Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

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СКАЧАТЬ was the pressure to pile up qualifications and publications. Publish or be damned was an expression that could have been coined for her new world instead of her old one, Lindsay often thought. But when she’d chosen to write a doctoral thesis researching women’s roles in the trade union movement, she hadn’t expected it to be a straight road back to a police interrogation.

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Lindsay’s eyes snapped open and focused on the woman who had just walked in. She was tall to start with, but the three-inch stilettos she had chosen put her near six feet. Her hair was short and neat, emphasising the kind of bone structure that has generated the fashion industry’s demand for striking black models. Her skin was the colour of copper beech leaves in summer. Lindsay took in a pair of sharply tailored trousers in hounds-tooth check, a black matador jacket and a spotless white blouse open at the neck. Lindsay jumped to her feet. ‘You must be my solicitor,’ she said as the woman moved towards her.

      The solicitor shook her hand and perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Right. I’m Jennifer Okido,’ she said.

      Lindsay shuddered at the thought of how she must appear to this woman who couldn’t have looked less like she’d been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. ‘Lindsay Gordon,’ she said. ‘Sorry you had to be called out so early.’

      ‘It’s no problem, Ms Gordon. I’m used to it. There aren’t many firms in the city who do criminal work any longer, thanks to the Legal Aid changes. We’re the largest, and I’m the senior criminal partner. By the way, I’m sorry about this, but we’ll have to talk in here. Since the Strangeways riots, our police stations are so overcrowded with remand prisoners that there are no more secure interview rooms. They’ve all become holding cells. Now, if I can just sort out some details?’ She took a pad from her briefcase and moved swiftly through the formalities. ‘So what brings you back to Britain?’ the solicitor asked.

      Lindsay ran a hand through her hair and pulled a wry face. ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself,’ she said. ‘My doctoral thesis is a study of how women have worked within the trade union movement to achieve changes in media attitudes towards them. That’s why I came back for the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union’s first annual conference. Years ago I used to be active in the Journalists’ Union, which has been swallowed up by the new union, and I needed to talk to people who were involved in the equality struggles of the seventies and eighties. I thought that coming to the conference would be a good way of catching several of them in the same place.’

      Jennifer nodded as she jotted notes with a shiny silver fountain pen. ‘And you arrived here when?’

      Lindsay closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Monday afternoon,’ she said.

      The foyer of Wilberforce Hall was buzzing. But the focus of attention wasn’t the long trestle table where arriving delegates were registered and supplied with their conference packs. It was the photocopied A4 sheets that the earlier arrivals were waving under the noses of their friends and acquaintances as soon as they put their noses across the threshold. As Lindsay joined the queue, the pony-tailed young man behind her was accosted by a woman in her mid-forties.

      ‘Have you seen this, Liam?’ the woman demanded in a harsh Ulster accent. ‘It’s outrageous! Look what they’re saying about Fearghal O’Donovan!’

      Lindsay sneaked a look over the young man’s shoulder as he took the brandished sheet of paper. She read:

       Conference Chronicle The Paper Off The Record

      When Irish Ayes Are Lying?

      Some of us were more than slightly gobsmacked at the turn-out in the election for an assistant general secretary (Ireland) last month. For those of us more familiar with the depressingly low numbers of members who normally vote in elections for fulltime officials, seeing returns of sixty-two per cent was pretty astonishing. And a staggering eighty-nine per cent of them voted for former despatch worker Fearghal O’Donovan.

      The reason for O’Donovan’s phenomenal success, however, has more to do with chicanery than popularity. O’Donovan has always performed better in secret ballots than in workplace shows of hands.

      The reason for this is that in Irish secret ballots, the ballot papers never actually reach the voters, particularly in the offices of more remote local papers where there is traditionally a low or nonexistent turn-out in union elections.

      And in the major newspaper offices where the forms are actually handed out, Fearghal’s cohorts simply make sure they collect up any unused forms, then put the crosses in Fearghal’s box.

      What’s in it for them? Well, guess who controls all the highly-paid casual Saturday night-shifts at the Sunday Sentinel? None other than Dermot O’Donovan, brother of the more famous Fearghal.

      Of course, Fearghal will deny Conference Chronicle’s claim. Maybe it’s time someone went through the ballot papers and compared how many were filled in with the identical pen and the identical cross.

      Lindsay reached the end of the piece ahead of the young man. She couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. There were a lot of journalists who’d be walking round with sanctimonious smirks on their faces when they saw that. All their wild claims about the corruption and nepotism of the traditional print unions would be vindicated by that one anonymous article. The air would be thick with the sound of ‘I told you so’.

      ‘Sure, they can’t prove a thing, so,’ the young man protested in the softer Dublin accent. ‘They shouldn’t be let away with the likes of this, though. Fearghal’ll be biting the carpet. Where did you get it?’

      The woman, red-faced in her anger, said, ‘It was shoved under my bedroom door. Everybody’s got one. It’s a scandal, so it is.’

      ‘Who’s behind it?’ the young man asked, handing the sheet back as the queue moved forward.

      ‘It’ll be them bloody journalists, trying to run everything their way. As if it’s not enough that their man got the general secretary job, they have to stoop to telling lies about a decent man who’ll stand up to them.’ She was building up a fine head of steam. Lindsay hoped the woman wouldn’t round on her and demand to know which sector of the union she belonged to.

      ‘What’s Fearghal saying to it?’ the young man asked.

      The woman snorted. ‘Let me tell you, that man’s a saint. He’s gone to see Standing Orders Sub-Committee about an emergency motion to clear his name. And in the face of this,’ she added, waving the offending article, ‘I don’t doubt they’ll see things his way. I’ve never seen the like, not in all my years as a union official. What we’ve got to do is, we’ve got to organise a proper investigation into who’s doing this.’

      The young man shrugged. ‘It’d be a waste of time, Brid. Anybody could have done it.’

      ‘Only someone with access to a photocopier,’ she said triumphantly.

      ‘Brid, think about it. There must be half a hundred places in a city the size of Sheffield where you can get photocopying done. If it is a journalist, they could have pals on the local paper who are only too happy to run them off copies in the office. Plus, don’t forget, you can get these wee portable ones СКАЧАТЬ