Conferences are Murder by Val McDermid Page B

thesis the bite she wanted it to have. “Anyway, while I was interviewing, one of the guys I used to work with in Glasgow when I was a reporter on the Scottish Daily Clarion came over and invited me to the Scots-Irish Ceilidh Night.
    â€œThe JU always held one. You could only go if you were Scots or Irish, regardless of where you worked. A handful of outsiders always used to get invited if they were prominent in the union and had the right political credentials—and I mean right. In spite of which, I’m ashamed to say I’ve always enjoyed it. The music was always terrific—we’ve got some really talented singers and musicians in the union, and it always felt to me like the music and the dancing was at least as important to the people there as the rest of the Celtic male-bonding stuff. So when I was invited, I handed over my tenner like a shot. We each chip in a tenner for the drink.”
    Jennifer couldn’t hide the look of surprise. “That’s a lot of drink,” she commented.
    â€œThe Celts are a thirsty people. Historically, we’ve got a lot of sorrows to drown. Anyway, it always used to be one of the few events at conference where political differences were forgotten as we forged our sentimental bonds of spurious camaraderie. Unfortunately, like so many other things in the trade union movement, it’s changed beyond recognition.”
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    The joyous energy of the jigs and reels that filled the room did nothing to dissipate the atmosphere of simmering rancor that filled the post-graduate common room of Wilberforce Hall. For once, the old Celtic alliances were failing to diminish the strains of AMWU’s newly discovered tensions. The brains who had dreamed up the terms and conditions of the most complex merger in the history of the British trade union movement had somehow failed to consider the volatile effect of lumping printers, clerical workers, broadcasters, researchers, journalists, camera crew and distribution workers together to find common cause, something they’d signally failed to achieve in the 500-year history of the mechanical mass media.
    As the drink flowed, so too did the old resentments. At first,
Lindsay had managed to steer clear of disputes by grabbing a bottle of White Horse and squeezing into the corner behind the fiddler, two guitarists, concertina player and tin whistle blower who were currently providing the music.
    But her hiding place was exposed soon after midnight when the impromptu band took a break and gave way to a Newcastle printer who played the Northumbrian pipes. Their mournful notes always made her feel melancholy. Or maybe it was just the whisky. Either way, she wished Sophie was with her, instead of at a conference a hundred miles away. If Sophie was here, the atmosphere would be irrelevant, Lindsay told herself.
    Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a familiar face, bleary with drink. Stewart Grant had been one of her fellow reporters on the Daily Nation in London years before. A diehard misogynist, Grant had been one of those who had exploited her grief at Frances’ death in a series of supposedly innocent remarks whose barbs twisted like fish hooks in her stomach. Even before then, she’d never liked him. But his behavior when she’d been at her most vulnerable had turned dislike to contempt in a handful of sentences.
    â€œHey, if it’s not Lindsay Gordon, come back to lord it over us. You’ve got some nerve, lady,” he slurred.
    â€œAs usual, Stewart, you make as much sense as a square toilet seat. Go away and bother somebody else, eh?”
    He giggled, a high, edgy sound. “Cannae face the truth, eh?” He turned back to face the room. “Hey, guys, come and see this. It’s no’ often you get a chance to see one of the rats that deserted the sinking ship. They’re usually running too damn fast. Get a load of this.” He turned back to Lindsay and leered. “You