Conferences are Murder Read Free Page A

parking, were they?” The whole area in front of the hotel was asphalted over to provide spaces for cars, but it had clearly never been a majestic sweep of lawn to start with. Ian inched forward, looking for a space.
    â€œOver there. Right by the wall, look, someone’s pulling out,” Lindsay said. Ian shot forward and squeezed his Ford Escort into the narrow gap.
    â€œWell spotted,” he said, opening his door and getting out. He raised his arms in a long stretch and yawned. Then he opened his eyes and froze. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is she playing at?” he whispered.
    Lindsay turned to look at the woman who had caught his eye. Laura Craig strode up the short drive of the hotel, wavy brown hair lacquered solid against the whipping westerly wind. But Laura wasn’t alone.

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    â€œDelegates are reminded that their duty is to follow debates and cast votes on behalf of their members. However appealing the bars, cafés, fringe meetings, gossip sessions and members of your gender of choice, the conference hall is where you should be. We know it can be boring; we even know of delegates who prefer hanging around at Standing Orders Sub-Committee rather than staying in the hall. In the interests of preserving your SOS members’ sanity, please do not attend our sessions unless you are entitled to a voice [see S05(b)(ii) and Footnote xiv]. Flattered though we are to be the centre of delegates’ attention, this does not help the smooth flow of conference order papers!”
    from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.
    Lindsay sighed. In spite of sitting up past midnight plowing through the final conference agenda, with all its proposed amendments, she still hadn’t a clue what this discussion was about. She was sitting on the margin of a group of a dozen delegates arguing with Brian Robinson, the Standing Orders Sub-Committee member responsible for preparing the industrial relations order-paper.
    As Brian wiped his perspiring pink face with a flamboyant silk
handkerchief, Ian leaned over and said quietly to Lindsay, “With it so far?”
    â€œNot really,” she admitted. “What exactly are they arguing about?”
    â€œManchester Branch and Darlington Branch have both submitted motions on the same broad topic, and Brian wants to amalgamate them into one composite motion. Now they’re each arguing about what they think their motion really said. Brian has to make sure they end up with something that includes all of the key points in the two original motions, without incorporating anything that wasn’t there to start with.”
    Lindsay shook her head. “I can’t believe grown-ups think this is a reasonable way to spend their time,” she muttered. “It’s like an Oxford tutorial without the relevance to real life.” She tried to concentrate on the obscure negotiation that continued like some quaint ritual dance whose meaning was lost in the sands of time. But it was no use. There wasn’t enough meat in the argument to occupy her mind, and her grief kept butting in like an anarchist at the trooping the color. After another half hour, she leaned towards Ian and muttered, “I’m going to get some air.”
    She emerged into the foyer of the Winter Gardens with a sense of relief. The large committee room had begun to feel unreasonably oppressive. Oblivious to her surroundings, she wandered down towards the stands of the assorted pressure groups who had rented space for the conference. She didn’t notice the chipped tiling on the walls, the scruffy paintwork or the garish posters for the forthcoming summer attractions. She paused long enough to buy an enamelled metal badge proclaiming “Lesbians and Gay Men Support the Miners” before walking back into the stuffy hall to rejoin her colleagues.
    No one glanced at her as she slipped into her seat. Only five others of the twelve-strong