s you will have to spend long hours engaged in conference business, we recommend that you bring a selection of loose, comfortable clothing with you. Of course, T-shirts supporting a wide variety of radical causes are invariably on sale outside the conference hall for those who have failed to follow this advice."

from "Advice for New Delegates,"

a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

By the time they returned to Sheffield, Lindsay felt like her head had spent the day in a tumble-drier. Although she and Sophie had continued to discuss the case, she felt they'd made no more progress. Like kittens chasing their tails, they kept coming back to the idea of money. As Sophie pulled up outside the conference headquarters, Lindsay said with a sigh, "If we're talking money, we're not going to find the answer here in Sheffield. We need to look at head office."

"I had a funny feeling you were going to say something like that," Sophie said. "Oh boy, you really do know how to show a girl a good time, don't you? Today Blackpool, tomorrow Watford."

"Who said anything about tomorrow?" Lindsay asked sweetly, getting out of the car. She leaned on the roof and winked at Sophie as she locked it up. "No time like the present, is there? Still love me, babe?"

"Not if you call me 'babe' again today," Sophie said. "So what's the plan?"

"Your turn to busk it," Lindsay said, striding off purposefully toward the conference office. To Lindsay's surprise, the clerical staff seemed as busy as they'd been the previous afternoon, although logically, there should have been little for them to do so close to the end of the conference. She spotted Pauline's flat-top above a computer terminal on the far side of the room and made her way over to her. Sophie stayed near the door, idly browsing through a copy of that afternoon's order-paper.

"Why does my heart always sink whenever I see you heaving into sight?" Pauline asked resignedly as Lindsay perched on a corner of her desk.

Lindsay grinned. "And there's me thinking it was passion that made your heart flutter."

"That was before you appointed me your unofficial source. Walls have ears around here, you know. Some people don't like me talking to you, and they let me know. Frankly, there are times when I think I won't be sorry to leave," Pauline replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen as she typed. "Where you been hiding yourself?"

"Would you believe Blackpool?"

Pauline shook her head. "I don't know how you can think of enjoying yourself at a time like this."

"Put it this way. Nobody got a kiss-me-quick hat," Lindsay said grimly. "Let's just say we had a little ride down memory lane on the ghost train. And I'm sorry if me sticking my nose in has caused you aggravation."

"Forget it. I've got broad shoulders. How goes the sleuthing anyway?" Pauline asked.

"Slowly. Uncertainly. A bit like British Rail. You carry on in the hope you'll eventually reach a destination. Unfortunately, the one you reach isn't always the one you wanted to arrive at. How come you're all still slaving away?" Lindsay asked. "I expected you to be partying, with only one session left."

"Dream on," Pauline sighed. "Conference has been extended for an extra day so we can complete the agenda. At least that's what the officials are saying. The real story is, the cops have asked the NEC to keep the conference in session for a bit longer, so they can continue their investigations without the delegates scattering to the four winds. So, we've all been told to stay on at least till Saturday, maybe even Sunday. Handy Andy pulled this big sob-story routine on us that the poor old union can't afford to pay us overtime, on account of all the other unforeseen expenditures they're facing because of conference overrunning."

"An appeal to your better natures, eh? I bet he was as popular as a gingham frock at a thrash metal gig. So, did you all agree to work on for buttons?" Lindsay asked.

"What do you think?" Pauline said angrily. "There's enough mugs in this clerical section to open a coffee bar. Anyway, since we're on the subject of exploitation, what can I do for you?"

Lindsay had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, right, spot the hypocrite. It's all right for me to come creeping for favours, but it's all wrong for Andy Spence to do the same. What can I say?" She shrugged and held out her hands, palms upward. "In my defence, I've got to say I've always really admired you, Pauline!" She grinned and winked.

"Dear God! Spare me the charm!" Pauline exploded with a giggle. "What can I do for you, light of my life, joy of my existence, fire of my lions?"

"Don't you mean loins?"

"What, and me a happily married woman? Just be grateful for the lions. What is it you're after? Come on, spit it out. Some of us have got work to do."

"Media House," Lindsay said.

"Yes, Lindsay, Media House. It's where I work. It's where we all work. It's the head office of the Amalgamated Media Workers' Union. Also known as Mafia House," Pauline said sweetly.

Lindsay pulled a mock scowl. "Careful. I've been patronised by experts, you know."

"You saying black people can't be experts?" Pauline counter-teased. "Now what was it about Media House?"

Lindsay swung one foot back and forward, studying her Nike trainer as if seeing it for the first time. "I don't suppose there are many people there this week, with you all being at conference."

"Skeleton staff," Pauline said. "Switchboard, a couple of clerks in membership records, and Phil Jackson from admin as the sort of goalkeeper, there to deal with emergencies. Poor sod has to stay on till eight in the evening just in case we've got any problems here with agendas and if SOS or the NEC or the officials need any information from head office records. Was that the sort of thing you wanted to know?"

"Mmm," Lindsay said casually, still letting the Nike hypnotise her. "I suppose only a handful of people have got keys to the building?"

"Wrong," said Pauline. Lindsay raised one eyebrow. "Nobody has keys to the building. Entry is controlled by security code. Most of us have codes that are only valid between 8:45 a.m. and 6:15 p.m., Monday to Friday. Only department heads, full-time officials, and NEC members have codes that allow them access at other times."

"Oh." Lindsay tried not to sound too disappointed. The Nike stopped swinging, and she got to her feet. "Sorry to trouble you."

"It's no trouble," Pauline said. She tapped her keyboard. "What do you think of this motion, by the way?" She gestured at the screen. Lindsay read, "Gen Sec 0719/Dep Gen Sec 4719."

She cleared her throat. "Well, it should achieve something useful, for a change," she said. "Anyway, I must get on. My bloodhound awaits," she added, gesturing with her thumb towards Sophie, who was by now completely absorbed in her reading. "I'll let you know how we get on. Take care."

"I suspect I should be saying that to you," Pauline said, clearing her screen as Lindsay walked away.

Just after ten, Sophie cruised slowly past the eight-storey office building that housed the headquarters of AMWU. The union's initials trickled down the side of the building, a gash of red neon in the night. As she checked out the building for lights, Lindsay said, "When the four unions merged, they each found it impossible to accept that any of the others possessed a building suitable for their new megaunion's headquarters, so, with traditional trade union logic and efficiency, all four put their existing head offices on the market."

"At the bottom of the biggest property slump since the Second World War?" Sophie asked resignedly.

"You got it. At least the lease on this building is relatively cheap, on account of it had been standing empty for eighteen months, and the roof leaks. But they've got an option to buy after five years. Everyone in AMWU fervently hopes that by then the other buildings will have been sold, the union's finances will be restored to health, and the election of a Labour government will have given the whole trade union movement a new lease on life. Only about two members actually believe these hopes are going to become reality. They're the ones who also believe the tooth fairy really exists, and that the cheque is in the post."

"Yeah, right. Well, what do you think? Do we go in or what?" Sophie asked as she swung round the corner to circle the block.

"I think so. No lights showing. Park up somewhere unobtrusive, and we'll go for it."

They decided to enter the building via the underground car park, rather than the more conspicuous main entrance, next door but one to a busy Burger King. At the head of the ramp, Lindsay suddenly stopped without warning, forcing Sophie to stumble into her back. "Shit!" Lindsay said, "Look, closed circuit video surveillance!"

"So?" Sophie said. "We're not burglars. We're not going to steal anything, we're not about to break and enter. You are a member of AMWU, which I reckon gives you a right to be on the premises. And I'm wearing an Amnesty International sweatshirt."

"Remind me never to call you if I need legal representation," Lindsay muttered. "Okay, I'll take your word for it, against my better judgment. Just keep your head down and follow me."

"Eat your heart out, Catwoman," Sophie said under her breath as Lindsay set off, hugging the walls and tucking her head down into her chest.

They quickly worked their way round to the building's entrance, avoiding the arcs of the cameras as far as possible. Lindsay keyed in the combination Pauline had given her for the general secretary. No one had thought to cancel it following Tom Jack's spectacular plunge, and the door lock clicked open. The two women slipped inside, finding themselves in a dimly lit corridor. At the end was a lift. Lindsay punched the call button, and in a matter of seconds, the doors slid noiselessly open.

"Which floor?" Sophie asked, finger poised.

"Er... I don't actually know," Lindsay confessed, scuffing the toe of her trainer on the carpet.

"You-don't-know?" Sophie demanded, articulating each word slowly and distinctly as the doors closed.

"Not as such," Lindsay said. "I couldn't really ask, could I? Not without making it really obvious in a room full of head office staff that I was about to go off and do a Watergate."

"Fine. So we're in an eight-storey office building without a clue which office we should be looking in? Well, Lindsay, that's a lot of locks to pick before morning," Sophie said, pulling a rueful smile to take the edge off her words.

Lindsay scowled and leaned past her lover to hit the ground floor button. When the doors opened, she marched across the foyer to a semi-circular desk marked "Reception. All visitors must sign in here." The light from the lift provided enough illumination for a cursory search. Sophie leaned against the lift door, her finger on the "doors open" button, a smile in her eyes. Nothing worked better with Lindsay than a little needle, she thought to herself. Meanwhile, Lindsay pulled open the top drawer of the desk. She took out a clipboard with yesterday's brief list of visitors and gave it a quick glance. She let out a low whistle. "Police were here yesterday," she said. "Let's hope there's something left for us." Dropping the clipboard, she rootled through the drawer. "Gotcha!" she said confidently, waving a stapled bundle of paper above her head. "Name, title, extension number, office."

She walked slowly back to the lift, flicking through the pages. "Here we are. Tom Jack, general secretary, extension 8111, room 803. Safe to assume that's on the top floor?" Lindsay said.

"Good thinking, Batman," Sophie said, pressing the button marked eight. Moments later, they stepped out into blackness, which became impenetrable as soon as the lift door shut behind them. "I don't suppose we remembered a torch?" Sophie asked.

Lindsay rummaged in her bag, finally finding a small pencil torch with a powerful, narrow beam. "Give the girl a coconut?"

She shone the light on the doors as they moved along the narrow corridor. 803 was the third door on the left. Lindsay tried the handle, and to her delight and surprise, the door swung open. The torch beam revealed a small, businesslike secretary's office, complete with filing cabinets, word processor terminal, and a low, three-seater sofa, presumably for Union Jack's visitors. On the right-hand wall, there was another door. Lindsay headed purposefully in that direction, while Sophie made for the computer, which she switched on as Lindsay opened the door to the inner sanctum.

"Well, Union Jack didn't stint himself," Lindsay commented as she swung the torch beam across the room. The office was done out in top-of-the-range hi-tech black and chrome, a style that had already dated. Lindsay walked over to the two walls of windows that made it look as if the corner office extended indefinitely into the sodium-lit night streets. There was an array of buttons in the central pillar, and she pressed the one marked "close." A sweep of vertical blinds whispered across the windows, shutting out the town below. She moved over to the desk and switched on a black halogen lamp. On a stand to one side was a PC, but Lindsay wasn't interested in that. She knew her limitations. Besides, she could already hear the sound of Sophie's fingers on the secretary's word processor. When she'd had enough of playing with that machine, she could unravel the secrets of Union Jack's PC.

Lindsay sat on the edge of a luxurious black leather swivel-and-tilt chair and tried the drawers of the massive black ash desk. They were locked. Of course, the police would presumably have had Union Jack's keys. They wouldn't have had to bust open his expensive desk. And she didn't want to if she could avoid it. "Sophie?" she called.

"Problems?" came the reply.

"Are the drawers in that desk open?"

There was a brief pause while Sophie experimented. "All except the bottom one. Why?"

Lindsay returned to the outer office. "Any keys in them? I'm looking for a key that would unlock a serious desk."

"Help yourself," Sophie said, returning to the menu on her screen. Lindsay searched the top drawer, with no result. Then she felt the underside of the drawer.

She let out a satisfied sigh. "Oldest trick in the book," she said, pulling the key away, complete with the cellotape that had held it in place. "I don't know, some days it's just all too easy."

Back in Tom Jack's office, she slipped the key into the lock that held all three drawers on the left-hand side shut. It turned effortlessly, and Lindsay started her search. The top drawer contained stationery, a couple of half-used pads with scribbled notes from committee meetings, pens, pencils, and paper clips. The second drawer held three looseleaf folders crammed with press clippings about Tom Jack and his role as general secretary of AMWU. There were also a few computer discs and a contacts book, which Lindsay slipped into her bag for later.

The third drawer was filled with an assortment of document wallets. The first few contained details of union-management disputes which Lindsay soon discovered involved Tom Jack himself. They had all been resolved, not exclusively to the greater good of the AMWU members, but there was nothing contentious enough in any of them to lead to threats, never mind murder.

The next said on its cover SIGS. It contained a bizarre assortment of documents. There were photostats of membership applications for the former Journalist's Union, some going back more than twenty years. There were nomination forms for JU lay officials' posts, properly filled in and signed by the appropriate branch officers. There were applications for Press passes, photocopies of motions for annual delegate conferences sent in by branches, and a few meetings' attendance sheets. All the documents related to the JU, but there was no other common factor that Lindsay could discern, apart from the fact that they all seemed to be completely in order. Frustrated, she shoved the contents back into the file and continued her burrowing.

The bottom folder in the pile was unmarked. Lindsay opened it and pulled out a thick sheaf of expenses dockets. Almost all of them were JU forms, though the last few dozen were AMWU ones. Off the top of her head, Lindsay estimated there must be several hundred. A quick flick through the pile revealed they had all been stamped "paid."

Lindsay sat back in the seat and began to go through the dockets more carefully. Soon, she began to discern a pattern. The earliest went back almost nine years. They covered a wide range of committee and executive meetings. What was fascinating was the signatures on more than three quarters of the dockets. In an assured, sprawling hand, they read "Laura Craig."