V. McDermid - Union Jack

Before they could say more, there was a disturbance behind them. A familiar voice floated through the door, focusing every drinker’s attention on the speaker. ‘Will you for God’s sake leave me alone, Tom? I’m not a piece of bloody china,’ Laura Craig was shaking off Tom Jack’s protective arm and stalking into the bar.

‘But Laura, you shouldn’t be left alone, you’re in shock.’ For once, thought Lindsay, he actually sounded sincerely concerned.

‘Tom, piss off,’ Laura said slowly and clearly. ‘Watch my lips. I want to be alone.’ She sounded more like Margaret Thatcher than Greta Garbo.

Tom Jack stepped back. There was no mistaking the determination and anger in Laura’s voice. He put his hands up at chest level, palms towards Laura. ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll be through in the lounge if you want me.’

She watched him leave before turning back towards the bar, face set in a hard, expressionless mask. Shaz leaned forward to say softly, ‘Sounds like your sympathy might be a bit misplaced.’

Lindsay shook her head. ‘She’s in shock, like Tom said. Grief does funny things to you.’

When she realised who her companions at the bar were, Laura sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Is there no peace in this bloody town?’ Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Laura said sharply, ‘Don’t say it. Don’t for God’s sake say you’re sorry. Is anyone serving here?’ she demanded, turning to the barman. ‘Good. Give me a very large vodka and ginger beer. When I say very large, I mean four.’ The barman took one look at her face, decided not to comment and scuttled off towards his optics.

Lindsay moved towards Laura and said, ‘Laura, I know what it’s like. After Frances died, I sometimes felt it was only the anger holding me together.’

Laura shook her head, as if to clear the vision. ‘That’s what comes next, is it? People giving me permission for my emotions?’ Lindsay felt as if she’d been smacked in the face, but tried to subdue her reaction. When Laura’s drink came, she swallowed half of it in one. As the alcohol hit, her shoulders straightened.

A BBC radio producer chose that moment to come over and put his arm round her. ‘Laura, love, we’re all so very, very sorry,’ he said.

Laura pulled herself clear. ‘You’re dripping beer on my suit. I doubt you earn enough to have it cleaned, never mind replaced. Now piss off,’ she hissed.

The man dropped his arm as if he’d been stung. He backed away, his face a mask of shock.

Laura finished her drink slammed the glass down on the bar. ‘What a waste,’ she said bitterly. ‘What a bloody, bloody waste.’

‘I know,’ Lindsay persisted. ‘I can’t believe it either. I can only imagine how much worse it is for you.’

‘Can you?’ Laura asked dangerously. ‘Can you? Sure you’re not just fishing for an angle for your story, Lindsay?’

Lindsay clocked the look of shock on Shaz’s face, and suspected it was mirrored on her own. ‘For Christ’s sake, Laura,’ she protested.

‘How come you didn’t make it to the hospital like the rest of the pack, Lindsay? Oh, of course! You came in Ian ’s car, didn’t you? You didn’t have any wheels to get there. Well, you missed a great show. Your cronies were in fine form. “How do you feel, Laura? What was the last thing he said to you, Laura? What was he really like, Laura?”’ she mimicked. ‘My God, to think my job puts me on the same side as you vultures!’ Laura turned away and signalled to the barman. ‘Just a double this time, please.’

Lindsay moved forward, shaking off Shaz’s restraining arm. ‘Whatever you might think, Laura, I’m not interested in sneaking a couple of juicy quotes out of you. Ian was my friend, and in case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a monopoly on grief.’ She spoke softly, but there was no mistaking her sincerity.

Laura turned to face Lindsay and looked her up and down. ‘My god,’ she said, her drawling voice heavy with contempt. ‘I thought you were as bad as the rest of the vultures. I was wrong. You’re a hundred times worse. You stand there, trading on the fact that Ian was too soft-hearted to treat you with the contempt you deserved. Have you any idea how much it pissed him off to have you hanging round, always badgering him with questions, thrusting your bloody grief down his throat? And now you stand there with your crocodile tears like he was something to you. Christ! You should get a T-shirt printed. Lindsay Gordon, queen of the jackal pack. Just for the record, Gordon, let me tell you that your pathetic posturings of grief made Ian sick. And not just Ian. Let’s face it, no normal person’s going to shed a tear because there’s one less dyke on the planet.’

Lindsay could feel the scarlet tide of anger and embarrassment that swept through her body. She was dimly aware of Shaz’s hand on her arm again. This time she let herself be drawn away from the bitter, bereaved woman at the bar. ‘Come on,’ Shaz said. ‘She doesn’t deserve your support.’

At the door, Lindsay looked back, Laura was still leaning against the bar, the centre of all the other drinkers’ wary attention.

‘I’ll never forgive her that,’ Lindsay said, her voice cold, her face set. ‘I don’t care how shocked she is, she’s gone too far. One day she’s going to regret this.’

PART TWO

Sheffield, April 1993

1

‘ Tempting though it is for fringe groups to regard conference as a captive audience, only authorised conference material may be distributed inside the hall itself. Any other leaflets, flyers, etc. will be removed and shredded, thus resulting in needless death to trees. Non- authorised material may be distributed outside the hall, though those distributing it should be warned that hung-over delegates who have unwanted bumf thrust upon them can often react violently. SOS and the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union can accept no responsibility for any injuries thus caused .’

from ‘ Advice for New Delegates’, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet .

The custody sergeant picked up his pen and gave Lindsay a shrewd look of appraisal. ‘Been drinking?’ he asked. It was the first indication he’d given that she wasn’t invisible. The two detectives who had brought her into the police station also turned towards her. She’d listened patiently while they’d informed the sergeant she was required for questioning relating to a suspicious death. The stocky detective sergeant had grumbled at her refusal to say anything, either at the scene of the death or in the car on the way to the station.

In answer to the custody sergeant, Lindsay nodded. ‘I had a few whiskies earlier.’

The custody sergeant nodded grimly. ‘Okay lads, no questions for a couple of hours. Give the lady time to sober up.’

‘No problem. We’ve got plenty to keep us busy back at the scene of the crime,’ the detective constable said.

‘Alleged crime,’ the custody sergeant corrected him absently.

The two detectives shouldered their way past Lindsay. She heard the DS mutter, ‘Bollocks to that,’ as he opened the door.

‘A few details, if you please, miss,’ the custody sergeant said.

‘I’d like a lawyer,’ Lindsay said.

‘Do you know one locally? Or would you prefer me to call the duty solicitor?’

‘The duty solicitor will do fine,’ Lindsay sighed. ‘Thanks.’

The custody sergeant picked up the phone on his desk and dialled a number. Almost immediately, he spoke. ‘Pager number 659511. Please call Sergeant Meadows, Central Police Station. End message.’ He paused. ‘That’s right. Thanks.’ He put the phone down and smiled at Lindsay. ‘Now, while we’re waiting, a few details.’