “She’s in shock, like Tom said. Grief does funny things to you.”

  When she realized who her companions at the bar were, Laura sighed in exasperation. “Oh God,” she said. “Is there no peace in this bloody town?” Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Laura said sharply, “Don’t say it. Don’t for God’s sake say you’re sorry. Is anyone serving here?” she demanded, turning to the barman. “Good. Give me a very large vodka and ginger beer. When I say very large, I mean four.” The barman took one look at her face, decided not to comment and scuttled off towards his optics.