Deception

NINE

As he drove across town to his hotel, Steven kept thinking about the designation, Sigma 5. Although Pentangle’s front men, Childs and Leadbetter, had denied having anything to do with sending samples of Agrigene’s crop at Peat Ridge for independent analysis, finding the code, SigV on their invoice instructions to McGraw’s firm in his office was, he thought, just too much of a coincidence. Sigma 5 might not be a company name in its own right but it might well be the code name given to some project they were funding. In fact, that would probably make more sense, he thought.

But why concoct the story about the lab report being sent anonymously to Rafferty’s lawyers? He supposed that it could be that they did want to associate themselves overtly with something that wasn’t entirely above board — bribing a government scientist to produce a misleading report would certainly come into that category. But whatever the reason, if Rafferty and co had seen fit to lie about it, that fact alone suggested that they were working to a different agenda.

As he drove along Melville Drive, the stretch of road running between the green park areas of The Meadows and Bruntsfield Links, Steven’s phone rang and he pulled in to the side to answer it.

‘Jamie Brown here,’ said the voice.

‘Who?’

‘Jamie Brown of The Scotsman, we met in the pub at Blackbridge last Sunday. Remember?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

‘I said I’d get back to you when I’d looked into whether or not Crawhill Farm was on the market.'

‘Oh yes, I remember,’ said Steven, feeling embarrassed that he’d gone ahead and asked for himself.

‘Apparently it’s not, and hasn’t been in the past thirty years. Mind you, I suppose that doesn’t rule out some kind of private deal going on between Rafferty and another party but as far as the normal agencies are concerned, it’s no go.’

‘Pity,’ said Steven, ‘another beautiful theory spoiled by an ugly little fact, as someone once put it.’

‘It’s not entirely bad news though,’ said Brown. ‘I did manage to establish that Rafferty does have a strong business association with an outside commercial interest.’

‘You have been busy.’

‘It’s a venture capital outfit called, Pentangle.’

‘Sounds like a folk group,’ said Steven.

Brown was unabashed. ‘But here’s the really strange thing,’ he continued. ‘It doesn’t exist. ‘It doesn’t seem to be registered anywhere and none of our finance people on the paper have ever heard of it.’

‘I don’t think you can read too much into that,’ said Steven, keen to discourage Brown from digging too deeply in his patch. ‘Venture capitalists are often shy retiring creatures. They seldom like the glare of publicity so they may not exist as a corporate entity. They’re probably just a group of very wealthy men calling themselves, Pentangle for the sake of convenience.’

‘Maybe,’ agreed Brown. ‘But here’s another strange thing. Steven Dunbar isn’t on the staff of any environmental department or agency in the UK. He doesn’t exist either…’

Steven closed his eyes and cursed silently. Brown had turned out to be a better investigator than he’d thought. ‘I didn’t actually say that I worked for them, just that I had an interest in the environment,’ he pointed out.

‘So who do you “actually” work for?’

‘The Sci-Med Inspectorate,’ Steven admitted. ‘When we last spoke we weren’t officially involved. I was just having a nose around.’

‘But you are now?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s interesting. Could we meet?’

‘If you mean for interview, no.’

‘Off the record?’

‘Purely on that understanding.’

‘Just tell me where.’

‘My hotel, The Grange in Whitehouse Terrace. 8 o’clock in the bar.’

Steven pressed the ‘end’ button and let out his breath in a long sigh. He tried looking on the bright side. At least it was Brown and not McColl, the other scribbler he’d met in the Castle Tavern but this was a complication he hadn’t bargained for. He would have to be careful but, trying to look on the bright side, he reckoned that Brown, with his connections, could actually be a help.

When he got back to his room he contacted Sci-Med and asked if they had anything for him. They, like Brown, had drawn a blank on Pentangle and also on Sigma 5 but thanks to the co-operation of Inland Revenue, they had obtained details of Gerald Millar’s bank account and retirement package. Steven asked that they E-mail the figures to him so he could go through them at leisure. They said they would do this in the next half-hour. Steven stripped, had a shower and changed into casual clothes while he was waiting. The file was there when he switched his computer back on.

He found the financial details interesting. Gerald Millar had been given, ‘full enhancement’ on his pension rights in contradiction of what he understood should happen and from what Roberta at the Ayrshire lab had told him. This simply did not fit with a member of staff having requested his own early retirement. It was the deal given to staff being retired compulsorily at the ministry’s request when years of service were enhanced artificially to increase the size of their pension. Steven noted that they had also increased the associated lump sum payment. ‘Nice one Gerald,’ he murmured.

In addition to the retirement package, there was another recorded payment of thirty thousand pounds, paid into Millar’s bank account and marked down as the proceeds from the sale of shares in two named companies. Nothing odd in that, thought Steven but then his suspicious nature gave him second thoughts. The money might well have come from the sale of shares but had Millar actually owned these shares in the first place? The payment could conceivably have originated from a third party who had just laundered it through an apparent share deal. He replied to the E-mail with this self same question for Sci-Med

It was just after seven and Steven thought he’d use up the time before his meeting with Brown looking into the niggling little problem of executive responsibility out at Blackbridge. He’d been under the impression that the Scottish Executive had clear and exclusive rights to decide on matters agricultural in Scotland but from what he’d overheard at lunchtime at the hotel there seemed to be some confusion about this. The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food still seemed to be playing a leading role. He connected his laptop to the Internet and sought out the web pages in succession of both the Scottish Executive and MAFF.

It was hard going, navigating his way through a sea of irrelevance but in the end he came up with something called, ‘The Main Concordat between the Ministry of Agriculture Fisheries and Food and the Scottish Executive’. This long document outlined an agreement between the two bodies to respect each other’s territory and keep each other informed, co-operate wherever possible and generally be good pals. It struck him that the words in it had been very carefully chosen by someone doing a fair impression of tiptoeing through a minefield and reminded him of a prayer. ‘Lord, help me not to stand on people’s toes, particularly those that are attached to the arses I may have to kiss tomorrow.’ He finally came across one telling statement that said, ‘This Concordat is not intended to constitute a legally enforceable contract or to create any rights or obligations, which are legally enforceable. It is intended to be binding in honour only.’

‘In other words, not worth the paper it’s written on,’ murmured Steven, closing down the connection. Now he understood the problem.

‘I thought you’d be staying at the Blackbridge Arms,’ said Jamie Brown when he arrived promptly in the bar at eight.

‘I never like sleeping over the shop,’ replied Steven.

Brown took off his Berghaus jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. ‘What are you having?’

‘I’m fine just now,’ replied Steven who was already nursing a gin and tonic.

Brown asked for whisky. ‘So you’re one of Sci-Med’s people,’ he said. ‘A brave one too by all accounts.’

Steven raised his eyebrows.

‘You were the one who exposed the transplant scam at the Medic Ecosse Hospital in Glasgow a few years back, weren’t you?’

Steven agreed that he had been involved, remembering now that there had been a bit of press coverage at the time and, despite his best efforts, he had featured in some of it. Brown must have looked him up in the paper’s archives. ‘This is all off the record, isn’t it?’

‘You have my word,’ replied Brown. ‘I can’t however speak for any of my colleagues over at Blackbridge should they make the connection. I should think, Glasgow Hospital Hero called in to solve GM Riddle, might well prove irresistible to a certain little red-haired man with a Rottweiler personality. Come to think of it, you went on to marry one of the nurses caught up in that business, didn’t you?’

Steven gave him a black look.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn,’ said Brown, puzzled at Steven’s reaction.

‘Lisa died nine months ago. Cancer.’

‘Christ, I’m sorry. I had no idea,’ said Brown. After a few moments he added, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way but Heartbreak Glasgow Hospital Hero might be even more irresistible.’

Steven said, ‘Thanks for the warning but my picture was never in the papers at the time. There’s no reason for anyone out there to make the connection, although,’ he conceded, ‘you did.’ At this point he was actually more apprehensive that Brown might be trying to manoeuvre himself into the position of confidant in order to ensure a ready supply of information. He was not against collaboration with someone in Brown’s position and certainly did not subscribe to the view that nothing should be ever said to the press on principal. He recognised that investigative journalism could be a tremendous force for good in society but it was a matter of knowing the journalist well enough to trust him. He had no reason to distrust Brown — in fact, from what he’d seen so far, he liked the man, but for the moment, he would play his hand one card at a time.

‘So what’s Sci-Med’s interest in all of this?’ asked Brown.

‘Pretty much what I said at the outset. ‘I think Agrigene may be getting a raw deal. It’s only their determination to see the fight into the courts that’s keeping their crop in the field; that and the executive running around like headless chickens.’

‘Tell me about it,’ smiled Brown. ‘The MSPs are calling it teething troubles. Still, they’ve got their pay and holidays sorted out and right now they’re off on them, thirteen weeks I hear.’

‘First things first.’

‘So you still think Agrigene is being set up?’

‘I’m sure of it but I don’t know who by or why for that matter.’

‘You’re no longer keen on the rival company angle?’

‘I was for a while but it doesn’t seem to make too much sense in terms of what’s to be gained by it.’

‘I suppose as a Sci-Med Investigator, you must have already known about Crawhill Farm not being on the market? And probably about Pentangle too?’

‘I didn’t when we spoke in the pub,’ Steven assured him, ‘but I have looked into it since, when I decided to take the assignment on.’

‘And Pentangle? Don’t you think they’re a bit suspicious?’

‘Like I said, venture capitalists don’t like the spotlight. They’re timid creatures.’

‘Not greedy bastards out to make a fast buck?’

‘That too.’

‘Something tells me there’s more to it than that,’ said Brown. ‘Nobody’s going to make a real killing out of selling chemical-free lettuce in Morningside. A small organic farm doesn’t really sound like venture capital territory to me and there’s something else that bothers me too.’

‘What?’ asked Steven, at once both admiring of and apprehensive of Brown’s analytical skills.

‘The two at the farm, there’s something about them: they just don’t look like venture capitalists to me.’

‘You think they should be wearing smoking jackets and have fat cigars sticking out of the corner of their mouths?’

‘Like I say, there’s just something about them,’ said Brown. ‘They’re something more than business associates to Rafferty, I’m sure of it. It’s almost as if he’s their prisoner, the way they’re always hanging around the farmhouse. It’s impossible to speak to Rafferty on his own and he hasn’t been down to the local pub in ages when, according to the locals he was in line for a piss-artist of the millennium award.’

‘Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf,’ said Steven. ‘He told me that he wants to get his wife back so he’s off the booze. That’s what all this organic farm thing is about according to him; a new start.’

Brown was non-committal.

‘But I do wonder what his chances are,’ said Steven, thinking out loud.

‘Of running an organic farm?’

‘No, of getting his wife back.’

‘Depends how often she’s left him before,’ said Brown. ‘If this is the first time, she’ll probably come back. If it’s the second, then maybe. If it’s the third, she won’t. It’s a bit like drowning.’

‘We’re both assuming that she left him because of the drink,’ said Steven, ‘but that may not be the case.’

‘Can you think of another reason?’

‘No, but I don’t know either of them and I’m not a big fan of assumptions.’

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘We?’

‘Well, I thought we might as well pool our efforts and cut down on the legwork?’

‘We can give it a try,’ conceded Steven after a few moments thought. ‘But no sudden moves.’

‘Agreed. Will you be at the Ferguson boy’s funeral tomorrow?’

‘No, there’s nothing for me there. I’d only be intruding. You?’

‘I’ve been told to cover it so I’ll have to but my heart’s not in it. I feel the same about being an intruder.’

‘Your colleague from the Clarion seemed to be quite looking forward to it,’ said Steven.’

‘McColl? Alex’s not over-endowed with sensitivity at the best of times. He’ll probably see it as a welcome change from seeking out the ‘cosy little love nests’ set up by the great and good that his paper’s so fond of exposing. Soft porn peddled as moral outrage is their speciality.’

‘I suppose it says more about our society than it does about the paper,’ said Steven.

‘Regrettably true,’ agreed Brown. ‘Well, I think I’m going to follow my instincts and see what I can dig up about our two venture capital boys. You?'

‘Maybe I’ll see what I can find out from Tom Rafferty’s wife. I think I’d like to talk to her.’

‘Do you know where to find her?’

‘Not yet but next best thing, I know how I can find out,’ replied Steven, thinking of Eve Ferguson who had spoken as if she knew her well.

Brown finished his drink and left. Steven had something to eat and then went upstairs to mull over the events of the day. He had hardly sat down when the phone went. It was the man on the night desk at Sci-Med who gave him a simple instruction. He said, ‘Read your E-mail.

Steven looked at the receiver as it went dead. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he murmured. This sort of thing had never happened before. He made the modem connection and waited while an Internet connection was established. He downloaded an encrypted message from Sci-Med and deciphered it. It said simply, ‘Be at the Edinburgh Airport Hotel at 10pm. Ask at the desk for Mr Harvey Grimes.’ Steven looked at his watch and saw that he’d better get a move on.

Fortunately the traffic proved lighter than he’d feared as he crossed town and he swung into the airport hotel car park at three minutes to ten. Asking at the desk for Mr Harvey Grimes resulted in him being directed to a room on the third floor. ‘Mr Grimes is expecting you sir,’ said the desk clerk.

Steven knocked and waited, glancing first to the right and then to the left to see that the corridor was empty. He had no idea why he’d done that but then he had no idea why he was here. It was a case of being caught up in a melodrama and behaving accordingly. He thought he heard someone tell him to come in although it was a bit muffled. He entered anyway and found the room empty. ‘Hello, anyone there? Mr Grimes?’

‘Actually it’s me,’ said John Macmillan, director of Sci-Med, coming out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment. Help yourself to a drink.’

Steven poured himself a gin and sat down. What the hell was all this Harvey Grimes nonsense about? He’d never known Macmillan to play silly games before. He was one of the most sensible and practical people he knew.

Macmillan reappeared and sat down opposite him and read his mind. ‘Believe me I hate all this cloak and dagger stuff as much as you do,’ he said, ‘but I’m supposed to be at a meeting in Amsterdam right now and that’s what I want them to continue to believe.’

‘Them?’ asked Steven.

‘The people who don’t want you in Blackbridge.’

‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘I told you at the outset that I thought that I was being warned off. It was being done in a gentle, diplomatic way, I’ll grant you, but I was clearly being invited to read between the lines. I chose to ignore it and let the man on the ground make the decision. You called a code red and now the warnings are coming in thick and fast and the gloves are off.’

‘Where’s the flak coming from?’

‘That’s the most worrying thing,’ said Macmillan. ‘I can’t see the source and I haven’t been able to find out anything. That suggests to me that the unhappiness must be at a fairly high level.’

‘I’ve barely scratched the surface in Blackbridge,’ said Steven. ‘I haven’t had time to upset anyone at high level?’

‘You asked for a check on something called Sigma 5?’ said Macmillan. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what did it. I’ve carried out a thorough check with our people and the guano hitting the fan coincides with them starting to ask around about Sigma 5 on your behalf.’

‘Well, well, good to know I’m on the right track, I suppose, even if I don’t know where it’s leading, unless of course, you’ve been ordered to spike the investigation?’

Macmillan shook his head. ‘No, that would involve our friends on high showing exactly who they are. The spear-carriers who have been relaying veiled threats don’t have the authority to order me to do anything so I show them the door and the impasse remains.’

‘So where does that leave me?’

‘That’s why I felt I had to come. I’m not at all sure where it leaves you and I’m starting to get a bad feeling about all this.’

‘What could they do to me?’ Steven asked sceptically.

‘That’s what I have the bad feeling about.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ said Steven.

‘Frankly, I just don’t know but I do feel it’s possible that you could be in some danger. We seem to be interfering in something that’s ‘already under control’ as I keep being told.’

‘I suppose things could be said to be under control in Blackbridge,’ said Steven thoughtfully. ‘In which case they’ve obviously ordered a bunch of civil servants to run around pretending it’s loonies’ sports day to cover up that fact.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘And then some.’

‘All the same I think you should consider pulling out.’

‘If I did that we’d lose our credibility,’ protested Steven. ‘You said when I joined the firm that Sci-Med were beholden to no one. I’d like to keep it that way.’

Macmillan said, ‘I sort of hoped you’d say that. It’s what I wanted to hear but I couldn’t ask you. I don’t have the right. You’re the man on the ground.’

‘So it’s settled, I stay.’

‘Just be bloody careful.’

‘You’re off to Amsterdam, then?’

‘Yes. I was never here.’

Steven walked back to his car, feeling a mixture of excitement and unease. It was the sort of feeling he’d had often enough before in his time with Special Forces, usually before setting off on a mission. If serious pressure was being put on Macmillan it must mean that there was something big to hide. The fact that the pressure was coming from somewhere in government — his own employer, when all was said and done — made it all the more exciting? Intriguing? No, scary was the word he was looking for.