Conferences are Murder (23 page)

Lindsay nodded. “I bet there is! He knew that he couldn't put off any longer a full-scale probe into the finances of the Journalists' Union. And he was determined to head them off at the pass before they started asking too many questions about his stewardship by giving them Laura. It's one of the great maxims of trade union politics—always have a body to trade. Once they had Laura bang to rights on the expenses fiddle, Union Jack could have laid any other swindles at her door, and he'd have come out of the whole thing smelling of roses as usual.”

“What I can't understand is why the documents are still here if Laura killed him to avoid exposure,” Sophie said as she booted up Tom Jack's PC. “I'd have expected her to get down here faster than a speeding bullock before someone stumbled on them and put two and two together.”

Lindsay frowned, instantly comprehending the hole Sophie's throwaway remark had blown in her theory. “Hmm,” she said. “Good point. Maybe she was intending to, but hasn't been able to get away. Or maybe she doesn't know where the evidence is. I mean, nobody in their right mind would just leave it lying around in a drawer, would they?”

“Or maybe she didn't know yet she had a motive for killing him,” Sophie added with a cheeky grin.

Lindsay smiled back. “I hear what you're saying,” she sighed.
“Okay, I'll take the blinkers off. Maybe it's pure coincidence that Tom has something on Laura. Maybe it's got nothing to do with his murder.”

“And maybe you should wander off and find a photocopier so you can copy the evidence and put it back where you found it. What you absolutely don't need right now is some officious copper deciding to hit you with a charge of interfering with the evidence,” Sophie said.

“You mean, would I kindly sod off and leave you in peace with your toy? Okay, will do.” Lindsay kissed the top of Sophie's head and headed off in search of a photocopier. It was almost an hour later when she returned, to find Sophie leaning back in Tom Jack's chair, feet on the desk, a sheaf of printout on her lap.

Lindsay dumped her stacks of papers on the desk and threw her arms round Sophie. “Don't tell me! You've cracked the case! It was the butler!”

Sophie kissed her mouth, damming the flow of Lindsay's excited conversation. Lindsay closed her eyes and moaned softly, before she pulled away. “Don't,” she groaned. “Don't start what we can't finish. Apart from anything else, it's probably a disciplinary offense to bonk in the general secretary's office.” She pulled away, shook her head like a retriever emerging from a pond, and said, “So what's the print-out?”

“I found the audited files of expense payments for the last nine years. Alongside the official files, Tom Jack had worked out which expenses were phoney. It looks as if Laura was creaming off an average of £200 a week. Sweetheart, would anyone kill to avoid being exposed for defrauding ten grand a year?”

Lindsay's jaw jutted stubbornly. “There's got to be more to it than that. Is that all you found?”

Sophie shook her head. “No, but I don't understand the rest of it. There are a few similar sets of files. One seems to relate to pensions. From the look of it, Laura, Tom and three other officials have pension arrangements which give them far better benefits than anyone else.”

“How do you mean? I thought there were legal limits on
pensions? That you couldn't get more than two-thirds of your final salary?” Lindsay said.

“I don't know about that. But how does a lump sum payment of an index-linked £50,000 sound to you?” Sophie said.

Lindsay looked as shaken as she felt. “How could they?” she gasped. “How could they say the things they said about the ‘rights of working people' and then rob us blind? Shit, Soph, how long had this been going on?”

Sophie handed her the print-out, and pointed to the relevant sections as she spoke. “See for yourself. Two of the arrangements, Laura's and Malcolm Bridgnorth's, started eight years ago, then two years later, Alan Porter joined them. Two years after that, Barney Price. Then, just after he was elected general secretary of the JU, Tom Jack enters the frame.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I don't understand. Malcolm left the JU five years ago. But Alan and Barney are okay guys. I mean, they're not crooks, no way. What the hell's going on here? Is that it?” she asked Sophie, apprehension in her eyes.

“Nope. There's another set of figures relating to strike pay. It looks like every time you had a strike, an extra body was added to the tally. There's no documentary evidence as to who was pocketing the cash, but it was definitely being paid out to someone.” Sophie gently took the print-out from her lover and folded it up. She stood up and held Lindsay in her arms.

“I just can't believe it,” Lindsay said. “I feel physically sick at the thought of it all. Let's get out of here, Sophie. We're going to have to do some more digging, but not here. I can't face finding out any more of the truth.”

 

Sophie swam up into consciousness after only five hours sleep. She rolled over to cuddle up to Lindsay, only to find the other side of the bed cold and empty. She ungummed one eye and read the clock. 08:23. “Oh God, Gordon. Oh no, where are you now?” she mumbled, dragging her stiff body out of bed and across the room to the bathroom. She stumbled through the door into a glare of fluorescent light and the improbably floral smell of hotel bubble bath. Lindsay lay stretched out full length,
up to her chin in foam, Walkman clamped to her ears, head nodding almost imperceptibly in time to the music.

Sophie pulled one earplug out and bellowed, “Couldn't you sleep?”

“Shit,” Lindsay yelled, almost submerging as she jumped with the shock. “And a very good morning to you too,” she groused as she straightened up. “No, as it happens, I couldn't. I know it might seem daft to you, but what we found out last night really shocked me. I mean, more than Union Jack being dead, in a funny kind of way.”

“You're all heart,” Sophie said. “Seriously, I know what you mean. So what now?”

“Tom Jack's widow. If he shared what he knew with anyone, it might well have been her. And he might have stashed some more evidence back home. There's obviously some proof of the other scams to correspond to the fiddled expenses dockets we found,” Lindsay said, removing her Walkman and shoving her damp hair back from her forehead. “Fancy joining me?”

“In the bath or visiting the grieving widow?” Sophie asked.

“Both or either,” Lindsay said.

“I'll pass on the bath. And before I commit on the widow, where are we talking about? After yesterday, I don't think I can handle any more British motorways. They've turned roadworks into performance art.”

“Don't panic. It's just down the road. Tom was a Yorkshireman, born and bred, as he never tired of telling anyone who'd sit still for long enough. And although he kept a flat in London for the week, his wife had no intention of leaving her patch. They live about twenty minutes' drive from the center of Sheffield, on the edge of the moors. Can I count you in?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Sophie lied. Before she could say more, the phone trilled like a dentist's drill. She reached out and picked up the extension. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, then waved the receiver at Lindsay. “It's for you. Dick McAndrew.”

Lindsay hauled herself out of the bath, grabbed a towel, and said, “I'll get out of your way and take it in the room.” She
picked up the phone by the bed and said, “Dick? Lindsay. How did you know where to find me?”

“I'm supposed to be an investigative journalist, for fuck's sake. Jet set medics don't stay in poxy bed and breakfasts,” he said. “Believe me, that cut the choice down dramatically.”

“So, to what do I owe the expenditure of all this effort?”

“Not to mention all the 10p pieces,” Dick responded. “Put it on the slate of favors owed. What I rang for is, unless you want to be mobbed by the world's press, and probably South Yorkshire's finest, you'd be well-advised to give this place the body swerve for today.”

Lindsay sighed. “Spit it out, Dick. What's happened now?”

“You're headline news again, kiddo. Conference Chronicle has thrust you into the white-hot glare of notoriety yet once more,” Dick said. “Joking apart, Lindsay, you're gonnae have to keep your bunnet below the parapet on this one.”

“God, how you journos love talking up a good story,” Lindsay complained, only too aware of her own hypocrisy. “C'mon, give it to me straight. Just read the words, Dick. I can pick the tune up for myself.”

“Okay, you asked for it. Here we go. Headline first, ‘See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil. The burning question today is why Lindsay Gordon isn't telling the whole story about Tom Jack's death, a death, incidentally, which the police are still showing a remarkable reluctance to call murder.

“ ‘In a spectacular editorial coup, Conference Chronicle can reveal exclusively that Gay Gordon not only
knows
it was murder, but she also saw the only person who could have committed the horrific crime leaving the scene.

“ ‘Everyone should be asking why Gay Gordon is protecting AMWU's Broadcasting Officer and Special Branch plant Laura Craig. Our sources tell us that Gordon saw the lovely Laura sweeping out of the murder room only moments after Union Jack had done his spectacular shuffling off of the mortal coil. Yet Gay Gordon has kept her mouth tightly clamped shut about their close encounter, even after a night's interrogation in South Yorkshire police cells.

“ ‘Maybe the answer is simple. Maybe Gay Gordon is the person that Laura is stripping off her expensive designer wardrobe for these days. And of course Gay Gordon's gynecologist girlfriend isn't going to be overwhelmed to discover that the reward for her loyalty is that Gay Gordon has been bonking her brains out with someone as politically incorrect as the lovely Laura. It also explains how Union Jack and his killer got into Gay Gordon's room in the first place.

“ ‘Or maybe it's just that Lindsay Gordon hated Union Jack and all he stood for so much that she thinks it's right to keep quiet about his murderer. After all, how could she drop a sister under the skin in deep shit for getting rid of a sexist pig like Tom Jack? Not very PC at all.

“ ‘Either way, it's time Lindsay Gordon started telling the truth about what she really knows, instead of running round the country playing at detectives. Incidentally, is the police's reluctance to call Jack's death murder anything to do with Laura's SB connections? We think we should be told.' And that, for what it's worth, is it,” Dick concluded. “You can imagine, the place is in uproar, with Laura Craig heading the lynch mob.”

“I bet she is,” Lindsay mused. “Dick, you're a real pal. You're right, I'd better keep a low profile today. Thanks, I owe you one. I better get off now, before the rest of the pack work out where we are.”

“Hang on,” Dick protested. “You're not going to just – ”

Lindsay gently replaced the phone in its cradle. Much as she liked and trusted Dick, there was a murderer out there. And one way or another, it began to look as if Lindsay was getting too close for comfort.

14

Lindsay put her feet up on the dashboard and wriggled in the seat until she was reasonably comfortable. Her years as an on-the-road reporter had taught her that the secret of sticking out a stake-out was comfort, and although there wasn't a lot of scope for stretching out in Helen's cramped car, Lindsay was determined to make the most of it. Sophie was less fortunate; the driver's seat offered even less room for the reasonable rearrangement of limbs. She put her hands behind her head and a deep bellow filled the air, as if from an appreciative audience.

“You're sure these aren't guard cows?” Sophie asked, with an apprehensive glance out of the window.

They were parked in a gateway leading to a field of disturbingly large cattle in varying shades of dun and caramel, with horns that wouldn't have disgraced the monarch of the glen. Every few minutes, one of the huge beasts would wander
across to the gate, chewing, slobbering and studying them with the utter confidence of something that knows it's bigger than the object of its curiosity.

“Nah,” Lindsay said scornfully. “Some rare breed or other. Like Sylvester Stallone, all front and no bottle.”

“As long as you're sure. I just don't want to have to ring Helen and tell her that while we were watching Union Jack's house, some demented steer infected her camshaft with BSE.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I keep forgetting you're a city girl,” she said. “I tell you, we've got more to fear from Union Jack's neighbors than from that entire herd of cattle. For one thing, none of them have got a mobile phone to alert PC Plod that there are a couple of suspicious characters lurking up the lane from Union Jack's hacienda.”

“What neighbors?” Sophie asked sarcastically. “The nearest house must be half a mile away. And frankly, I can see why. I wouldn't want my expensive Pennine view to include that monstrosity.”

Both women fell silent, contemplating Mr. and Mrs. Jack's idea of a Yorkshire country residence. Its brilliant white stucco beamed out of the limestone landscape like a beacon. The red pantiled roof leapt out of its gray and green background like a spilt pot of paint on a Berber carpet. There were enough wrought iron features to have kept a Sheffield steelworks going for a year. Eventually, Lindsay said, “It could have been uprooted, lock, stock and cartwheels, straight from the Costa del Sol.”