Both women fell silent, contemplating Mr. and Mrs. Jack’s idea of a Yorkshire country residence. Its brilliant white stucco beamed out of the limestone landscape like a beacon. The red pantiled roof leapt out of its gray and green background like a spilt pot of paint on a Berber carpet. There were enough wrought iron features to have kept a Sheffield steelworks going for a year. Eventually, Lindsay said, “It could have been uprooted, lock, stock and cartwheels, straight from the Costa del Sol.”

“The Spanish cultural ministry were probably so glad to see the back of it they paid the relocation costs,” Sophie replied. “It’s grosso. Having said that, though, looking at the size of it, plus the conservatory, the four-car garage, the swimming pool and the grounds, I’d say we were looking at a pretty substantial investment, even for a trade union baron.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay agreed with a sigh. “That’s what was worrying me too. If Union Jack was here right now, I’d want to grip him by the throat and ask how he’d managed to afford Dun-wheeling-and-dealing. Maybe Conference Chronicle ought to be asking questions about Rancho Jacko rather than slinging mud at me.”

“Run that story past me again,” Sophie asked. “I’m not sure I took in all the implications first thing this morning.”

Lindsay obliged. Summing up, she said, “The bottom line is that the writer of Conference Chronicle knows altogether too much about the murder.”

“Which means that whoever is behind Conference Chronicle is also Tom Jack’s killer?” Sophie suggested.

“Either that or else he or she is pretty deeply in Laura’s confidence. She may have revealed that she was in fact around at the time of the killing, though she obviously won’t have confessed to her own involvement in it. That would make sense if she thought I’d seen her coming out of my room, which she may have done if she’d heard I’d gone to Blackpool to rake up the one bit of the past she can’t afford to have disturbed. But whoever it was she trusted has betrayed her, either by writing the tale in Conference Chronicle personally or else by passing it on, wittingly or unwittingly,” Lindsay said.

“There’s a lot of ifs and buts there, Lindsay,” Sophie objected.

“I know, but I prefer ifs and buts to the thought that the killer is writing Conference Chronicle and has me in their sights.” They fell silent again, both lost in their respective fears and speculations. The morning trickled slowly past, accompanied by selections from Helen’s cassettes, ranging from Annie Lennox to Deacon Blue. “If they haven’t got a Scottish accent, Helen won’t listen to them,” Lindsay complained, replacing The Proclaimers with Del Amitri.