Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

to confront them with the hard questions about what’s happening in this country, they slam the shutters down. Look at the hassle they’ve been giving the BBC!’ Ian exploded. Then, suddenly, he fell silent, mouth clamped shut, the muscles standing out against the sharp line of his jaw.

      ‘I suppose it’s keeping Laura busy,’ Lindsay said uncertainly, assuming Ian’s silence was somehow connected to his lover, Laura Craig. Laura was employed by the JU to organise union activities in the broadcasting sector. The government’s recent ham-fisted efforts at censorship and control had given her several thorny problems to deal with. Lindsay had often heard Ian complain that he hardly saw her these days.

      ‘I suppose it is,’ he said coldly. A slight gap in the traffic opened up, and Ian accelerated jerkily to take advantage of it. As he drew close to the car in front, he braked sharply enough to throw them both against their seat-belts. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, running a hand through his thick, straight salt-and-pepper hair.

      ‘Problems?’ Lindsay asked with sinking heart. She had enough on her own plate without having to bother with someone else’s hard time, she thought bitterly. But Ian was a friend. She felt obliged to give him the opening.

      ‘You could say that.’ The news programme ended, and the jaunty signature tune of The Archers jangled in their ears. Ian’s hand shot out and twisted the volume knob as far down as it would go. ‘She’s moved out,’ he said softly in the sudden peace. His grey eyes stared straight ahead.

      Lindsay tried out various responses in her head. ‘When?’ ‘Why?’ ‘I never liked her anyway.’ ‘Is there … someone else?’ She settled for, ‘Oh, Ian. Poor you. What happened?’ It seemed to combine solicitude with support. Please God, he wouldn’t feel like telling her.

      At first, it seemed as if Lindsay’s prayer had been answered. Ian said nothing, simply concentrating on the road and the car in front. They started moving again, and, miraculously, whatever had been clogging the traffic vanished. Within minutes, the engine was in third gear, the tower was growing taller and Ian had become talkative. ‘You know how you think you know someone? You feel comfortable with them? You could see yourself spending the rest of your life with them? Well, that’s how it was with me and Laura,’ he said.

      And me and Frances, Lindsay echoed mentally. ‘You seemed to get on so well together,’ she said.

      Ian gave a hollow laugh. ‘Just shows how blind you can be, doesn’t it? What a mug.’ He took a deep breath, then broke into a fit of coughing. As he recovered, his hand went out automatically to the glove box. He opened it and took out a blue plastic tube with an angled end which he put in his mouth. Lindsay tried not to look as if she was paying attention as he used the inhaler and chucked it back in the glove box.

      ‘Is my cigarette bothering you?’ she asked.

      Ian shook his head, holding his breath. He let the air out in a controlled gasp. ‘Cigarette smoke doesn’t set my asthma off. Now, if you were wearing Rive Gauche or you had a dog at home, I’d have to strap you to the roof-rack. Poor Laura could never treat herself to a new perfume without consulting me first. Oh well, that’s one thing she won’t have to worry about any more.’

      The bitterness in his tone shocked Lindsay. It seemed so alien from Ian, that most gentle of men. It was hard to square with the devoted adoration he’d always displayed when he’d talked about Laura in the past. He was one of those men who carry photographs of their lovers and find the most tenuous excuses to pull them out of their wallets and display them. Long before she’d ever met Laura in the flesh, Lindsay had seen Laura in Greece, Laura in Scotland, Laura on horseback, Laura in a sailing dinghy, Laura in evening dress and Laura asleep.

      ‘When did all this happen? You haven’t mentioned it at work,’ Lindsay said.

      ‘I could do without the snide jokes. Worse than that, the pity,’ Ian said. He wasn’t misjudging their colleagues, Lindsay thought sadly. ‘I threw her out three weeks ago last Saturday,’ he added.

      He threw her out. It took a moment for Lindsay to grasp what Ian had said. Given his devotion, it could only mean Laura had been seeing someone else and Ian had found out. With her looks, and the force of her personality, she couldn’t have been short of other offers. And although you’d go a long way before you found a kinder man than Ian, not even his own mother would have described his sharp features, beaky nose and long, skinny body as handsome. Lindsay had occasionally wondered what had attracted them to each other in the first place. Laura Craig was a woman who liked beautiful things, if her clothes and jewellery were anything to go by. But Ian wasn’t given to superficial judgements so Lindsay had always thought that must mean that there was more to Laura than the stylish, hard-edged exterior she presented to the world. She flicked a sidelong glance at Ian. His mouth was clamped shut, his lips a thin line. Clearly, he didn’t want to dissect what had happened. Lindsay breathed a silent sigh of relief. The sordid details of Laura’s infidelity she could do without.

      The car had slowed again as they reached the centre of the town. The pavements were thronged with day-trippers, enjoying the brief moments of sunshine that escaped from the drift of cloud. Like any British Bank Holiday crowd, people were dressed for extremes. It was either cap-sleeved T-shirts or macs as far as the eye could see.

      ‘The street map’s in the glove box,’ Ian told her as they emerged on the Golden Mile in all its tacky glory. Ian turned north, the tram-lines and the sea wall to the left, the endless string of cheap hotels, amusement arcades, Gifte Shoppes, pubs and fast food outlets to their right.

      Lindsay studied the photostat sheet that had been enclosed in their delegates’ fact pack. Efficient as ever, Ian had marked the Princess Alice hotel with a red cross. Lindsay checked the name of the next side street they passed.

      ‘About another mile to go, I’d say,’ she estimated. The Golden Mile’s attractions petered out, giving way to more hotels, boarding houses, and bed and breakfast establishments. ‘There it is,’ Lindsay said at last, pointing to a huge red brick edifice whose five storeys looked forbiddingly over the grey Irish Sea. ‘It looks more like a Victorian asylum than a hotel.’

      ‘Couldn’t be more appropriate for a JU conference, as you’ll discover soon enough,’ Ian replied. ‘And as you’ve probably noticed from the map, it’s conveniently situated only two miles from the conference centre itself. Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed as he pulled off the road on the forecourt. ‘They weren’t joking when they said there was limited car-parking, were they?’ The whole area in front of the hotel was asphalted over to provide spaces for cars, but it had clearly never been a majestic sweep of lawn to start with. Ian inched forward, looking for a space.

      ‘Over there. Right by the wall, look, someone’s pulling out,’ Lindsay said. Ian shot forward and squeezed his Ford Escort into the narrow gap.

      ‘Well spotted,’ he said, opening his door and getting out. He raised his arms in a long stretch and yawned. Then he opened his eyes and froze. ‘Jesus Christ. What the hell is she playing at?’ he whispered.

      Lindsay turned to look at the woman who had caught his eye. Laura Craig strode up the short drive of the hotel, wavy brown hair lacquered solid against the whipping westerly wind. But Laura wasn’t alone.

       2

      ‘Delegates are reminded that their duty is to follow debates and cast votes on behalf of their members. However appealing the bars, cafés, fringe meetings, gossip sessions and members of your gender of choice, the conference hall is where you should be. We know it can be boring; we even know of delegates who prefer hanging around at Standing Orders Sub-Committee rather than staying in the hall. In the interests of preserving your SOS members’ sanity, please do not attend our sessions unless you are entitled to a voice [see S05(b) (ii) and Footnote xiv]. Flattered though we are to be the centre of delegates’ attention, this does not help the smooth flow of conference order papers!’