"hile you are at conference, you are a delegate and not a journalist, printer, machine minder or whatever. The interests of the union must at all times be the paramount consideration in your mind."

from "Advice for New Delegates,"

a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

The only real difference Lindsay could detect between being a witness and a suspect was that the tea came in pottery mugs rather than polystyrene cartons. The attitude of the police officers was only marginally less aggressive. And the interview room reserved for witness statements was just as charmless as the room where her previous interrogation had been recorded. Luckily, Jennifer Okido had been only too happy to sit in on the interview since her services as duty solicitor had not been required by Laura Craig. Apparently, Laura was already closeted with the city's most experienced, most expensive, and least iconoclastic criminal lawyer, a man who had made his name working both sides of the fence. So, the Special Branch had turned out for their smooth operator after all.

Lindsay's statement had been lengthy and comprehensive, starting with the discoveries in London though not their means of entry into Media House and ending with the confrontation in the bar. The two police officers continually fired questions at her, trying as hard to trip and trap her as they had when they had suspected her of the murder. At the end of the statement, Lindsay leaned back in her chair, unable to avoid a sense of satisfaction.

Neither policeman relaxed an inch. The younger one finished the sentence he was writing and looked up at her. "Go on," he invited her.

"I'm finished," Lindsay said. "That's the lot."

"Not according to what we've been told. You've left out the one bit we wouldn't have found out ourselves by good detective work."

Lindsay looked puzzled. "I'm not with you."

"You're supposedly able to put Laura Craig at the scene of the crime, something you omitted to mention when you were interviewed under caution before," he replied, the cold edge of sarcastic anger in his voice. "It might have helped our inquiry along a bit if you'd told us about her then, instead of deciding to go for glory yourself."

Lindsay looked to Jennifer for guidance. They had already agreed how Lindsay should respond, depending on who asked the question and how. Jennifer nodded twice. Lindsay took a deep breath and went for Plan B. "I didn't realise it was Laura till afterward," she said, aiming as close to bimbo as she could realistically bring herself to try. "After all, I was completely exhausted, and I really wasn't feeling great. I mean, you'd had me locked up so long I'd gone straight from drunk to sober to hung-over without a proper sleep. I did say to you that I had the vaguest impression of having seen someone. It was only after I'd slept that my head put all the pieces of the jigsaw together. Then, the next day, I saw Laura again, and I smelled her perfume really clearly. That confirmed it for me." She almost batted her eyelids, but stopped herself in time. Over the top was the wrong place to be right now.

The policeman who hadn't been trying to get Lindsay's words down on paper leaned forward belligerently. "So, why didn't you tell us the next day, when you'd had the chance to think it over and sleep on it? You'd still have saved us a lot of time."

Lindsay tried her best to look vulnerable. If Sophie could see me now, she thought wryly. "I didn't think you'd believe me," she said plaintively. "I thought you'd think it was all amazingly convenient, that I was just trying to get myself off the hook. Besides, everyone knows I don't like Laura, and she'd have just said I was lying out of spite. I thought I'd better get some more evidence before I came to you."

Her interrogator shook his head in weary disbelief. "Your client better take some acting lessons before this gets to court, Ms. Okido," he said.

"I hope your budget runs to bringing her back for the trial, Sergeant Timpson," Jennifer Okido replied with a sweet smile.

He scowled. "Perhaps your client could expand on exactly what she did see?"

Lindsay gave them a version of events that was only very slightly exaggerated, but credible. The two policemen looked slightly sceptical, but finally grudgingly accepted that a glimpse of the back of a head, a dark shape, and a pair of legs, coupled with identification of the exclusive scent of Le Must de Cartier was enough to place Laura Craig firmly in the frame.

As she walked back with Jennifer Okido to her car, Lindsay said, "What do you think? Will they charge her?"

"No doubt about it. With what you've given them, plus the evidence in Tom Jack's desk and his notebook, I'd say they've got a prima-facie case. I'm told she's denying it with the sort of vehemence that only the guilty ever seem capable of working up," Jennifer said drily.

"I can't say that's a surprise," Lindsay said. "Is she claiming an alibi?"

"Not so far, according to the police officer I had an off-the-record word with. Doubtless if there's anything to dredge up on that score, my colleague Mr. Malone will make the most of it." Jennifer stopped by her silver Audi. "Can I give you a lift?"

Lindsay jumped at the chance to get back to Sophie and their hotel room. Since Sophie had decided that Lindsay's Lone Ranger days were long behind her and had decided it was time to fetch the sheriff and the posse, the two had had no chance to exchange more than a few words. Sophie's own brief witness statement had been over before the murder squad had even started on Lindsay, who had urged her to return to the hotel and unwind.

As Jennifer approached the hotel entrance, Lindsay's heart sank. If what she could see was anything to go by, Sophie's chances of unwinding had been rather less than nil. "Oh shit," she muttered. "Jennifer, could you keep driving, please?"

The solicitor kept her foot on the accelerator and glided smoothly round the car-park and back into the road. "Problems?" she asked.

"Nothing I couldn't handle normally. I just feel like I've had enough confrontation for one day," Lindsay said wearily. "There was a guy standing just outside the front door, under the awning. I don't suppose you noticed him, but he's the Sunday Star's chief reporter. He's obviously the advance guard. The rest will be inside, staking the place out. Sophie's probably ready to kill by now, and I can't say I blame her."

"What do you want to do?" Jennifer asked, pulling up a few hundred yards away from the entrance.

"In an ideal world, I'd like to get Sophie out of there so we can drive back to Glasgow and disappear for a few days with our friends till it's time to go home," Lindsay said.

"Let's go for it, then," Jennifer said calmly. She picked up her car phone and called Directory Enquiries for the hotel's number. Then she keyed in the number and passed the phone to Lindsay.

"Sheffield Metro Towers Hotel, Kimberley speaking, how may I help you?"

"Room 603, please," Lindsay said.

"May I ask who's calling?" Kimberley's artificially bright voice twittered.

"Lindsay Gordon."

"One moment please." The electronic bleeps of the Cuckoo Waltz assaulted Lindsay's ears for the best part of a minute. Then, abruptly, Kimberley was back. "Sorry to keep you," she breezed with no trace of regret. "Ms. Gordon, room 603 is not accepting any calls at this point in time, unless the caller is able to supply us with the name of room 603's pet Labrador."

"I'm sorry?" Lindsay exploded with a giggle. "Her pet Labrador?"

"That is correct. Are you in a position to supply us with the name in question?" Kimberley asked.

"Her black, two-year-old Labrador is called Mutton, as in Cockney rhyming slang, because when he was a puppy, you could scream yourself hoarse telling him not to do something, and he wouldn't take a blind bit of notice. Is that enough, Kimberley?" Lindsay said condescendingly.

"Thank you," Kimberley said with a descending intonation. "Putting you through now."

There was a click, a buzz, then Sophie's wary voice. "Hello?"

"Taking a poor dumb animal's name in vain," Lindsay said. "I like it. Has it worked?"

"Like a charm. I haven't had to speak to a single hack till now. Fortunately, the reception desk thought it was a great game. They've been wonderful. Where are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm about half a mile down the road from the hotel with Jennifer Okido. Listen, how do you feel about going back to Glasgow tonight? If the hotel have been this accommodating about keeping the vultures at bay, they'd probably smuggle you out the back door, and you could just slip into the car, and we could shoot off."

"That sounds like the best idea you've had this week," Sophie said.

Twenty minutes later, Lindsay and Sophie waved their goodbyes to Jennifer Okido. Sophie started the car and said, "Before we go, we need to eat. At least, I do. I was waiting for you to get back before I hit room service."

"There's an Italian about half a mile down the hill. I noticed it the other morning. We should be far enough off the beaten track to avoid the other delegates."

"What about the world's press?" Sophie asked.

"Are you kidding? They're staked out in a place with a bar and sandwich service. You won't get them shifting till tomorrow lunchtime," Lindsay snorted.

As they tucked into a tomato and mozzarella salad, Sophie said, "By the way, there was a message for you back at the hotel. The people you got to do the search for Ian's will? They've got a copy of it, and they want to know where to fax it or send it."

"That's it?" Lindsay asked in dismay. "No details?"

"Oh yes. Simple will, one beneficiary. Laura Margaret Craig."

Lindsay smiled grimly. "I'm glad I was right. But even with that, they'll never nail her for Ian's murder. Too much time's gone by, and the evidence was never more than circumstantial at best." Lindsay paused while their lasagne was placed in front of them.

"At least she can't wriggle out from under with Union Jack," Sophie consoled her. "You did a great job there."

Lindsay shrugged. "I had some pretty serious help," she said through a mouthful of green salad.

"What I'm still not clear about is how so many details came to be published in Conference Chronicle. It can't have been Laura herself behind it, or that story about her being a Special Branch plant would never have seen the light of day."

Lindsay frowned. "That's true. So how did they know I'd spotted her in the corridor? Who else had the remotest notion that I was interested in Laura?"

There was silence while they both chewed that over with their pasta. "Do you suppose..." Sophie started, then trailed off. Lindsay gave her an inquiring look. Sophie sighed. "It's just a thought. But loads of people knew you were nosing around into Union Jack's death. And anyone who's been around the union long enough to remember there was a curious death at the Blackpool conference would also probably remember that it was Laura Craig's ex-lover who died. When you said you'd been to Blackpool smack-bang in the middle of the conference office where anyone could have heard, then mentioned it in passing to dozens of other people...Well, anyone could have jumped to the conclusion that the link between the two deaths was Laura and guessed that she was your number one suspect. Don't forget, you and your doings were hot gossip round the conference hall. It's not surprising it made it to the Conference Chronicle."

Lindsay sighed. "You're right, I had forgotten." She ate another mouthful, her face screwed up in distaste.

"Something wrong with your food?" Sophie asked. Lindsay shook her head. "No. It's you. Sometimes you really piss me off."

Sophie knew her lover too well to be offended. "Oh yeah? Just because I remembered you'd been shooting your big mouth off?"

"No. Because I'm sitting here, congratulating myself on a job well done, and you have to remind me that there's still a hulking great mystery floating around in the atmosphere. I still don't know who's behind Conference Chronicle, and now you've reminded me, it's going to bug the hell out of me."

Sophie grinned. "It'll just have to remain one of the mysteries of the universe, won't it?"

Lindsay scowled. "Not necessarily." Then her eyes twinkled in an evil grin. "After all, we've not left town yet."

Sophie put her head in her hands and groaned. "Me and my big mouth. Why couldn't I have held my tongue till we were safely back in Glasgow?"

"Look at it this way. It's saved you having to drive all the way back. Let's go through this logically," Lindsay said. "After the dramatic events of tonight, there's bound to be a Conference Chronicle tomorrow morning. So, whoever is behind it has to be writing it and distributing it tonight. Okay so far?"

"Can't argue with that."

"Thinking about it logically, they must be using a photocopier somewhere within the campus," Lindsay went on slowly, thinking out loud.

"How do you work that one out?" Sophie asked.

"Elementary, my dear Hartley. At least one of the morning issues has featured events that didn't take place till late the night before. In other words, it happened way too late for any commercial operation to have done the copying. Which only leaves the conference centre."

"Unless someone's got one of those portable desktop computers."

Lindsay shook her head obstinately. "The quality's too good. Besides, they cost more than your average conference delegate would be willing to spend just to make life a misery for a handful of union activists. There's also the sheer volume of paper the writer has gone through. Best place to hide a needle is a sewing-box, not a haystack. I'd still put my money on the conference centre."

"Surely if it was that easy, someone would have discovered who's responsible before now?" Sophie asked.

Lindsay shrugged. "Well, who would actually have bothered? Only the victims-everybody else was enjoying it too much. Besides, they wouldn't waste good drinking and bonking time in the pursuit of idle curiosity. And it was too late for the victims anyway."

"So?

"So get that lasagne down your neck. We've got an appointment with a photocopier."

I told you you're crazy," Sophie muttered as she stumbled over another small shrub. The soft Yorkshire rain was inching down the inside of her jacket collar, and she'd already stripped a layer of skin off her knuckles. She was closer than she'd ever been to falling out with Lindsay.

"There's got to be a way in," Lindsay repeated, oblivious to Sophie's hostility, thrusting her way through the undergrowth that covered the steep slope behind the hexagonal building.

"Why? The place is all locked up. Everyone with any sense has gone home. The entire building is in darkness. It's ten o'clock at night. The editor of Conference Chronicle is almost certainly getting legless in a bar somewhere. Oh shit!" Sophie cannoned into Lindsay's back as she stumbled on the slope.

"There!" Lindsay exclaimed triumphantly. "An open window." She pointed at a small frosted-glass window that was cracked open an inch.

"Oh, whoopee," Sophie groaned. "It's too high," she added, giving the window a second look.

"Not if I climb on your shoulders," Lindsay enthused. "Come on, over here."

"You shouldn't go in by yourself," Sophie protested uselessly as Lindsay dragged Sophie over to the wall and started to scramble up her body, depositing sticky yellow mud on her clothes as she went.

Lindsay prised the window open and gripped the sill. "Why the hell not?" she gasped as she pulled herself up, nearly kicking Sophie in the head as she struggled for leverage. "We're only talking one maverick journo here, not the Boston Strangler."

As Lindsay hauled her upper body over the sill, Sophie recovered her breath and said, "Not necessarily. There is one other way Conference Chronicle could have known that Laura was in the right place at the right time to have been spotted by you and translated into prime suspect for Union Jack's murder." Lindsay's legs suddenly stopped thrashing. "That's right, sweetheart. Whoever writes Conference Chronicle might just be Union Jack's real killer."

Lindsay's voice, muffled by her position, floated back to Sophie. "We just passed a fire exit. About twenty feet back. I'll open it from the inside, okay?" She gave a final heave and pulled herself over the sill. There was an ominous crash, followed by, "Don't worry, I'm all right, I just knocked some chairs over."

Lindsay groped round in the dark till she found a door and emerged into the gloom of a corridor dimly lit by emergency lighting. Cautiously, she headed in the direction of the fire door she'd spotted from the outside. Praying it wasn't alarmed, she pushed down on the bar and felt the door give. Sophie grabbed the edge and hauled it towards her, slipped inside, then grabbed Lindsay in a tight hug. "I didn't mean to scare you," she said.

"I know, I know, you just didn't want to miss the fun," Lindsay mock-grumbled.

"I just like to keep you on your toes. What's the plan of action?"

Lindsay shrugged. "I guess we just wander round till we find our rogue photocopier."

Sophie ran a hand through Lindsay's tousled hair. "That's what I love about you, Gordon," she said fondly. "Always first on the block with a clear strategy."

They moved down the silent corridors, trying to keep quiet. On the ground floor, the conference hall occupied the central area of the building, surrounded by a corridor. The opposite side of the corridor was lined with different-sized offices, like a motley ring of covered wagons. It was easy to eliminate them simply by walking the corridors; there were no strips of light showing under doors, no tell-tale humming and paper-shunting of photocopiers to be heard. It took less than fifteen minutes for Sophie and Lindsay to be certain that wherever Conference Chronicle was being produced, it wasn't on the ground floor.

At the head of one of the flights of stairs to the basement floor, Sophie paused. "Sure this is wise?" she asked. "Maybe there was a silent alarm on that door. We could be living on borrowed time."

"That's a chance I'm prepared to take," Lindsay said. "I've come this far, I'm not bottling out now."

The implication that her bottle had gone, clearly meant to sting Sophie into action, merely amused her. But the thought of Lindsay charging headlong and alone into a potentially explosive situation did persuade her to stick by her lover's side as she plunged down the stairs. "Into the valley of wossname," she muttered under her breath as she followed.

The basement was home to medium-sized committee rooms and more small offices. As they turned the first corner at the foot of the stairs, both women stopped dead in their tracks. A slender shaft of light spilled on to the floor at their feet. And they could both hear the fast shuffle and hum of a state-of-the-art photocopier.