Chapters (32)
- Title Page
- Praise
- Also by Val McDermid
- NOTE TO READERS
- Dedication
- PROLOGUE
- PART ONE - Blackpool, April 1984
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- PART TWO - Sheffield, April 1993
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- EPILOGUE
- V. L. McDermid
- Copyright Page
“Not exactly,” Lindsay said. “I mean, I knew him from way back, but he wasn’t high on the list of people I was eager to see again. This thesis is about how the cause of women has been furthered, not hindered,” she added, acid in her voice.
“So when did you meet up with him again?”
“It was in the bar that evening. I’d noticed him earlier, when I was going into dinner. He was in a huddle in a corner with Laura Craig and Andy Spence. Andy used to be the deputy general secretary of the National Union of Printworkers. When the NUP amalgamated with the JU and the other print unions, their general secretary retired and Andy stood against Tom Jack for the AMWU top job. He lost that election, but he was definitely the people’s choice for the number two job.”
“You seem very well informed, considering you live in San Francisco,” Jennifer observed.
“I’m still a member of the union, so I get my monthly copy of Media Worker News. It’s usually only a couple of months out of date. That keeps me in touch with the factual stuff. As far as gossip’s concerned, I rely on global village syndrome,” Lindsay said. “San Francisco’s one of those cities where people are always happy to scrounge a bed for a couple of nights.”
“I see. So, you saw Tom Jack with Spence and . . . now, who exactly is Laura Craig?”
Lindsay rubbed her eyes hard with her knuckles. Anything to put off thinking about Laura. There were silver threads in that flowing crest of wavy brown hair now, and the laughter lines round the blue eyes were fast approaching crows’ feet. But the rest of the picture stayed the same. That mouth that could smile or sneer, but not much in between. Good figure, conventionally elegant clothes. It was hard to imagine Laura Craig in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt up a ladder painting the ceiling.
“I don’t suppose you smoke, do you?” Lindsay asked.
Jennifer shook her head. “I carry them for clients, though,” she said, taking a packet of Benson & Hedges out of her briefcase. She tossed them to Lindsay with a brushed chrome Zippo. Lindsay noticed a chased silver ring on the third finger of her left hand.