Conferences are Murder Page 9
Jennifer leaned forward with the look of a prospector who’s just spotted the glister of gold. “Did anyone hear him make this arrangement?”
Lindsay shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose someone could have. There were plenty of people around.”
“Can you think of anyone who was particularly close to the pair of you at that time?”
Lindsay closed her eyes and tried to visualize the scene. She could almost smell the smoke and the alcohol, she could picture Union Jack’s unflinching eyes, but the other figures were unidentifiable blurs. Reluctantly, she shook her head again. “I’m sorry. The room wasn’t well lit, and I’d had a few drinks. It was all I could do to concentrate on what Tom was saying.”
Jennifer tapped her pad with her pen. “What I’m far from clear about is why Tom Jack was in your room later that same night when he’d made an arrangement to meet you the following day.”
“You and me both,” Lindsay said. “I haven’t a clue. Maybe he decided that what he had to say to me wouldn’t wait. Or maybe he was on that floor for reasons that were nothing to do with me. After all, there are another dozen or so delegates with rooms there. He might have had an assignation with any one of them.”
“But wasn’t your door locked?” Jennifer asked, with that tone of despairing incredulity that lawyers reserve for clients who appear to be clinically brain dead.
Lindsay shrugged. “Probably not. The lock was really fiddly, so half the time I didn’t bother. I wasn’t the only one who’d been having a problem. It was the main topic of conversation at breakfast on Tuesday once we’d all exhausted Conference Chronicle. I just took to carrying my passport and traveller’s checks around in my bag.”
Jennifer began to look as if she wished she’d stayed in bed and let someone else have the joy of handling Lindsay Gordon’s little problem. She massaged the back of her neck with one hand. “Okay, let’s go back to this ceilidh. What happened after you and Jack had arranged to meet?”
“The music started up again, and Tom went off to talk to some of his cronies from the print sector. I was collared by some Irish guy who’s been shortlisted for a job in Minnesota teaching journalism. He wanted to pick my brains about doing the business in the States. Anyway, we couldn’t hear ourselves talk, so after about ten minutes, we went outside. We walked across to the fountain in that sort of plaza in the middle of the campus. I don’t know if you noticed, but it was a really mild night. Either that, or we’d both had enough drink not to notice the cold. Anyway, even the breeze felt warm, and my new friend had a quarter bottle of Irish, and so I just sat there and had the odd swallow and told it like it is in the US of A.”
“Okay. Two things. Did you leave before Tom Jack? And how long did you sit talking to this Irishman?” Jennifer asked, flipping back a couple of pages in her notebook and checking her notes of what Lindsay had already said.
“Tom was still in a huddle when we went out. As for how long, I can’t be sure. What I can tell you is that I parted company with the Irishman just after three o’clock. And before you ask, the reason I can be so precise about it is that I’d run out of things I felt I could usefully tell him, but he seemed happy to rabbit on all night. So I asked him what time it was and he looked at his watch and said it was ten past three. So I did the ‘Good God, is it really that time? I have to be up in the morning’ routine and got to my feet. His room wasn’t in Maclintock Tower, so we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.”
“His name?” Jennifer asked, pen poised like a stake over a vampire’s heart.
Lindsay pulled a wry face. “Good question. I wish I knew the answer. He’s the nearest thing I’ve got to an alibi, since there can only have been a few minutes between me leaving him and screaming my head off to raise the alarm.”
Jennifer looked close to exasperation. “You mean, your alibi witness is a man you’ve never met before, whose name you don’t know, and who was quite probably drunk?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
5
“The rooms we offer delegates typically don’t offer a high degree of security. We therefore urge you not to bring your diamonds along on the off chance of being invited to the Broadcasting Branch dinner. By Friday morning, chances are even your paracetamol won’t be safe.”
from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.
Jennifer breathed deeply through her nose. Lindsay felt six years old, as uncomfortable and inadequate as her primary schoolteacher had always made her feel.
“Okay,” Jennifer said, the strain starting to edge into her voice. “What happened next?”
“I walked to Maclintock, pressed the button for the lift, waited for the lift and ascended to the tenth floor. And no, I didn’t see anyone close enough to identify them, so I doubt they could do that much for me. When I got out of the lift, I was aware of somebody disappearing round the corner of the corridor to my left, but I couldn’t really see who it was, since the main lights had gone off and it was just those dim blue emergency night-lights that were on. I’ve got this feeling at the back of my mind that there was something else I noticed, but the more I try to pin it down, the more elusive it gets. I’m sorry, Ms. Okido, I’m not giving you much to go on, am I?”
From somewhere, Jennifer pulled a smile that demonstrated a lot more conviction than she felt. “Don’t worry,” she said automatically. “I’ve heard worse. Carry on, Ms. Gordon. I know this is the hard bit, but once we get to the end, we’ll be a long way towards getting you out of here.”
Lindsay nodded. “Maybe I will have that other cigarette,” she said, half to herself as she reached for the packet. “As I got closer, I could see my door wasn’t quite closed. The tongue of the catch was sitting on the edge of the hole, if you see what I mean. I pushed it open, half-expecting to find I’d been burgled. The first thing I noticed was that the breeze was blowing in my face. I felt a bit muddled, because I was sure I hadn’t left the window open when I went out. I switched the light on and realized that there was a bloody great jagged hole where the window should have been. It took me a moment to register that there was no glass on the inside of the room, so whatever had broken the window had gone from the inside out.”
She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and closed her eyes, determined to be as accurate as she could be about her thoughts and actions. “I looked round the room, trying to work out what was missing, but everything seemed to be where it should be, except that the chair was lying on its side and the clothes that I’d dumped on it were all over the floor. I walked across to the window and . . .” She paused and inhaled more smoke. “I didn’t want to look down, but I made myself. It was a long way down, and I could see the car roofs glinting in the glow from the lights that line the paths. Only, one car wasn’t shining. There was something light colored on it, like . . . like a shirt when you’ve thrown it on the floor. That’s when I started screaming.” Lindsay leaned back and rested her head against the cold cell wall, staring up at the ceiling bulb in its wire cage.
“It felt like I was standing there for ages, but it can’t have been long before other people arrived. I didn’t take much notice, to be honest. There was a lot of shouting about calling the police, which someone must have done. The rest you know,” Lindsay nodded.
Jennifer Okido nodded approvingly. “Good. Okay, Lindsay, what’s going to happen now is that the police are going to interview you. I strongly urge you at this stage to assert your right to silence. What that means is that, whatever they ask you, you must say, ‘No reply.’ Now, are you familiar with the TV show Take Your Pick?”
Lindsay looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Yes,” she said dubiously.
“You know the section at the beginning where contestants are asked questions in an attempt to get them to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? Well, this interview will be rather like that. They’ll try to trick you into giving an answer other than ‘no reply,’ and as soon as you do that, in law you are deemed to have given up
your right to silence. They’ll say things like, ‘Has your solicitor instructed you to say no reply,’ and ‘Is it the case that whatever I ask you, you’re just going to say, no reply.’ You mustn’t fall into the trap. I can protect you to some extent, because they’re not allowed to put you under undue pressure, but I’m afraid most of the burden rests on your shoulders. Are you clear about what you have to do?” Jennifer asked.
Lindsay nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you’re tired, but the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can set about tracking down your alibi witness. I’m afraid they’re not going to release you till we can establish that. Hopefully, though, they’re not going to charge you either just yet. If you’re ready, I’ll go and tell them, and we can maybe get started soon.”
Jennifer got up and knocked on the cell door. After a few moments, feet tapped up the corridor, and the Judas window slid open. Satisfied that the right person was about to leave the cell, the officer opened the door. The solicitor turned back and gave Lindsay a smile before the door banging shut cut her off from sight.
Left to herself, Lindsay curled into a ball on the hard bunk and closed her eyes. When the custody officer came to get her fifteen minutes later, he had to shake her awake.
Conference Chronicle
The Paper Off The Record
Did He Fall or Was He Pushed?
They scraped him off the tarmac like a lump of strawberry jam, just like the song says. It may not have been 20,000 feet without a parachute, but it was far enough to spell “Good night, Vienna” for General Secretary Tom “Union” Jack. Our late unlamented leader always thought he could walk on water. But in the early hours of this morning, he proved he couldn’t fly without one of those planes he was so fond of spending your union dues on. Now everyone will remember the inaugural Annual Delegate Conference of the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union as the one that gave a whole new meaning to plummeting membership figures.
Union Jack was discovered spread over a sizeable acreage of the car-park behind Maclintock Tower about twenty past three this morning when former journalist and conference observer Lindsay Gordon raised the alarm, claiming she’d returned to her room in the student’s residence to discover a mansized hole in the tenth floor window.
This unlikely tale follows the stand-up fight between Gordon and Union Jack on Monday evening (reported in yesterday’s Conference Chronicle). According to our sources, the pair have a history of falling out over a wide variety of issues over the years, ranging from feminism to feminism.
Gordon, who can resemble a one-woman monstrous regiment, had spent the evening at the notorious Scots-Irish Night, a tradition of the former Journalists’ Union that has been claimed eagerly by enthusiastic haggisbashers and bog-trotters in AMWU. There, Gordon and her compatriots did their level best to drink Sheffield dry. This monument to sexism (the women get groped) and racism (non-Celts are barred) was held in the post-graduate common room in Wilberforce Hall.
Union Jack had been invited to the bash in spite of a lifetime of playing the professional Yorkshireman born, bred and buttered up by everyone after a political favour. Some say he got the invitation out of respect for his exalted office as elected General Secretary of our recently amalgamated dog’s dinner of a union; others, because his attitude to women and ethnic minorities made him a natural candidate for adoption to the Celtic fringe. While there, he demonstrated a third qualification for membership by drinking the lion’s share of a bottle of Black Bush.
Gordon, meanwhile was conducting a scientific comparison of as wide a range of Scotch and Irish whiskeys as she could get her hands on. Eye witnesses say she was more than holding her own under attack from several Fleet Street hacks who berated her for abandoning Her Majesty’s Gutter Press just so she could sit in the sun in California teaching journalism to Yanks. (New readers unfamiliar with Gordon’s background should ask any newspaper journalist with more than five years’ Fleet Street experience for the “cashed in, sold out” version and any former member of the Equality Committee of the dearly departed Journalists’ Union for the “paid her dues, deserved the break” version.)
Strangely, given their past history, informed opinion (i.e. one step up from gossip, two up from rumour, three up from innuendo) reveals that Union Jack and Gay Gordon had a reconciliation at the Celtic thrash. Conference Chronicle spies tell me that the pair were seen in a huddle after Union Jack sprang unexpectedly to Gay Gordon’s defence when one of her ex-colleagues began to question her nerve.
“She might have less judgement than a Lancashire batsman, but tha’ cannot call her for lack of bottle,” he reputedly said angrily. “Any lass that’ll stand up to me’s got more nerve than you bunch of jessies.” Union Jack then launched into one of his familiar rants against the self-seeking fat cats of Fleet Street and their craven capitulation over free collective bargaining. When the revellers awoke from the coma this induced, Union Jack and Gay Gordon were heard arranging to meet to discuss unknown matters.
Two hours later, Union Jack lay dead. As we go to press, Gordon is “helping police with their inquiries.” A fiver says she’s being about as helpful as a Trappist monk.
Legovers—Latest!
Liverpool Branch and London Graphical might have been at daggers drawn over the industrial councils proposals, but a certain branch chair and branch secretary are definitely working on building bridges of the humpbacked variety . . . What was a BBC researcher doing taking such an interest in the affairs of the horny-handed sons of toil in the print? . . . No prizes for guessing which Central Lancashire branch delegate is going for the record of most notches on the bed-head at conference. So far, I’m told she’s had a floor manager from Carlisle, a sub-editor from Nottingham and a researcher from Aberdeen. And it’s only Wednesday! . . . In an attempt to get in on the act, there’s to be a meeting of the newly formed Gay And Lesbian Action group tomorrow at six. Just a warning in case you come upon them unawares—they’ll be in the lounge bar of the Flying Parrot pub down the hill from the conference centre.
Gossip and Innuendo
If we ever get back to conference business, look out for an unholy alliance between the former Stalinist Petra O’Dwyer and the careerist Larry Knox that’s set to sabotage the fragile truce in Central Magazine branch . . . I’d watch my back if I were one of those who have ever fiddled a union expense docket . . . Coming soon—more exclusive revelations about secret service plants in your very own union . . . I hear that a certain clerical section are planning some serious horse-trading to win support for Motion 48C, so if there’s something you badly want from your local friendly office support staff, now’s the time to stake your claim . . . Union Jack’s death will almost certainly scupper moves by AMWU staff to disrupt conference by staging a lightning strike protesting at the union’s redundancy plans. Word is the action will be postponed, not cancelled, so deputy general secretary Andy Spence better not breathe too many sighs of relief...
The hand pulled the A4 sheet that contained the Wednesday morning edition of the anonymous Conference Chronicle out of the satchel and slipped it under the next door on the eleventh floor of the student residence. A quick glance at the watch. Time was running short. Soon, the early birds who took the po-faced view that conference was for conference business only would be up and about. Still, this door was the last in the block. Only one more building to go, and that was only five storeys high. The author of the scurrilous daily commentary on events political, social and sexual at the first ever Annual Delegate Conference of the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union looked cautiously around then walked briskly towards the lifts.
“No reply,” she said for the twenty-second time. Concentrating on counting her replies made it easier to ignore the questions. She just kept saying the two words whenever there was a pause in the drone of the coppers’ voices. In between the gaps, she simply kept reciting the numbers in her head.
The rhythm changed only when Jennifer Okido interrupted occasional
ly to protest that they were badgering her client, who was exercising her right to keep her own counsel.
It took an hour for the police officers to give up in frustration. The stocky detective sergeant pushed his chair back with a jerk that made its legs squeal on the vinyl floor tiles. He leaned over the tape recorder and said “Interview terminated at 8.10 a.m.”
“Can I go now?” Lindsay asked, her voice shaky with exhaustion.
“No,” the detective sergeant said.
“You’ll have to stay here till we can establish your alibi,” Jennifer said, leaning close. Lindsay smelled a light, citrus perfume and almost giggled at the incongruity.
Back in the cell, Lindsay stretched out on the hard bunk, pulling the blanket over her. There was nothing that wouldn’t look better after a good sleep.
It took Jennifer Okido less than ten minutes at the AMWU conference center to realize Lindsay hadn’t been exaggerating about the impact of Conference Chronicle on the hundreds of delegates. In the foyer of the hall itself, it seemed there were copies at the heart of every babbling huddle as the union representatives discussed the death of their general secretary and the implication that Lindsay had had more than a hand in it.
As she pushed her way through the throng, Jennifer heard snatches of conversation.
“. . . dark secrets. The way things are being revealed in Conference Chronicle, he could have jumped rather than face the music . . .”
“Maybe he made a pass at her and she decked him, only the deck was further away than she thought . . .”
“Come on, even Tom Jack wouldn’t top himself just to drop Lindsay Gordon in the shit . . .”