Deception

TWENTY ONE

The murders of Thomas Rafferty and James Binnie now made more sense to Steven as he sat still in the car for another few minutes, thinking over what Sweeney had said. Binnie must have been able to work out exactly what had been going on after Sweeney’s phone call that morning. He must have gone down to Crawhill to have it out with Rafferty over what he thought was wrong with his dog and, with Childs and Leadbetter being there, his fate had been sealed.

So he had been right to think that there had been a connection between the rats’ change in behaviour and the dog, Khan’s. It also meant that the dog’s body had been deliberately destroyed by Childs and Leadbetter — or rather by Leadbetter — Childs had been down in Dumfriesshire on that day… engaged on something else entirely. Steven bit his lip against the feeling of anger that welled up in him whenever he thought about it. He comforted himself with the thought that the net was now tightening around these two and whoever else was involved in this sordid business. If Sweeney was right about a request for neuropathology providing the key and the result meant as much to him as it had to Binnie, he was only one lab report away from finding out the truth. He called up Sci-Med on his mobile and made the request.

‘The bacteriology report on your rat came back this morning,’ said the duty officer.

‘And it was negative?’ ventured Steven.

‘Correct. No pathogens found. Only a normal commensal flora was present in the animal.’

‘Virology the same?’

‘There’s a serology report saying that no suspicious antibody levels were found but it’s too early for direct culture analysis. Mind you, the serology result would suggest that you should put your money on a negative!’

‘Agreed. All my money is now on neuropathology,’ said Steven. ‘Give the request A1 priority, will you?’

‘Will do.’

‘Is John Macmillan available?’

‘Hold on.’

A few moments later Macmillan came on the line. ‘I heard about what happened to Jenny,’ said Macmillan. ‘I didn’t get in touch because I’m sure I would have ended up pulling you out of there. I let you make your own decision.’

‘I came very close,’ said Steven, ‘but I’m going to see it through to the bitter end now and then I’m going to take up crucifixion as a hobby, starting with Childs and Leadbetter.’

‘I know how you must feel,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ve not been idle at this end but right now Sci-Med is about as popular as Polio in a nursery. No one wants to know us. I don’t think they even know why; the word has just got around that being seen with anyone from Sci-Med could seriously damage your career.’

‘If this thing can be traced right to the top I don’t think I want a career working for the bastards behind this any more.’

‘Let’s wait until we have the whole story,’ said Macmillan.

‘Everything is riding on a neuropathology report I’ve just asked for,’ said Steven. ‘Maybe you could have an expert standing by in case we need help with interpretation?’

‘I’ll see to it,’ said Macmillan.

The minutes passed like hours as Steven waited for the report to come through. Unlike microbiology tests, where time was needed to allow bacteria and viruses to grow in artificial culture, neuropathology was more immediate. The rat’s brain simply had to be examined by a histopathologist, thin sections made using a microtome and a microscopic examination carried out. The report came through at six in the evening. Steven spoke to the pathologist herself.

‘I found very clear evidence of spongioform encephalopathy,’ said the woman, who introduced herself as Dr Wendy Carswell.

‘Spongioform encephalopathy?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘But that’s BSE and Creutzfeld Jakob Disease and Kuru and things like that?’

‘Correct,’ agreed Carswell. ‘For want of a better description, you’ve got yourself a mad rat.’

Steven’s senses were reeling. ‘Mad Rat Disease? How in God’s name would it get something like that?’ he asked.

‘Sorry,’ replied Carswell. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help there. I haven’t come across this sort of condition in rats before, but there again, I’m not often asked to examine rats’ brains.’

Steven thanked her and contacted Macmillan at Sci-Med. ‘You’ve heard?’

‘I have. I got right on to a chap at University College London about it. He’s an acknowledged expert in encephalopathies. He says that many animals do have their own species-specific type of this illness. He asks if there is anything to suggest that this is not the case in this instance.’

Steven thought for a moment. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘A dog was affected too at the same time. That would just be too much of a coincidence. There has to be a common factor.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Macmillan.

The phone rang ten minutes later and Steven snatched it up.

‘Diet,’ said Macmillan.

‘Diet?’

‘My man suggests that the animals have been eating foodstuffs infected with BSE. They’ve been getting the disease in the same way the cows did.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Steven quietly.

‘Now we know just how high the stakes are,’ said Macmillan. ‘HMG needs another BSE scandal like turkeys need Christmas. Over to you, I’m afraid.’

Steven still felt shocked at the revelation. It meant that Thomas Rafferty had been feeding BSE-infected foodstuffs to his dog and the rats must have had access to it too? How? Where had it come from? How could a man with no need for animal feedstuffs of any description get his hands on BSE infected material and why? He had no livestock to feed apart from his dog.

He supposed that it was just possible that some infected animal feed might still be lying around somewhere, left over from the time of the BSE scandal but that didn’t seem at all likely in West Lothian. It wasn’t a big cattle-farming area. Even then, there had to be more to it than that for a general rat problem to have developed. It suggested that much larger quantities had been involved, not just some old sack left in the corner of a barn.

A barn? It suddenly struck Steven that Rafferty had a large barn on his property! He supposed that he had always assumed it to be empty but what if it wasn’t? He now remembered trying the door of it one day when he had been looking for someone and finding it locked. Come to think of it, why would Gus Watson spend so much time working on the plant machinery in the open yard if the barn was lying empty?

He wondered how he should approach finding out about the barn. His ill-fated night expedition to the barn on Peat Ridge, when he’d caught his hand in the rat trap was acting as ‘aversion therapy’ and making this an odyssey of fun he’d rather not repeat. But apart from that, if the barn held the secret that Childs and Leadbetter were sitting on, they would have almost certainly taken steps to discourage intruders. He looked at his watch; it was just after seven o’clock. He wondered if Gus Watson might be in the Castle Tavern tonight.

After a moment’s hesitation he phoned Jamie Brown and asked what he was doing.

‘Nothing much. What’s on your mind?’

‘How was Gus Watson when you saw him?’

‘Fine. He seemed to be recovering well.’

‘Well enough to be going out to the pub in the evening?’ asked Steven.

‘I think so.’

Steven picked up Brown at his flat and they headed west. ‘I thought if we’re lucky and he’s there, we might be able to “bump into” Gus in the pub,’ he said. ‘I need to know what’s in the barn at Crawhill.’

‘What do you think is in it?’ asked Brown.

‘BSE infected feedstuff,’ replied Steven bluntly.

‘And you’re telling that to me, a journalist?’ exclaimed Brown.

‘I’ve had enough of cover-ups and double-dealing, dirty tricks and all the bullshit of vested interests,’ said Steven. ‘All I ask is that you don’t go public before we have all the facts. After that… you can dump on the lot of them from a great height as far as I’m concerned. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ agreed Brown. ‘Where did this stuff come from?’

‘I don’t know yet. If Watson says the barn is full, as I think it is, we’ll go ask Trish Rafferty that.’

‘And I was thinking about a quiet night in with the telly,’ said Brown.

‘If Watson says the barn’s empty, you can still have it.’

The Castle Tavern was less than half-full on a Monday night but managed to maintain its air of general hostility and total lack of charm. Steven picked up snatches of conversation on their way through the cigarette smoke to the bar counter.

‘Fuckin’ telt him fuckin straight, it’s no ma fuckin’ job tae dae that!’

‘Fuckin right.’

‘An’ another fuckin’ thing…’

‘What are you having?’ asked Brown.

‘Lager.’

Steven sipped his beer and Brown his whisky as they leaned on the bar and looked about them to see if Watson was in. There was no sign.

‘We’re out of luck,’ said Brown.

‘I suppose it was odds against,’ said Steven. ‘But worth it to savour the pleasures of the Castle, don’t you think?’

‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ said Brown. ‘A warm welcome aye awaits ye at the Castle,’ he added in a hushed pseudo-Scots accent.

‘Haste ye back,’ added Steven.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Brown. ‘Look who’s just walked in.’

Steven looked towards the door and saw Childs and Leadbetter come in with Alex McColl from the Clarion.’

McColl stopped in his tracks when he saw Brown and Steven standing there and changed direction without acknowledging them. He had been heading towards the bar but now turned off to the left and sat down at a table as far away from the bar as he could get. Childs sat down beside him while Leadbetter came up to the counter to get drinks.

‘Is it my deodorant?’ whispered Brown. ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

Steven hid a smile as Leadbetter arrived at the bar and acknowledged them with a nod. He ordered three beers and took them back over to the table.

‘Strange bedfellows,’ said Brown.

‘Maybe they’ve joined the same country dance class,’ said Steven, but he wasn’t smiling; he was wondering just what the hell they were telling McColl.

‘Another drink?’ he asked Brown.

‘Might as well. I’m having such a good time.’

‘I’m sorry I dragged you out here.’

‘Not at all,’ said Brown. ‘I’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall over there though.’ He nodded in the direction of McColl and Co.

Steven glanced and saw that McColl seemed to be writing furiously. ‘Strikes me, we’re going to read all about it,’ he said.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Brown, ‘My piece tomorrow is on the spiralling cost of building a parliament worthy of our new MSPs.’

‘Maybe he’ll share the story with you.’

‘Maybe the Pope will announce his engagement to Barbara Windsor.’

‘Are we off?’

‘I think so.’

Brown was just draining the last of his whisky when Gus Watson walked in through the door and the two men settled back down. For once, fate had been kind, thought Steven. This was the perfect “accidental” meeting that he’d hoped for. ‘Hello Gus. How’s the arm?’ he asked.

‘Hallo you two,’ replied Watson, tapping the white sling inside his jacket. ‘It’s fine thanks. The doctor reckons I’ll be back at work by the end of next week.’

Steven insisted on buying Watson a pint and he and Brown started steering the conversation around to where they wanted it to be. Brown asked, ‘Any chance of you getting a decent workshop now that Trish is in charge down there?’

‘She’s promised to do something about it,’ replied Watson. ‘I’m getting too old to lie out in all weathers.’

‘Beats me why you don’t use the barn to work in and store the machinery,’ said Steven. ‘That would be much better wouldn’t it?’

‘The barn’s full,’ replied Watson taking a long draw from his pint.

Steven exchanged a quick glance with Brown who said, ‘But I thought Crawhill didn’t operate as a working farm, Gus?’

‘It doesn’t. Tom has been storing some stuff for some guy in a suit who approached him over a year ago. You know Tom and easy money.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Oh, nothing dodgy, I can see what you’re thinking but it was nothing off the back of a lorry. Tom was no angel but this was a government deal with a proper contract and done all legal like.’

‘But you don’t know what it is?’

‘I was there when the lorries delivered it. Sacks of granules, I think. Tom said the government had to store it until the Europeans had agreed some standard for it or something like that, so he rented out the barn to them. You know what that Brussels red tape is like.’

Brown and Steven silently nodded their agreement and Brown steered the conversation off in another direction before Watson started to suspect that he was being pumped for information. They had what they wanted to know.

Another ten minutes and McColl and his companions for the evening rose to leave. McColl was smiling all over his face. He now acknowledged Brown’s presence and came over to him. ‘You know,’ he said gloatingly. ‘Ever since I started in this business I’ve always wanted to ring in and say, “Hold the front page! And tonight… I’m going to do it. What was it that villain in Batman used to say? Ah, I remember, So-long suckers!’

With that, he turned and left, with Childs and Leadbetter holding the door open for him.

‘Scoop McColl does it again,’ murmured Brown. ‘The journalist’s journalist, the man they call… Alex.’

‘Wee shit,’ offered Watson.

Steven and Brown said good night to Gus Watson and left the pub. ‘What now?’ asked Brown.

‘We can’t waste any more time. We’ll have to go see Trish Rafferty tonight.’

Steven felt relieved when it was Eve who opened the door at Crawhill. He felt that they now had at least a chance of getting in through the front door.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ exclaimed Eve in an astonished whisper.

‘I have to speak to Trish,’ said Steven.

‘For God’s sake, Steven, the poor woman is in the middle of making funeral arrangements for her husband,’ protested Eve.

‘It won’t wait,’ said Steven. ‘I know what’s been going on here but I need her to fill in the blanks.’

‘Who’s this?’ asked Eve, looking at Brown.

‘Jamie Brown of The Scotsman. Call him insurance.’

‘I know what Trish will call him,’ said Eve.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Trish Rafferty, coming out into the hall and looking over Eve’s shoulder. ‘What the hell do you want?’ she said when she saw Steven standing there.

‘I need to ask you some questions,’ said Steven.

‘Sling your hook,’ said Trish angrily.

‘Wait!’ Steven showed her his ID and said, ‘I’m sorry but under law you are obliged to answer them either here or at police headquarters if you’d prefer.’

Trish stared at Steven, her eyes flashing and then looked at Brown. ‘And who’s he?’ she asked.

Brown introduced himself and Trish snorted. ‘There’s no bloody way that I’m obliged to speak to bloody reporters,’ she fumed.

‘No, you’re not,’ agreed Steven. ‘We can talk on a one to one basis if you prefer.’

‘You’d better come in.’

Trish said to Eve, ‘Look after this one, will you? See that he doesn’t pinch the silver while I talk to Sherlock here.’

Eve took Brown into the living room with an apologetic smile while Trish led Steven through to the dining room where they sat down at the table to talk.

Steven could see that Trish — arms folded across her chest, was in no mood to be co-operative so he said, ‘Let me tell you what I already know. That barn out there — he gestured with his forefinger — is full of BSE infected material. The local rats have been eating it and they have developed their own form of BSE that’s why they’ve been going around biting everyone. Your husband is responsible for that situation in some way and you shopped him to the authorities over it. You told them everything in exchange for a promise of immunity for him and his co-operation in what they’re doing here at the moment. How am I doing?’

Trish Rafferty had gone pale. She swallowed and said, ‘No comment.’

‘Won’t do.’ Said Steven. ‘I have to know the missing bits. What kind of a hold do Childs and Rafferty have over you?’

‘No comment.’

‘For God’s sake, woman, the Ferguson kid is dead; James Binnie is dead; your own husband is dead and all because of what’s been going on here. ‘Do you want to be an accessory to murder?’

‘They were accidents,’ insisted Trish.

‘James Binnie’s death was no accident and neither was your husband’s,’ said Steven, playing his ace. ‘Someone locked them in the shed with Khan and then doused the lights. Think about it, Trish!’

‘You’re lying!’ she stormed.

‘No, I’m not,’ said Steven calmly. ‘James Binnie had a friend at the vet school who told him exactly what was wrong with the rats. He came here to have it out with your husband and Childs and Leadbetter killed them both.’

Trish shook her head, unwilling to accept what she was hearing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They promised me nothing would happen to Tom if he just did what they told him.’

‘Face facts, Trish,’ said Steven kindly. ‘They couldn’t afford to have someone like Tom keeping their secret, could they?’

All the aggression had gone from Trish Rafferty. Her shoulders slumped forward as she saw the truth in what Steven was saying. ‘The bastards,’ she murmured. ‘The bloody bastards. Tom was an arse but he didn’t deserve that.’

Steven kept quiet and was rewarded when Trish started to talk.

‘About eighteen months ago, Tom was approached by someone who said he was from the Scottish Office about the possibility of him storing some BSE cull material. They’d been killing cows faster than they could incinerate them in that bloody stupid gesture to placate Europe. They said that they’d pay well for the use of his barn. The only condition was that he would have to bring it up to standard with regard to it being wind and watertight and secure from animal ingress. He’d need to get a licence but not for a year. The barn was empty and the money was good so Tom agreed. He pretended to the locals that he was storing animal feed there while it was waiting for a Euro-licence.’

‘So it was all above board?’ said Steven.

‘Yes,’ agreed Trish. ‘It was all perfectly legal.’

Steven could see that Trish was having difficulty saying more. He tried prompting her. ‘So what went wrong, Trish? What did he do that was so awful that you had to blow the whistle on him?’

Trish took out her handkerchief to hold it over her nose and mouth for a moment.

‘What was it?’ prompted Steven. ‘He didn’t bring the building up to scratch as he’d agreed, so the rats got in and started eating the stuff?’

‘Not just that,’ said Trish. ‘The stuff looked just like animal feed so he started selling the stuff on the black market.’

‘What!’ said Steven, his eyes opening wide. ‘But that could have started the whole BSE business all over again!’

Trish nodded. ‘I tried telling him that. I argued with him until I was blue in the face and he promised he’d stop but I knew he was still doing it so I went to the authorities and told them what he was doing.’

‘What happened?’

‘At first they were going to lock Tom up and melt the key but then they realised what the publicity would do to them personally. They changed their minds and decided that it would be wrong to cause public panic. If Tom and I would cooperate they would put everything right and in exchange for our help, no action would be taken against Tom. I said that I wanted no more to do with any of it, including Tom and they agreed that I could move out. Tom could do their bidding on his own.

‘That’s when Childs and Leadbetter came on the scene and the organic farm business was born.’

Trish nodded.

‘So what are they actually doing here?’ asked Steven.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Trish. ‘I just know that they’ve been taking measurements around the place and digging up samples of the soil in various places around the farm but I think that’s just them keeping up the pretence of the organic business.’

Steven looked at her, trying to decide whether she knew any more or not. He decided that she’d told him all she could.

‘What happens now?’ asked Trish quietly.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Steven. ‘Childs and Leadbetter have been up to something tonight and I think tomorrow’s Clarion will tell us what it was. Maybe then I’ll see what the end-game is. Don’t tell them about our conversation, will you?’

Trish shook her head. As they rose to rejoin the others, she asked, ‘Can you prove that they murdered Tom?’

‘No,’ replied Steven. ‘But I know they did.’

Eve put her arm round Trish when they entered the living room and ushered her to a chair, saying that she would make some tea. She threw an accusing look at Steven who shrugged his shoulders in reply. ‘We’ll be going now,’ he said.

‘See yourselves out, won’t you,’ said Eve coldly.

‘Well, what happened?’ asked Brown as soon as the door had closed behind them.

‘The barn does contain BSE infected material but it’s not feedstuffs: it’s rendered cow carcasses. Trish insists that it was all quite legal but that needs checking out. I need you to find out everything you can about BSE cull material and what the government says happened to it.’

‘Cull material?’ said Brown. ‘I thought they burned the carcasses.’

‘That’s what I thought too,’ said Steven.

‘I’ll get on to that first thing in the morning,’ said Brown.

‘No!’ said Steven. ‘Tonight. Stay up all night if you have to.’

Brown looked at Steven to see that he was serious and saw that he was. Well, I suppose I’d just be lying awake wondering what McColl’s going to come up with,’ he said.

Steven drove Brown up to The Scotsman Offices in North Bridge, Edinburgh and dropped him there.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I have it,’ said Brown.

Brown phoned at five am. ‘Did I wake you? Good. I’d hate to think I was the only one having fun.’

‘What did you get?’ asked Steven.

‘We were wrong about the carcasses being burned,’ said Brown. ‘That was the plan but apparently there was some kind of fuck-up over incineration capacity and the stuff has been building up ever since all over the UK. Basically, the carcasses were either put into cold storage or sent to rendering plants where they were turned into a granular material and now it’s being stockpiled in a variety of storage facilities up and down the country.’

‘Any idea how much?’

‘There is currently a little over seventy-two thousand tons of the stuff being stored at two official sites in Scotland. They’ve only managed to dispose of eighteen thousand tons in the last three years and their best estimate says they’ll only manage to get rid of sixty percent of it by the end of 2002. At the moment it’s costing the tax payer over 1.3 million pounds a year to store it.’

‘So why don’t they burn more?’ asked Steven.

‘One, there aren’t enough incinerators, two they are privately owned so the owners can charge what they like and three, the owners don’t like burning that kind of stuff anyway. It makes a mess of their furnaces or something.’

‘You’ve done well,’ said Steven.

‘It was dead easy,’ said Brown. ‘An SNP member of the |Scottish parliament started giving the Minister for Rural Affairs a hard time over this in early summer. It’s all in the records.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘The member claimed that there was a secret plan to start dumping a whole load of the stuff in a landfill site in the middle of his constituency and in contravention of a European agreement to burn the stuff. His constituents were up in arms and so was he. He managed to get an assurance from the minister that this would not happen and also made him cough up the figures on amounts and storage costs. I guess with the landfill plan in ruins, the pressure is on to find cheap alternative storage.’

‘But surely there must be security regulations about these storage facilities?’ said Steven.

‘Oh there are,’ agreed Brown. ‘But under the current regulations, storage facility owners are given a year’s grace. They don’t have to be licensed until that year has passed.’

‘So Rafferty was operating the store legally,’ said Steven.

‘What’s legal and what’s sensible are often two very different things,’ said Brown.

‘And never more so than in this case,’ said Steven. ‘They’re going to finish up with enough egg on their face to promote National Omelette Week.’