Deception

ONE

‘What do sheep do, Daddy?’

Steven Dunbar thought for a moment before looking down at the little upturned face and saying, ‘Not a lot really, Jenny. They just sort of… stand around and eat, I suppose.’

Father and daughter returned to looking at the pastoral scene before them; sheep munching contentedly in the field at the end of the village in the afternoon sunshine. Steven was leaning on a five-bar gate and Jenny watched through the bars below, one hand firmly latched on to his trousers as if afraid he might escape.

‘Yes, but what do they do?’ Jenny persisted. ‘What’s their job?’

‘I don’t think they actually have a job, Jenny. In fact, they don’t have much in the way of purpose in their lives at all.’

Steven Dunbar could not help but see a parallel in what he’d just said. The comment might just as well have applied to him during the last nine months since Lisa, his wife and Jenny’s mother, had died. Nine months that had seemed like nine lifetimes.

They’d only been married for three years when Lisa’s tumour had been diagnosed and the word ‘forever’ disappeared from their vocabulary to be replaced by, ‘a year at most’. In the event, Lisa, the Glasgow nurse he had met during the course of one of the most nightmarish investigations of his career^, had left him and their daughter after just seven months and two days. With her she seemed to take every hope and dream he’d aspired to and left behind an emotional desert, bleaker than an arctic landscape.

Steven’s employer, the Sci-Med Inspectorate had been understanding about the whole thing. Apart from anything else they knew that their investigators had to have their mind on the job at all times. Anything less and they could end up by screwing up an assignment, embarrassing the government and possibly even putting lives, including their own, in danger. A man consumed by grief and hopelessness — as Steven Dunbar had been — was best left to his own devices for a while, was the official line they’d taken. He would come back when he felt ready or not at all.

The Sci-Med Inspectorate was a small body, funded by the government and run as an independent unit within the Home Office. Its function was to carry out preliminary investigations in establishing the possibility of malpractice or criminal activity in areas where the police lacked expertise. In practice, this was mainly in the Hi-tech areas of science and medicine, where it was difficult for any kind of outsider to see if anything were amiss let alone know if a crime had been committed.

In practice, this often meant dealing with professional people in powerful positions and called for tact and diplomacy as well as intelligence and investigative skills. Such people often resented what they were quick to see as unwarranted outside interference in their own personal fiefdoms.

Steven had come to Sci-Med in a roundabout sort of way, as indeed had most of their investigators. He personally had studied medicine and qualified as a doctor before opting for a career in the army and seeing service with the Parachute Regiment and the SAS on assignments that had taken him all over the globe. He had, in the process, become an expert in field medicine — not something there was much call for when he finally returned to Civvy Street but his experience had fostered in him an ability to cope and improvise in all sorts of tight and demanding situations.

Being a tall, naturally athletic man, he had relished the physical challenge of his time with the military as well as the excitement and danger of being on active service. But when he passed the age of thirty he knew that the time was fast coming when he would have to make a change. There could be no allowances made for the passing years in that line of work. You either swung with the best or you didn’t swing at all, as one NCO had put it during ‘Basic Wales’ training with the SAS in the Welsh Mountains.

He had been unsure of what to do with his life when the time actually did come to leave the service. The army had assumed that, being a doctor, he would simply carry on with that but Steven hadn’t been so sure. It had been too late for him to pursue a career in hospital medicine — with the possible exception of A&E thanks to his expertise in field medicine — and he saw life as a GP as an unattractive option after the excitement of what had gone before. That left various fringe jobs in medicine like medical officer in the prison service or possibly a job in the private sector through an attachment to a large company as their in-house physician. The thought of feigning interest in dealing with chronic fatigue and stress management however, had not appealed.

Luckily, the job with Sci-Med had come up at exactly the right time and it suited him down to the ground. He had been taken on as one of their medical specialist investigators, his past record having shown him to be not only a good doctor but also an extremely clever and resourceful individual who responded well in the face of adversity and danger. They liked the fact that he had been put to the test in real-life situations, a far cry from the planks and oil drum problems of staff ‘bonding’ courses.

Steven had already successfully covered a number of assignments for Sci-Med over the past five years and liked the way the organisation worked. Investigators were given their head and allowed to handle their investigations in the way they saw fit. Administration within the Inspectorate, was kept to a minimum and designed to support and help front-line people in any way it could, unlike so many government departments where administration had become an end in itself and sharp-enders were seen primarily as sources of information for the administrators to play with. ‘Job Appraisal’ seemed a good idea in theory. In practice it meant two people watching a third sharpen a pencil while demanding information about the process. How long does it take you? How often do you have to do it? How sharp does it have to be? Can’t you use a cheaper brand of pencil? Can you supply pencil costings for the year by next Thursday?

Not all of his assignments had had a criminal element to them. In fact, the majority of them had little or no criminal involvement attached to them at all. Typical of this was his very first job, which had taken him to a hospital in Lincolnshire where the post-operative death rate had risen significantly above the figures for comparable hospitals in other parts of the country. It was a situation where people in the area might not have noticed anything amiss and, even if they had, it was not an observation that the police would be well equipped to investigate. The Sci-Med computer however, had noticed the blip in the statistics and alerted the Inspectorate to take a closer look at the situation.

Steven had tactfully traced the problem to a consultant surgeon who had been simply getting on in years and had lost much of the skill that he’d once had. Being very senior and somewhat overbearing, other staff had been reluctant to point this out for fear of damaging their own careers. Steven had made sure that the man had been retired quietly and with as little adverse publicity as possible.

The assignment in Glasgow however, during which he had met Lisa, had most definitely had a criminal element to it. Two separate complaints from nurses who had worked at a private hospital in the city — Lisa had been one of them — had raised fears that several transplant patients had not been given compatible organs and had died because of this. This had led to an investigation, which had eventually uncovered a plot involving millions of dollars and murder in order to steal donor organs. The whole scam had been disguised as a charitable act and even had government support.

He had narrowly escaped with his life on that occasion but if truth were told, it was the air of uncertainty about what he was getting into that gave his job a certain edge, which he enjoyed. He never knew what was coming next. He had received a letter the day before from John Macmillan, the director of Sci-Med. It had simply said that there was an assignment waiting for him if he felt well enough to come back. There had been no threat or cajoling involved, just a simple statement of facts. If he wanted the job he should make contact, if not — no problem, maybe next time.

Steven wasn’t sure. He felt better than he had done for some time but he feared that he might still lack the motivation of old. This was why he’d come up to see Jenny the weekend before he was due to make his fortnightly visit. Jenny couldn’t fill the awesome gap left by Lisa in his life but she was a pretty formidable little character in her own right and he had the responsibility of being her father. In many ways this was the one thing he had not found himself being apathetic about. Objectively, he suspected that she might be the key to his rehabilitation. She was in fact, the one thing he now had to live for.

Jenny lived with Lisa’s sister, Sue and her husband, Richard in the Dumfriesshire village of Glenvane, in the area where Lisa and her sister had been brought up as children. Sue and Richard had two other children — Mary, a girl of seven and Robin, a boy of five and they all seemed to live — to Steven’s way of thinking — in glorious disarray. Richard was an easy-going solicitor — a junior partner in a firm over in Dumfries, specialising in property deals and Sue’s mission in life seemed to be to take on the troubles of all those surrounding her and sort them out. She was a much-liked and respected lady in the district — not least of all by her brother-in-law for taking on Lisa’s role in Jenny’s life so quickly and with hardly a second thought.

‘Well?’ persisted Jenny. She had learned to deal with the adult trick of looking into the distance and ignoring her questions. A good firm tug at the trousers and continual repetition of the question usually did the trick.

‘They really don’t do anything much, Nutkin. They just eat, sleep and… sort of be there.’

Jenny thought about this for a while before saying, ‘Is that what you do, Daddy?’

Steven looked down at her, taken aback at what she’d said. ‘What do you mean, Jenny?’

‘Aunt Sue says you don’t have a job at the moment… so do you just eat, sleep and be there?’

‘I do have a job, Nutkin. I’ve just been on leave for a while. I’ll be going back again soon.’

‘Will you still come and see me?’

Steven swept her up into his arms. ‘Of course I will; nothing could stop me ever doing that, Nutkin.’

Jenny looked at him without smiling. ‘Something stopped Mummy,’ she said.

‘That was different, Jenny. Mummy was very ill. She didn’t want to leave us. She just didn’t have a choice.’

‘Aunt Sue says she’s in heaven but she still cares about us. Is that what you think?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think she sees everything, Daddy?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ replied Steven, taking a sideways look at Jenny to see what was worrying her.

‘If I were to take Robin’s train without telling him and hide it, do you think she’d see that?’

‘I don’t think so, Nutkin.’ Steven saw the relief appear on Jenny’s face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ‘But Jenny…’

‘Yes Daddy?’

‘Give Robin his train back.’

Steven paid off the cab and walked smartly into the Home Office. It had been a while since he’d had any reason to wear a suit and being ‘in uniform’ again seemed to help in restoring his confidence and an air of normality to the occasion. He was welcomed by Miss Roberts, Macmillan’s secretary and asked if he wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes as the man himself was on the phone. After declining the offer of coffee, they passed the time with pleasantries. Miss Roberts asked after Jenny and Steven enquired about her choral activities. Miss Roberts was a soprano in the South London Bach choir.

‘Hectic at the moment. We’re putting on a concert in two weeks time and we’re way behind with the rehearsals because of overbooking of the hall. In fact… ’

Miss Roberts stopped speaking when the door to the inner office opened and a tall man with silver hair stepped out. ‘Dunbar, good to see you,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on in.’

Steven made a face at Miss Roberts to suggest that he’d catch up with her story later and followed Macmillan into his office.

‘So, how are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’

Macmillan settled himself behind his desk and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair to make a steeple with his fingers before appraising the man before him.

There was no doubt that Steven Dunbar looked well. Long rambling walks in the hills, trying to find answers to questions, although none existed, had, if nothing else, given his complexion a healthy tan and kept his weight down when otherwise his over-indulgence in alcohol over the past few months might have softened him and thickened up his middle. As it was, his lean, muscular body filled his dark blue suit to perfection.

‘Lisa’s death was absolutely tragic,’ said Macmillan. He had finished with the visual appraisal. It was time for the psychological one. ‘You two had such a short time together. How long has it been now?’

‘Nine months,’ replied Steven evenly.

‘You must still feel very bitter.’

‘It happens to lots of people,’ replied Steven. ‘Slings and arrows.’

‘Very philosophical,’ replied Macmillan. He smiled but his eyes didn’t.

‘I think if it had happened to me, I’d be very angry.’

‘Oh, I’ve been there,’ replied Steven. ‘But I got over it. Mind you, you won’t find me watching, Songs of Praise for a while.’

Macmillan nodded sagely. ‘Cancer, wasn’t it?’

Steven nodded.

‘Still a killer despite all the breakthroughs they’ve been making,’ sighed Macmillan. The look in his eyes suggested that he’d just set Steven some kind of test.

‘I think we both know that most of the “breakthroughs” aren’t breakthroughs at all,’ said Steven, without noticing the look. ‘They’re research groups trying to get their names in the papers in order to attract more grant money. When push comes to shove, the work’s always “at a very early stage” and they hope “it will lead to advances in patient treatment in about five to ten years time”. It almost invariably never does and what genuine ‘breakthroughs’ there are, are usually diagnostic rather than therapeutic. They can tell you at a much earlier stage that you’re going to die but they still can’t do a damn thing about it.’

‘That’s all a bit cynical, isn’t it?’ said Macmillan.

‘I’d prefer, “realistic,” ‘said Steven. ‘Seeing things as they really are, is part of my job, is it not?’

Macmillan broke into a genuine smile. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wish they’d call the buggers to account for their supposed “breakthroughs” myself.’

‘Making them repay the grant money they’ve flushed down the toilet might be a better idea,’ said Steven.

‘Research progress is always such a difficult area to appraise,’ said Macmillan. ‘There are so few facts to go on and that means we’re left with expert opinion masquerading as the next best thing and it very often isn’t. Medical research can be such a happy hunting ground for the charlatan and confidence trickster.’

‘It’s the loudest voice that wins through, not the brightest. The singer not the song.’

‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘We are agreed on that and this may actually be relevant to your assignment,’ said Macmillan. ‘If you’re feeling up to it, that is?’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘There’s some kind of a scientific disagreement over a genetically modified crop up in Scotland. It’s probably just a storm in a teacup — something to do with the paperwork in a licensing agreement, but I’ve got an uneasy feeling about it and it’s such a touchy subject these days that I think we should take a look.’

‘What sort of gene modification are we talking about?’

‘The company concerned, an outfit called, Agrigene, has obtained permission to grow two fields of genetically modified oilseed rape. Apparently the variety can withstand the action of powerful pesticides thanks to a couple of foreign genes their scientists have introduced to the seeds.’

‘Sounds reasonable enough.’

‘It probably is, if truth be told, but the government of the day made such a hash of the BSE affair that nobody believes a word officialdom says when it comes to matters of biological safety. As I recall, the relevant minister wearing a funny hat didn’t seem to work too well either.’

‘It was his predecessor announcing that it was quite safe to eat your words as long as they didn’t contain beef, that I remember best,’ said Steven.

‘But we’re not here to question the wisdom of our masters,’ said Macmillan, putting an end to that line of conversation.

This was something that Dunbar liked about Macmillan. He might look like a typical po-faced Whitehall mandarin with his regal bearing and swept-back silver hair but underneath, he came pretty close to being one of the lads. But only up to a point and when that point was reached he was good at letting it be known without giving offence. He also had a well-deserved reputation for being fiercely loyal to his staff and was almost obsessive in his determination that Sci-Med should remain independent of direct executive control. He had come close to resigning on several occasions when bigger government bodies had tried to influence the course of his department’s investigations.

‘No, we just have to live with the consequences of their actions,’ said Steven. ‘So what exactly has this company done wrong?’

‘They didn’t tell anyone locally what they were doing. They did their best to keep everything quiet and persuaded the farmer involved to do likewise.’

‘Can’t say I blame them in the circumstances, considering what’s been happening to fields of GM crops here in England.’

‘Quite so, and as far as the book goes, they appear to have done nothing wrong. They went through all the right channels and are, by all accounts, properly licensed to grow their crop.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘When the locals found out about it, they didn’t like it one little bit and they’ve been kicking up one hell of a fuss ever since.’

Steven shrugged. ‘I suppose I can see their point of view too,’ he sighed. ‘Fear of the unknown, happily fuelled by the media, no doubt.’

‘Well, it’s turned into more than just a few farmers shouting the odds, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re now going to tell me that one of the locals is an organic farmer and he insists that his crop is going to be cross-pollinated by the big bad grass in the next field,’ said Steven.

‘Spot on,’ smiled Macmillan, ‘but there’s a twist to it. The company, Agrigene, says that this chap was not licensed as an organic farmer when they sought permission for their trial. They insist that they checked the area out thoroughly beforehand for any such farms. They maintain that the paperwork for this chap must have been processed after permission for their trial had been approved.’

‘But why?’

‘Just so as to make trouble for them, so they say.’

‘Sounds a bit bizarre, even allowing for commercial paranoia about government regulations.’

‘It gets worse and this is the real worrying aspect. The opposition now maintains that the Agrigene crop in the fields is not the one that they were licensed for.’

‘Now that sounds a bit more serious,’ agreed Steven. ‘How did they come to that conclusion?’

‘They had a sample of it analysed at a ministry lab over in Ayrshire. The lab reported the presence of a third foreign gene, not declared by the company at the outset.’

‘So the locals are right?’

‘Agrigene deny it. They don’t deny that there is a third foreign element in the genetic make-up of their crop but they say that to call it a foreign gene is a technical misunderstanding on the part of the lab that analysed their crop.’

‘Sounds like the old Olympic athlete defence,’ said Steven.

‘Quite so. You’d think the bright thing for them to do at this juncture would be to admit to a technical oversight and apologise for it but this they stubbornly refuse to do. They maintain instead that there is some kind of conspiracy against them to discredit the company and they’re determined to do battle in the courts if necessary.’

‘Who do they think has conspired against them?’

‘They don’t know and they can’t even suggest a motive.’

‘Someone just doesn’t like them,’ said Steven.

‘Paranoia or not, they’re absolutely adamant that they’ve done nothing wrong while the opposition in the village is calling for the crop be destroyed. This is where you come in. I’d like you to take a look at things up there. Talk to everyone involved and try to get a feel for what’s been going on.’

‘Am I right in thinking that I’m going to be dealing with a lot of angry people?’

‘That would be a fair summation. Brigadoon, it aint. Tempers have been running very high and there’s now talk of the GM farmer bringing in a private security firm to protect his farm and Agrigene’s investment.’

Steven raised his eyebrows. ‘Muscle?’

‘Uniforms with dogs.’

‘Not exactly designed to calm things down. Have any outsiders appeared on the scene yet?’

‘Not as yet but I suspect it’s only a matter of time before every civil liberties group from A to Z takes an interest.’

‘What about police involvement?’

‘They’re aware of the situation, of course. They’re keeping a low profile. I think their preference would be for a government order putting an end to the trial. That way, the Agrigene crop could be legally destroyed and everything could return to normal in the village. But the company is adamant that they will fight any such move every step of the way and we both know that once our legal friends sense a fat fee, we could be in for a very long haul indeed.’

Steven nodded and asked, ‘Anything else I should know about?’

‘Miss Roberts has prepared a file for you as usual. It lists all the key players and gives as much background information as we could get hold of. There is perhaps just one other thing you should be aware of; three boys from the village have been admitted to a local hospital suffering from Weil’s disease.’

‘Three!’ exclaimed Steven. ‘From one village?’

‘Apparently Weil’s disease is becoming more common these days,’ said Macmillan. ‘For two reasons as I understand it. One, there has been a general increase in the rat population all over the UK and two, the current fashion among the young for drinking beer out of bottles.’

‘Of course, ‘said Steven. ‘I remember now, the disease is spread through rat urine.’

‘Macmillan nodded and said, ‘Exactly, the beer crates are stored in open warehouses. Rats crawl over them and contaminate the bottles. Jack the Lad opens his bottle of designer, Krustenbufferstumpenschlotz and… yum, yum.’

‘But presumably there’s nothing to link these cases with the GM problem in the village?’

‘Only that one of the boy’s fathers works as a mechanic on the farm that’s recently obtained organic accreditation. But no, it was a clear case of them coming into contact with rat urine. They had all been swimming in a canal that runs through their village, so it seems obvious enough where they got the disease. There was one strange feature though; a rat apparently attacked one of the boys while he was swimming. It bit his foot for no apparent reason and hung on to it for grim death.’

‘Maybe the boys provoked it in some way?’

‘Whatever the reason, the animal did quite a bit of damage to the boy’s foot. They managed to repair the tendons with an operation at the local hospital but since then he’s developed rat-bite fever.’

‘Poor kid.’

‘The latest now is that he now has some kind of post-operative infection on top of everything else. ‘It’s going to be touch and go.’

‘And all for a swim.’

‘Boys will be boys,’ said Macmillan.

‘The world over,’ agreed Steven.