Conferences are Murder (26 page)

Laura's laugh sounded forced, even to her supporters, who exchanged uneasy looks. “You really have gone too far this time,” she snapped. “Any more lines like that and you'll be facing a slander writ. God knows, I've got enough witnesses,” she added, waving an arm at their audience.

“If we're talking witnesses, then let's talk about me, Laura. I'm the one who can put you on the tenth floor of Maclintock House minutes after Union Jack died. And his widow can supply the motive.” Lindsay moved to one side and let Julie step in front of her.

“It's not the first time you've killed somebody, is it?” Lindsay said softly but clearly. “You'd already murdered one man to keep the secret that Conference Chronicle revealed earlier this week.”

Laura shook her head. “You're completely mad,” she said, sounding genuinely incredulous. “I'm not listening to another word of this,” she added, trying to push past the two women. But the crowd was too dense, and before she could wriggle through, Julie gripped her arm.

“You're stopping,” she said grimly. “Time everybody else found out about you, madam.”

“This is an outrage!” Laura exclaimed. “You're not going to stand there and let them get away with this, are you?” she demanded of the other officers she'd been drinking with. They shrugged, embarrassed, neither of them willing to be the first to get into a ruck with three angry women.

“The story won't take long,” Lindsay said soothingly. “I don't know if Conference Chronicle got the details of your recruitment right, but what I do know is that when your lover, Ian Ross, discovered how you managed to afford your designer wardrobe, he threw you out of his bed and his house, and threatened to expose you to the colleagues you were spying on unless you ended your association with F Division of the Special Branch. You were caught between a rock and a hard place, as they say. Didn't your SB buddies come riding to the rescue like the US Cavalry?”

Lindsay saw a momentary flicker of emotion flash across Laura's cold face. She pounced. “You just couldn't be certain, could you? Sure, they
should
have been there to protect you, but they might have decided just to throw you to the wolves. If Ian had gone ahead and blown your cover, you'd have been no further use to them. Ian was the only risk. So far, he'd let me believe he'd kicked you out because you were screwing around. But as long as he was alive, you were at risk. So you killed him. It was cleverly done, I'll grant you that. No one thought twice about it at the time. I know I didn't. Accidental death, the inquest said.”

The excited buzz of conversation that sprang up in the wake
of Lindsay's accusation was stilled by Laura's voice. “And it was right, you bitch,” she spat, the sophisticated veneer showing its first crack. “I wouldn't have killed Ian! I loved him! I was distraught when we split up.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay said sarcastically. “So distraught you got yourself a dog he was wildly allergic to. Why was that, Laura? To keep him firmly away from you, so that you couldn't have the kind of public row where he'd have blurted out the truth? But then, the dog hairs came in more useful than you could have imagined. You thought you'd committed the perfect murder. Until Tom Jack told you otherwise. Then you realized you had a price to pay. And you couldn't afford it. So you started your program of embezzling union funds to meet the blackmail payments that Union Jack demanded from you. I don't imagine for a moment that Tom knew where the money was coming from,” she added to placate Julie. “But once he became General Secretary, you knew you were living on borrowed time.”

Lindsay paused for dramatic effect, and to gauge the effect of her reasoned explanation on her audience. Most of the people she could see were beginning to look sideways at Laura, unwilling to catch her eye. Her drinking cronies had unconsciously moved away from her, distancing themselves from any taint. Laura looked around, her movements swift and staccato. “My God!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “Surely none of you believe a word of this poisonous rubbish? This is a woman who had to leave the country once before because the stories she was peddling were so ridiculous she could only get them published abroad.”

Unmoved, the crowd's eyes turned back to Lindsay. “Where's your proof?” someone called out.

“My proof's the same as Tom Jack's proof. A week ago, he fronted you up, Laura, didn't he? You were going to be the sacrificial lamb so he could come out of the whole mess smelling of roses. He recorded it all in his little black book. You told him he'd never nail you, that you could destroy the evidence before he could get to it. Then he dropped his bombshell. He told you he'd already dug out all the expenses dockets you'd forged over
the last nine years. You weren't going to be able to destroy the evidence, so you destroyed Tom Jack.” Pandemonium broke out. Excited voices almost drowned out the rest of what Lindsay had to say. She raised her voice to a shout. “You thought no one else would find the evidence, or if they did, it would be meaningless. But I found it, Laura, and I know exactly what it means.”

Almost imperceptibly, the bodies began to close in on Laura and her accusers. She looked wildly around her. Seeing how the mood of the room had changed, she made a quick decision. Instead of making for the door, she ducked down and pushed between the bodies and the counter itself. As she broke free of the crowd, she ran towards the fire exit at the back of the room.

Caught off guard, Lindsay wasted valuable seconds twisting and weaving through the confused group of people. She was a good half minute behind as she threw herself through the fire door. Julie was on her heels, and the curious mob were only a few steps behind. Finding herself in a long corridor, Lindsay paused for a moment to get her bearings. Off to the left, she could hear a distant clattering of running footsteps. She took off in pursuit, her trainers squeaking on the cheap vinyl flooring.

The corridor opened out into the wide foyer outside the conference hall itself. There was no sign of Laura. Lindsay grabbed the first person she saw and gasped. “Laura Craig? Did you see her just now?”

The man shrugged. “I don't know her.”

His companion, however, was more help. “She went into the admin offices,” he volunteered. “What the hell's going on?” he added as her retinue of excited followers appeared behind her.

Lindsay didn't stop to answer. She ran to the conference office and threw the door open. Laura Craig stood facing the door, a telephone to her ear. “I don't care if he's in a meeting,” Lindsay heard her shout angrily. “You get Chief Superintendent Collinson down here right now. Tell him Laura Craig is about to be lynched.” She stared at Lindsay, the defiance not nearly strong enough to hide the fear.

Laura slammed the phone down, and stood her ground. The
face off between the two women silenced the office staff and the crowd who were pushing into the room behind Lindsay. Then Pauline stepped away from her desk and moved between the two women. “What the hell's going on? Lindsay? What are you playing at?” she demanded.

Her words broke the spell. Suddenly, the crowd surged forward, angry muttering rising to a crescendo. Before they could reach Laura, the picture changed again. Above the hubbub, a voice bellowed, “That's enough! Let's all keep calm now.”

Heads turned towards the door. A stream of uniformed policemen flowed into the room. The crowd stopped uncertainly. “Thank God,” Laura said.

Lindsay swung round. Behind the police officers, she could see a familiar face. Sophie gave a little wave as the inspector who had shouted for calm stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. “Which one of you ladies is Laura Craig?” he asked.

16

The only real difference Lindsay could detect between being a witness and a suspect was that the tea came in pottery mugs rather than polystyrene cartons. The attitude of the police officers was only marginally less aggressive. And the interview room reserved for witness statements was just as charmless as the room where her previous interrogation had been recorded. Luckily, Jennifer Okido had been only too happy to sit in on the interview since her services as duty solicitor had not been required by Laura Craig. Apparently, Laura was already closeted with the city's most experienced, most expensive and least iconoclastic criminal lawyer, a man who had made his name working both sides of the fence. So, the Special Branch had turned out for their smooth operator after all.

Lindsay's statement had been lengthy and comprehensive, starting with the discoveries in London though not their means of entry into Media House, and ending with the confrontation in the bar. The two police officers continually fired questions at her, trying as hard to trip and trap her as they had when they
had suspected her of the murder. At the end of the statement, Lindsay leaned back in her chair, unable to avoid a sense of satisfaction.

Neither policeman relaxed an inch. The younger one finished the sentence he was writing and looked up at her. “Go on,” he invited her.

“I'm finished,” Lindsay said. “That's the lot.”

“Not according to what we've been told. You've left out the one bit we wouldn't have found out ourselves by good detective work.”

Lindsay looked puzzled. “I'm not with you.”

“You're supposedly able to put Laura Craig at the scene of the crime, something you omitted to mention when you were interviewed under caution before,” he replied, the cold edge of sarcastic anger in his voice. “It might have helped our inquiry along a bit if you'd told us about her then, instead of deciding to go for glory yourself.”

Lindsay looked to Jennifer for guidance. They had already agreed how Lindsay should respond, depending on who asked the question and how. Jennifer nodded twice. Lindsay took a deep breath and went for Plan B. “I didn't realize it was Laura till afterwards,” she said, aiming as close to bimbo as she could realistically bring herself to try. “After all, I was completely exhausted, and I really wasn't feeling great. I mean, you'd had me locked up so long I'd gone straight from drunk to sober to hung-over without a proper sleep. I did say to you that I had the vaguest impression of having seen someone. It was only after I'd slept that my head put all the pieces of the jigsaw together. Then, the next day, I saw Laura again, and I smelled her perfume really clearly. That confirmed it for me.” She almost batted her eyelids, but stopped herself in time. Over the top was the wrong place to be right now.

The policeman who hadn't been trying to get Lindsay's words down on paper leaned forward belligerently. “So why didn't you tell us the next day, when you'd had the chance to think it over and sleep on it? You'd still have saved us a lot of time.”

Lindsay tried her best to look vulnerable. If Sophie could see
me now, she thought wryly. “I didn't think you'd believe me,” she said plaintively. “I thought you'd think it was all amazingly convenient, that I was just trying to get myself off the hook. Besides, everyone knows I don't like Laura, and she'd have just said I was lying out of spite. I thought I'd better get some more evidence before I came to you.”

Her interrogator shook his head in weary disbelief. “Your client better take some acting lessons before this gets to court, Ms. Okido,” he said.

“I hope your budget runs to bringing her back for the trial, Sergeant Timpson,” Jennifer Okido replied with a sweet smile.

He scowled. “Perhaps your client could expand on exactly what she did see?”

Lindsay gave them a version of events that was only very slightly exaggerated, but credible. The two policemen looked slightly skeptical, but finally grudgingly accepted that a glimpse of the back of a head, a dark shape and a pair of legs, coupled with identification of the exclusive scent of Le Must de Cartier was enough to place Laura Craig firmly in the frame.

As she walked back with Jennifer Okido to her car, Lindsay said, “What do you think? Will they charge her?”

“No doubt about it. With what you've given them, plus the evidence in Tom Jack's desk and his notebook, I'd say they've got a prima facie case. I'm told she's denying it with the sort of vehemence that only the guilty ever seem capable of working up,” Jennifer said drily.

“I can't say that's a surprise,” Lindsay said. “Is she claiming an alibi?”

“Not so far, according to the police officer I had an off-the-record word with. Doubtless if there's anything to dredge up on that score, my colleague Mr. Malone will make the most of it.” Jennifer stopped by her silver Audi. “Can I give you a lift?”

Lindsay jumped at the chance to get back to Sophie and their hotel room. Since Sophie had decided that Lindsay's Lone Ranger days were long behind her and that it was time to fetch the sheriff and the posse, the two had had no chance to
exchange more than a few words. Sophie's own brief witness statement had been over before the murder squad had even started on Lindsay, who had urged her to return to the hotel and unwind.

As Jennifer approached the hotel entrance, Lindsay's heart sank. If what she could see was anything to go by, Sophie's chances of unwinding had been rather less than nil. “Oh shit,” she muttered. “Jennifer, could you keep driving, please.”

The solicitor kept her foot on the accelerator and glided smoothly round the car park and back into the road. “Problems?” she asked.

“Nothing I couldn't handle normally. I just feel like I've had enough confrontation for one day,” Lindsay said wearily. “There was a guy standing just outside the front door, under the awning. I don't suppose you noticed him, but he's the
Sunday Star
's chief reporter. He's obviously the advance guard. The rest will be inside, staking the place out. Sophie's probably ready to kill by now, and I can't say I blame her.”