Free Conferences are Murder by Val McDermid

more than a game. Pauline’s devotion to her husband and son was legendary, but that didn’t stop her enjoying a joke that had shocked dozens of prejudiced union hacks over the years.
    â€œI didn’t think my humble attractions could drag you back from California,” Pauline replied archly.
    â€œWild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Lindsay said, taking the bulky plastic wallet of information that Pauline handed her. “Not from you, or from the delights of conference. I tell you, though, it’s depressing how many of the old familiar faces are kicking around. Hasn’t anyone moved forward?”
    â€œOh, there are always plenty of old stagers around. They can’t stay away, just like you,” Pauline teased.
    â€œAre you two going to stand there blathering all afternoon, or what?” the Irishman behind Lindsay interrupted. “Some of us have got delegation meetings to go to, you know, so. Women,” he added under his breath.

    â€œSorry, pal,” Lindsay said. She turned back to Pauline. “We’ll have to have a drink later, catch up on all the gossip.”
    Pauline smiled. “Have a read of Conference Chronicle,” she said with a throaty laugh. “That should bring you bang up to date. I’ll be in the main bar about eight, provided we’ve finished tomorrow’s order-papers.”
    â€œSee you then.” Lindsay picked up her holdall and studied the plan of the 1960s campus that occupied one wall of the foyer. The map was laid out as a Romanesque mosaic, with the borders of the buildings picked out in different colors and identified in a key alongside. She worked out how to get to her room, and headed out into the spring afternoon. Immediately, she had to lean into the wind that was flattening the clumps of daffodils dotting the grass. The buildings seemed to have been cunningly laid out to maximize their aerodynamic effect. It was like walking through a wind-tunnel the wrong way. She thought with longing of her own campus, where a fresh breeze from the bay was often a welcome relief, where the buildings looked as if they’d actually been designed rather than thrown together by a bad-tempered child with a box of Lego.
    Lindsay eventually reached the lee of a tower block and looked up at its name plaque. Maclintock Tower. “Not so much a redbrick as a breeze-block,” she muttered and pushed the door open. She joined a bunch of strangers by the lifts which ran through the center of the modern tower block. As she waited, she pulled out the “Advice for New Delegates” booklet from her folder. It looked suspiciously similar to the old JU one. She couldn’t imagine how something so heavily laced with irony could have been positively vetted by the po-faced men in suits who had been print union officials when she’d been a JU activist. Maybe they’d taken it seriously. She boarded the lift, stuffing the booklet back into the folder. By the tenth and final floor, she was alone in the lift, and she emerged into a corridor that seemed about as lively as the deck of the Marie Celeste. She walked slowly along it, checking the door numbers against her key, trying to ignore the slight squeal that her trainers made on the shiny vinyl flooring.

    Maclintock Tower, one of five students’ residences at the newly upgraded Pennine University, was constructed as a series of concentric squares. In the center were the lifts, the toilets, showers and bathrooms and a small kitchenette. Lindsay stuck her head round the door and saw a tall fridge, two gas rings and a kettle. By the kettle were a catering tin of cheap instant coffee, a box of sugar cubes and a jar of coffee whitener. Above them a sheet of A4 paper was taped to the wall. It read, “Sheffield welcomes the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union.” But not very heartily, Lindsay thought. She almost caught herself longing for a cup of wild strawberry tea.
    The