Deception

TWENTY

Early on Monday morning, Steven drove over to Livingston Police Headquarters to speak with Brewer. He was feeling uneasy about Trish Rafferty coming back to Crawhill and was concerned about how safe she would be in the circumstances. The bargain she’d struck with the powers-that-be had not done her husband much good in the end and he feared that she might be seen as a dangerous loose end to leave lying around, despite her role as informant in the first place. Childs’ abortive visit to her flat on Saturday night had just added to his unease. With her husband now dead, his immunity from retribution was no longer an influencing factor in how she would behave.

‘What would you like us to do?’ asked Brewer.

‘Establish a presence at Crawhill,’ said Steven. ‘Just let Childs and Leadbetter know that you are around. You could use their destruction of evidence as a pretext for having your forensic people go over Khan’s shed again, anything you like as long as there are officers on the premises for today at least.’

‘And then what?’

‘Let’s play it by ear.’

Steven drove over to Blackbridge, not that he had anything specific to do there this morning. He just wanted to be there and get a feel for things, as if doing so might encourage inspiration to strike. As he drove along Main Street he saw Ann Binnie coming out of the Post Office and stopped to speak to her.

‘James is being cremated tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Perhaps you’d care to be there?’

‘Of course,’ said Steven. ‘I liked him a lot.’

‘Ten o’clock at Mortonhall in Edinburgh. Do you know it?’

‘I’ll find it,’ replied Steven.

‘James made me promise that I’d have him cremated if he was the first to go,’ said Ann. ‘He said that after a life spent in agricultural Scotland, he would have seen more than enough of cold, wet earth and a bit of heat would be very welcome.’ Ann smiled but her eyes didn’t. Steven sensed that, like Eleanor Rigby, she was wearing the face that she kept in a jar by the door. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. He simply said that he’d see her tomorrow and said good-morning.

He stopped a little further along the street to read a notice, tied with string to a lamppost. It was an appeal for the return of a lost dog. ‘Patch’ was being sorely missed by his two young owners, Alan and Ailsa, aged three and five, and a reward was being offered for information leading to the dog’s return. A bad photocopy of a photograph of the two young children was incorporated. He silently wished them luck then walked on past the hotel where highly polished cars belonging to the warring factions of Whitehall and the Scottish Executive filled the car park and spilled out on to the road. The imagery in his head was of hot air and balloons.

At the top of the hill between Crawhill and Peat Ridge, he saw that the barriers across the towpath were still in place but from the bridge he could see no sign of the white-clad marksmen he’d seen last time. He decided that he would walk out along the path anyway and ducked under the tape to start heading east with a cool wind behind him. As he passed along the southern edge of Crawhill, he saw a white Volkswagen Polo drive into the yard in front of the house and a female figure get out. The distance was too great to see her features clearly but he felt fairly sure that it was Trish Rafferty arriving home. A man who had been working on a piece of machinery and whom he suspected must be standing in for Gus Watson, got up and went to greet her. They shook hands and spoke briefly before Trish disappeared inside the house and the man returned to lying under the machine. It was starting to rain and Steven did not envy him his job.

He was about to turn back when he thought he caught sight of a movement in the undergrowth on the other side of the canal. When he stopped and looked closely at the spot he couldn’t see anything, but he was sure enough to start feeling nervous. It happened again: the grass moved and Steven dropped to one knee, his hand moving to the holster under his left arm. The grass moved again and this time he heard a whimpering sound. He relaxed when he realised that no one was stalking him. The long grass was concealing an animal in trouble.

Steven went back to the bridge to gain access to the other bank. There was no towpath on that side of the canal and therefore no direct access to it from the bridge so he had to climb up on to the parapet and drop down the two metres or so into the long grass. He just had to hope that it wasn’t obscuring anything nasty like a rabbit hole or broken glass. He landed safely and started to make his way cautiously through the undergrowth to where he’d heard the noise coming from.

He had barely taken five steps before stopping in his tracks when he caught the glint of metal in the grass in front of him. He knelt down cautiously and found an animal trap lying directly in front of him. It was set and had a spring in it that could have made quite a mess of his foot had he strayed into it. He noted that it was of a type deemed illegal in the UK but had hardly time to ponder this when he caught sight of another one lying off to his right… and yet another behind him to the left. This one had a dead rabbit in it. He was walking through a veritable minefield of animal traps and snares. There were far too many to have been set by any poacher. It had to be part of the rat cull operation.

Steven looked around for a suitable stick to use as a probe and saw one about three metres away. He moved cautiously towards it, his eyes glued to the ground ahead, pausing to separate the long grass with his hands where necessary. He felt happier with the stick in his hand, which he continually swept in an arc in front of him before risking further progress. In the next twenty metres or so he came across four more traps. Two had dead rats in them, one another rabbit and the fourth the source of the whimpering, a small white dog.

The dog, a King Charles spaniel, had his right front paw caught in a large spring-mounted trap. From his bedraggled appearance and the damage to the surrounding area on his leg where wet fur had merged with dried, encrusted blood, Steven could see that the beast had been struggling for some time. It was no great test of deductive power to work out that his name was, Patch and that he’d been there overnight.

‘Well, you’ve got yourself into a fine mess, haven’t you?’ murmured Steven as he cleared an area round about the dog where he could squat down and set about freeing it. He could see that its leg had been broken by the impact of the hammer bar on the trap. ‘You’re going to need a vet, old son… and the bad news is that there isn’t one locally any more…Easy does it… There we are… Steven freed the dog and stopped him trying to stand up on his damaged limb. He looked around for twigs and found what he was looking for within easy reach. It wasn’t often that he found his expertise in field medicine called upon but right now he was going to fashion a splint for Patch.

Whether it was the fact that he was thinking about the last time he’d had to tend to an injured colleague and the mission that they’d been on at the time or whether his nerves were strung like piano wire after the events of the last forty-eight hours, Steven reacted like lightning when a hand touched his shoulder. His assailant had barely time to utter a word before Steven had hammered his left elbow back into his stomach, spun round to bring the edge of his right hand down into the side of the man’s neck and was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and holding the barrel of his automatic at the side of his head.

‘Jesus,’ said the man. ‘Was it something I said?’

Steven took in the fact that the man beneath him was wearing camouflage fatigues and a military beret. When he had relaxed enough to look up he saw that four other soldiers had joined them. One of them, with lieutenant’s pips on his shoulders moved to the front.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ said Steven. He realised that every eye was on the gun in his hand. He got to his feet and put it back in its holster before getting out his ID and showing it to the officer.

‘Doctor Dunbar?’ exclaimed the man. ‘Ye gods, if that was an example of your bedside manner, I hope you don’t do house calls.’ He turned to the soldier sitting on the ground, rubbing his neck and asked, ‘All right Kincaid?’

‘Yes, boss,’ replied the soldier.

‘Our job is to clear the entire area of wild animals,’ said the lieutenant, who now introduced himself as Lt Adrian Venture. ‘I thought you would have known that,’ he said with a glance at Steven’s ID as he handed it back.

‘I knew about the rat cull with .22 rifles. No one told me about the traps.’

‘I think they wanted it kept low key, and for obvious reasons’ said Venture with a nod to the traps. ‘Efficiency wins over legality. Didn’t want the save-the-squirrel mob fucking up things if you know what I mean?’

Steven nodded. ‘I guess young Patch here didn’t know about it either,’ he said, looking down at the dog, which one of the soldiers was comforting.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Venture. ‘It’s the sort of operation where you get…’

‘Collateral damage,’ completed Steven. He turned to the soldier he’d felled and said, ‘Maybe I should take a look at your neck, soldier?’

The soldier backed away.

‘He is a doctor,’ said Venture.

‘Bet you don’t get too many complaints down your surgery,’ said the man and the ensuing laughter took any remaining tension out of the atmosphere. Steven examined the man and pronounced to his and everyone else’s relief that no lasting damage had been done. He turned back to Venture and pointed out that it was still the time of the school holidays in the area. There was a risk of youngsters making the same mistake that Patch had made. If that happened, the shit really would hit the fan.

‘I see what you mean,’ agreed Venture. ‘We can’t put up notices advertising the traps but we could make it more difficult to reach this bank, perhaps put wire up on the parapet?’

‘Good idea,’ said Steven. ‘Who’s in charge of this operation by the way?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Venture. ‘Ours is not to reason why…’

Steven approached the soldier who was cradling the dog in his arms and asked Venture if the man might be allowed to assist him while he reset the dog’s leg and applied a makeshift splint to it. It would be an easier operation with someone else holding the animal. Venture readily agreed and it was done quickly, although not without a communal wince from the onlookers. Venture asked about the dog and Steven told him about the poster in the village. The soldier looked worried but Steven assured him that the owners needn’t know just how the animal had come to have its leg broken. ‘I’m sure they’ll just be delighted to have him back.’

Steven made his way back to the bridge, carrying the dog in his arms and with the soldiers leading the way. They helped him up and over the parapet where they parted on good terms. Steven walked down into the village and went into the Post Office where he explained that he’d found the missing dog up by the canal banks with a broken leg. It matched the description of ‘Patch’ on the notice outside, could the Post master telephone the owners and look after the animal until the owners came down to pick it up?

‘It’s no ma problem,’ said the surly man behind the counter. ‘Ye canny leave it here. This is a post office, no’ a cat and dog home.’

Steven had to swallow hard to keep his temper. This was the community the Clarion had described as ‘the close-knit community of Blackbridge’, the one that had been ‘stunned’ by Ian Ferguson’s death.

‘Will you at least make the phone call?’ he asked in a calm voice.

‘If you’ll pay for it. That’ll be 10p.’

Steven held the dog in one hand while he searched for change in his pocket with the other. He found a fifty-pence piece and tossed it at the man. ‘Keep the change,’ he said in an even monotone. There was a moment when the man behind the counter looked like saying something else but the look in Steven’s eyes informed him correctly that he might regret it. He lifted the phone and Steven went outside to wait.

A woman, driving a Citroen estate car with two children in the back arrived at the kerb within ten minutes and was effusive in her thanks. She left to take the dog over to a vet in Livingston and Steven drove back to Edinburgh.

Eve phoned just before three in the afternoon: she sounded excited. ‘I’ve got some news,’ she announced. ‘Trish has asked Childs and Leadbetter to move out of Crawhill.’

‘Has she now,’ said Steven thoughtfully.

‘She arrived back home this morning and spoke to a deputation of village people about the protest over GM crops at Peat Ridge. They all wanted to know if she was still going to support them in ‘their struggle’ as they called it. She told them yes but I got the impression her heart wasn't in it.’

‘I think she was probably told to say that,’ said Steven.

‘That would make sense,’ agreed Eve, ‘judging by what I heard afterwards. Trish had a meeting with Childs and Leadbetter, which I managed to listen in to. I don’t think they realised I was still in the house but Trish had invited me to help her make the arrangements for Thomas’s funeral so I was in the next room. I heard her telling them that she would carry out her part of the bargain but when they’d done what they had to do she wanted them out of her life for ever. In the meantime she didn’t want them staying in the house any more. It was different when Thomas had been there but she was a widow with a reputation to think of.’

‘Good for her,’ said Steven. ‘Did you get any notion of what Childs and Leadbetter “had to do”,’ he asked.

‘No, but like you say, I think she told the villagers she was continuing Thomas’s opposition to the GM crop because they had told her to. It’s these two who want the trouble to continue. Talking of trouble, the police were at the farm today. They seemed to be taking Khan’s shed to bits. Any idea what that was all about?’

‘I asked them to put in an appearance to make sure Childs and Leadbetter behaved themselves,’ said Steven. ‘How did they react to Trish’s request?’ he asked.

‘They argued and said that their job would be much easier if they were allowed to stay on at the farm but if Trish felt strongly about it, they would move out and just turn up during the day.’

‘Have you any idea what they actually do when they’re there?’ asked Steven, suddenly realising that he didn’t know the answer to that.

‘Apparently they spend most of their time out on the farm, taking measurements and testing the soil at various points. I suppose that’s to do with the organic farm project.’

‘Mmm,’ agreed Steven but he was thinking about what Gus Watson had said about them. ‘Has Gus Watson managed to speak to Trish yet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, he came in today and asked her straight about his job,’ said Eve. ‘Trish told him that she had every intention of keeping on the plant-hire business and his job would be waiting for him when his arm was better.’

‘He’d be relieved about that,’ said Steven.

‘He certainly was,’ said Eve. ‘But then he had the nerve to ask for a rise and a proper workshop before the winter came in. Working outside was all right on sunny days in summer, he said, but not for dark mornings in January with frost on the ground and his fingers sticking to the metal.’

‘What did she say to that?’

‘She sympathised and said that she could see the problem and that she’d have him working indoors real soon.’

‘So everyone’s happy at Crawhill?’ said Steven.

‘Like an episode of the Waltons.’

‘But I take it we’re no nearer knowing what Thomas Rafferty did that was so bad?’ said Steven.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Eve. ‘And I don’t honestly think that Trish is going to tell me.’

‘You tried and I’m grateful,’ said Steven.

‘And I’ll keep trying,’ said Eve. ‘We’ll be together quite a bit until the funeral is out of the way. Will you be going to Tom’s funeral? It’s on Thursday.’

Steven said not because he hardly knew the man, but added that he would be going to James Binnie’s tomorrow.

‘Me too,’ said Eve.

‘Shall we go together?’

‘Mum and Dad are coming back for it. They’ll expect me to go with them,’ said Eve.

‘Then I’ll probably see you there.’

It was raining quite heavily when Steven arrived at Mortonhall Crematorium, which was situated just off a busy main road in the southern outskirts of Edinburgh. He was ten minutes early and sat in his car in the large but almost full car park, hoping he might catch a glimpse of someone he knew among the arriving mourners. He had been warned that this was a large crematorium with more than one chapel operating at the same time. Ending up attending the wrong funeral was entirely possible. He saw two faces he recognised from the streets of Blackbridge and got out to follow them. He picked up that a large crowd had been anticipated for the Binnie funeral so the main chapel had been allocated to it.

The funeral in front was not quite over and members of the family were still shaking hands with mourners at the door as they filed out so mourners for the Binnie funeral were queuing on the road outside. After a few moments Steven could see that the hearse bearing the body of James Binnie had arrived and had paused at the head of a slip road leading down to the chapel doors to await the departure of the cars currently standing there. Steven found himself thinking of aircraft circling over Heathrow and substituted hearses in his imagination, but his face remained impassive. It seemed that a world of appointments and tight schedules reached out beyond death to the very edge of the grave.

The blocking cars moved away from the chapel entrance and Binnie’s hearse glided silently down to stop just past the doors. Ann Binnie was in the following limousine with three people he didn’t recognise but, because of their age, he guessed at them being brothers of either Ann or James. He recognised no one at all in the following limousine — two old women and a white-haired man who walked with the aid of two sticks. The chief mourners entered the chapel and the large crowd outside filed into the chapel behind them. Binnie had obviously been a very well regarded man, thought Steven.

Steven sat at the back, a personal decision dictated by his being only a casual acquaintance of the deceased, but it also gave him the opportunity to see who was there. He caught a glimpse of Eve with her parents near the front and of Childs and Leadbetter with Trish Rafferty standing between them: she was wearing a broad-brimmed black hat. There were several faces he remembered from the Castle Tavern whom he thought might be farm workers and a number of men wearing university ties that he took to be faculty members from the vet school.

The service seemed shorter than he’d anticipated but again, he surmised this would be because of the busy nature of the place. People were departing the land of the living in an orderly queue, just as they had lived, a bit like waiting for buses or awaiting their turn at the dentist. A council crematorium was no place for slow marches and muffled drums.

Steven shook hands with Ann Binnie as he left the chapel and she smiled in recognition. ‘Thank you for coming.’

It was still raining quite heavily and Steven had to combat an urge to break into a run as he headed back to the car park. Running would seem disrespectful in the circumstances, he thought. He had just got into his car and was brushing the rain from his hair with his hands when the passenger door opened. His hand flew inside his jacket to the gun in its holster but he stopped himself pulling the weapon when he recognised the pathologist, John Sweeney, from the vet school.

Sweeney got in and closed the door without saying a word. Steven sensed that the man was going through some kind of personal crisis.

‘I telephoned James the morning of the day he died,’ said Sweeney, who sat and stared straight ahead at the rain-spattered windscreen. ‘I told him what I’d found out about the rat.’

‘What was that?’ asked Steven quietly.

Sweeney ignored the question. ‘When I told him, he said, “Now I understand what’s wrong with that bloody dog”. I think that’s why they killed him, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Steven. ‘What did you find out?’

‘I haven’t been able to face Ann,’ continued Sweeney, still apparently locked up in his own personal hell of guilt and self-recrimination. ‘She must know it was my fault. That’s why I couldn’t go to his funeral.’

‘You weren’t there?’ asked Steven.

‘I’ve been waiting here in the car park for you.’ Sweeney turned to face Steven for the first time. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked.

‘You seem to know more about that than I do,’ said Steven. ‘I sent a rat’s body off for analysis. They didn’t find a trace of poison in it and common sense tells me that they’re not going to find a trace of any virus or bacteria either?’

‘No, they’re not,’ said Sweeney, going back to staring at the windscreen, although it was impossible to see out.

‘So what’s the problem with the rats?’ Steven tried again.

Once again, he was ignored. ‘I just didn’t have the guts to stand up to them and tell the truth,’ said Sweeney. ‘They made it sound as if it was my civic duty to keep my mouth shut. It would be unforgivable to cause public alarm when the matter was already being dealt with, they said. Surely the public deserved a break from scaremongering about health issues and the poor farmers could do with a break. It all sounded so plausible but then reasons for cover-ups usually do, I suppose.’

‘Yes they do,’ agreed Steven. ‘But when you examine them closely you almost invariably find a bunch of sleazy charlatans covering their own arses.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ agreed Sweeney distantly. ‘When I started to ask questions their attitude changed and they made it quite clear that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut they’d make sure I lost my job and wouldn’t get another one. And now my friend is dead because I didn’t have the guts to stand up to them.’

‘I don’t think you should blame yourself,’ said Steven gently. ‘Not many people can stand up to that kind of pressure.’

People were getting into cars parked nearby and the sound of voices reached them. Steven recognised Leadbetter’s voice and saw Sweeney stiffen. ‘Christ! He mustn’t see me here with you!’ said Sweeney, making a grab for the door handle. Steven put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘He will if you open that door right now,’ he cautioned.

Sweeney swallowed hard and looked at Steven who could practically smell the fear on the man.

‘Just sit tight,’ said Steven. ‘The glass is all misted up. Wait a few minutes. They’ll all be gone.’

Sweeney relaxed a little but still kept his hand on the door handle. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s not just my job I’m going to lose if they find out I’ve crossed them, is it?’

Steven could think of nothing reassuring to say. ‘What was wrong with the rat?’ he asked again.

Sweeney took a few deep breaths before saying, ‘What tests did you ask for?’

‘Toxicology, bacteriology, virology.’

‘Ask for neuropathology,’ said Sweeney.

‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘If you find out for yourself… you didn’t hear it from me,’ said Sweeney, with the air of a man clutching at straws.

Steven decided that there would be no point in pushing him any further; Sweeney was a nervous wreck. ‘As you like,’ he said. He turned on the ignition and wiped the screen a couple of times. The mourners from the Binnie funeral had left and newcomers were all around. Sweeney got out and walked quickly to his car without looking back. ‘Drive safely,’ murmured Steven under his breath.