Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

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.’

      ‘Name, rank and serial number, that sort of thing?’

      ‘Name, address and fingerprints, more like. And you don’t get Red Cross parcels here, neither.’

      The cell they took her to was cold and smelled stale. The solicitor had agreed to come soon, so she could interview Lindsay before the police decided she was sober enough for interrogation. She sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and stretched in a huge yawn. Then, elbows on her knees, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with her knuckles. She had sobered up the moment she had realised what the jagged hole in her window meant. But that couldn’t stop the drink taking its physiological toll. Besides, it was nearly six in the morning. She was entitled to feel tired. She should be tucked up in bed, fast asleep, not locked up in some scruffy, dismal cell.

      Lindsay began to wonder if leaving her to kick her heels was a deliberate ploy; perhaps they intended her to become more nervous and panicky the longer they left her. Then the voice of realism shouted down the paranoia. She knew how chronically understaffed the police always claimed to be. These guys were investigating what was either a highly dramatic suicide, a mystifying accident or a horrific murder. Maybe they simply had more pressing things to do before they were overtaken by events. After all, they knew she wasn’t going anywhere now.

      A dull ache had started behind her eyes. The classic whisky hangover was starting to bite. Lindsay had learned at an early age the technique of drinking large quantities of whisky without becoming either aggressively drunk, maudlin or catatonic. She’d also learned that there was only one way of dealing with the after-effects. Two pints of cold tap-water. Then ten hours sleep followed by a substantial meal – preferably the traditional Scottish New Year’s Day dinner of steak pie, mashed potatoes and peas, followed by sherry trifle.

      They did things very differently in California. Now, on the rare occasions when Lindsay had more than a couple of drinks, it was more likely to be white wine spritzers. And the morning after cure consisted of a handful of vitamins washed down with a litre of fizzy mineral water. Lindsay shuddered. She should be kicking down the door of this cell, demanding a lawyer right this minute. Somehow, she just couldn’t summon up the energy. Instead, she swung her feet up on to the bed and lay back. She closed her eyes, placed her hands palm down on the rough blanket and breathed deeply. Area by area, she deliberately relaxed her muscles, mentally repeating, ‘I love and approve of myself, right where I am.’ Within five minutes, the pain had