Conferences are Murder by Val McDermid Page A

mineral water.”
    Dick shook his head in sorrow, but ordered it nevertheless. “You’ve been away too long.”
    Before Lindsay could leap to her own defense, the double doors of the bar swung open and Laura Craig strolled in. Her tailored trousers and long sweater were as close as Lindsay had ever seen her to casual clothes. “Hey, Laura,” one of the delegates at the bar called. “Shouldn’t you be buying the drinks? We’ve all read Conference Chronicle—you’re the only one here that’s on expenses!”
    Laura smiled. “I wish,” she said. “Mine’s a vodka and ginger beer. Make it a large one, or else I’ll set Miss Moneypenny on you!” She moved across to the group of men, succumbing willingly to their raucous teasing.
    â€œPlayed the room like a fiddle,” Lindsay said.
    â€œYou’ve always had the knife into the Vogue Vamp. You’re not seriously telling me you believe that guff?” Dick asked.
    Lindsay sighed. “Of course I don’t. Even her worst enemy couldn’t have come up with something that ludicrous.”
    Dick emptied his glass and dumped it on the bar. “I’d better be on my way. I’ve got to go down to Standing Orders
Sub-Committee. I’ve got an emergency motion to propose for the membership and organization order-paper.”
    â€œOh? What about?”
    â€œAs well as having branches organized locally and according to sector, we should set up unemployed branches, since that’s what this union seems to be best at presiding over.” Dick pulled a lopsided smile.
    â€œI’m sorry about Socialism Today ,” Lindsay said.
    â€œSo’m I. And about the philosophy, not just the magazine. See you around.”
    Dick lumbered off. As he reached the door, he came face to face with Tom Jack. Lindsay saw their mouths move, but they were too distant for her to hear what they said. Not for the first time, she wished she could lip-read. Suddenly, Dick’s right arm shot out, and he pushed Tom hard in the chest, so the union leader stumbled and fell back against the wall. It wasn’t the first bit of rough stuff she’d seen so far at the conference. There had been a few punches flung in the bar in the early hours between warring factions. But this was the first time she’d seen anyone lay a hand on the man who seemed to be at the center of every divisive and damaging row she’d witnessed. Lindsay couldn’t help feeling worried that it had been Dick who’d thrown the first blow.

4
    â€œDelegates are reminded that fringe events organised under the banner of AMWU should not breach existing union policy. That means nothing racist, sexist, ageist or otherwise exclusive. (Watch out, the Gay and Lesbian Group social . . .)”
    from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.
    Lindsay tried unsuccessfully to stifle the yawn that gripped her suddenly. “Aagh,” she groaned. “I’m really sorry, the night’s beginning to catch up with me.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’m in no hurry,” Jennifer reassured her. “What’s most important is that we get as many of the facts clear at this stage so we can convince the police there’s no point in holding you here.”
    â€œOkay. I can’t think of anything else that happened during Tuesday that has any bearing on anything. I spent most of the day doing interviews for my thesis with the women who were around during the big equality issue rows of the eighties, getting them to dredge their memories for the human stories behind the dry recorded facts of motions passed and leaflets issued. All very boring stuff to someone who wasn’t involved at the time, I suspect.” Lindsay avoided the revelation that she too had found much of it excruciatingly tedious, and was beginning to wonder how she was going to give her supposedly
groundbreaking