Deception

FIVE

Steven was glad to find that it had stopped raining. He was even more pleased to be out in the fresh air after suffering the thick, tobacco-filled atmosphere of the pub for more than an hour. He decided to walk for a bit to clear his head as well as his lungs, not least because he felt the imminent pressure of a decision having to be made. Macmillan had put the onus on him to decide whether or not there was anything in the Blackbridge situation that Sci-Med should concern itself with and, at this juncture, he wasn’t at all sure.

Ideally, he would have liked to talk with both Lane and Rafferty but from what he’d seen and heard so far, that wouldn’t be possible without admitting who he was and openly advertising Sci-Med’s interest. Macmillan had been very clear about this being an unofficial look around after being warned off by the minister’s man.

Steven wondered if that might be too strong an interpretation of what had passed between Macmillan and the ministry man because Macmillan had a tendency to be hypersensitive about his department’s autonomy and had clearly been very angry when he’d told him about it. The official reason given for the ‘advice’ had been that MAFF had the situation up here well under control so there was no need for Sci-Med to become involved. To him that had sounded perfectly reasonable — even if Macmillan had seen it as interference, but now that he was here on the spot, he could see that this was clearly not the case. As the journalist, Jamie Brown had pointed out, no clear lead had been given at all by the authorities and anger and suspicion were obviously rife in the village.

The annoying thing from Steven’s point of view as an outside observer was that it all seemed so unnecessary. An official telling the community that there might be a problem with the identity of Lane’s crop was a prime example of bungling ineptitude. It had been of no help at all and had only fuelled the flames of suspicion. The man should have told them exactly what was being done about it and then told the people that he would get back to them when the matter had been investigated and resolved. Officialdom saying nothing to the press wasn’t helping either. It just encouraged the papers in their eternal search for cover-ups and skeletons in cupboards.

None of this however, meant that Sci-Med had to involve itself in the situation. Even if it should turn out that his impromptu theory about another biotech company getting involved in the purchase of Crawhill should prove to have some substance, Brown would discover this when he investigated a change of ownership. He would, no doubt, expose such a scam ruthlessly in his paper, causing maximum embarrassment to the culprits. Newspapers were good at that sort of thing — probably a lot better than Sci-Med.

It was tempting to report to Macmillan that there was nothing here for Sci-Med. to concern itself with any further. Macmillan would be pleased and relieved to hear that and he personally would have a reason to see the back of Blackbridge. He thought it had all the charm of a disease.

As he neared the top of the hill between Crawhill and Peat Ridge, he left the road at the bridge and joined the towpath of the canal to start walking east, continuing to analyse the situation in his head. He had to admit that his desire to be away from this place might be skewing his judgement just a little too much. Maybe he should take some more time to consider objectively, although it was hard to see what more he could do without giving away his true identity as a Sci-Med investigator.

After some thought, he concluded that there was one more thing he could do before reaching a final decision and that was to visit the MAFF lab that had carried out the analysis on the Agrigene crop. Jamie Brown had failed to get anything out of them as a journalist. He could tackle them about their apparent vagueness in his official capacity. The lab was over in Ayrshire on the west side of the country, about seventy miles away from Blackbridge, so asking questions there was not going to ruffle any local feathers.

He felt a bit better now that he had made one firm decision. He would now stay overnight in Edinburgh and drive out to the Ayrshire lab in the morning. He could now relax and enjoy the fresh air and stretching his legs. The wind had got up a little and was helping to blow away the Castle Tavern’s legacy of stale tobacco smell from his hair and clothes.

He could see that the canal towpath defined the southern extremity of Crawhill Farm and, as he rounded a slight bend, he got a good view of Thomas Rafferty’s property. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t that big, three fields lying fallow, a large barn and a compound in front of the farmhouse containing a variety of farm machinery, most of it coloured yellow. One of the machines was currently being loaded on to an articulated lorry. Steven paused to watch the procedure and admired the skill of the driver manoeuvring it up narrow ramps onto the bed of the lorry. He had no idea what the machine was or for what it would be used but he appreciated why it made sense for farms to hire such large pieces of equipment rather than buy them, particularly as there seemed such a large variety of machines available.

Some of the equipment was clearly designed for spraying so Steven wondered about a conflict of interest with Rafferty’s new allegiance to the organic cause. It seemed to underline what he’d picked up in the village about Rafferty being an unlikely recruit to the organic farming crusade. Just out of interest, he would ask Sci-Med to check out the financial health or otherwise of Rafferty’s plant hire business.

He was about to turn back when he became aware of there being someone else on the towpath about fifty metres ahead of him. He hadn’t noticed the figure earlier because she seemed to be crouching down in the reeds with her back to him. He knew that it was a woman because of her beautiful red hair. Intrigued, he walked on a little further and gave an early indication his presence by clearing his throat. The woman turned and looked up at him. She was pale-faced and tears were running down her cheeks.

Steven could now see that she had been arranging a small posy of flowers in the reeds and suddenly realised that this must be connected with the boy who had died after his swim in the canal.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,’ he said quietly, feeling embarrassed about being there.

‘It’s all right,’ replied the young woman. ‘It’s silly really. I just thought that I would say my own good-bye to Ian up here. The hospital seemed so strange and foreign. It was as if he wasn’t really our Ian at all when he was in there, if you know what I mean? There were always so many other people around.’

Steven looked at her moist eyes. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said with a conviction that he didn’t elaborate on. ‘Were you related to Ian?’

‘I’m his sister, his big sister.’

‘I’m sorry. It was a tragedy.’

‘Thirteen years old, knew nothing about life but thought he knew it all.’

‘Like all thirteen year old boys,’ said Steven.

‘Exactly,’ smiled the woman, who now got to her feet and said, ‘I’m Eve Ferguson.’

Steven could now see that she was an attractive woman in her early twenties, her most prominent feature being the cascade of dark red hair falling about her shoulders. From a distance he had thought it dyed. Close up, he could see it was natural. He sensed that she wanted to talk about her brother, another emotion he recognised. He encouraged her with a few gentle questions.

‘Ian happened as a bit of a surprise to Mum and Dad,’ said Eve. ‘They must have thought their family was all finished with we two girls and then along came Ian to be the apple of my Dad’s eye. I was already ten when he was born.’

‘I bet you and your sister spoiled him rotten,’ said Steven.

‘Of course,’ said Eve, smiling for the first time. ‘We used to use him as a doll!’

‘Your sister’s not with you?’

‘She got married last year. She moved away from here. Mum phoned her this morning. She’ll be here for the funeral. God knows how we’re all going to get through it.’

‘You will,’ said Steven. ‘And then things can start to get better.’

Eve looked at him out of the corner of her eye and said, ‘You sound as if you know all about that.’

‘My wife,’ said Steven. ‘Nine months ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

They started to walk back along the towpath together and Steven paused again to look at the loading activity outside the barn on Crawhill.

‘You’ll be here about this GM crop business?’ said Eve.

‘Sort of,’ replied Steven. ‘This is the organic farm to be, isn’t it?’

‘So I’m told,’ replied Eve. ‘But it can’t be Tom Rafferty that’s behind that.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s just not the sort,’ replied Eve. ‘Apart from that he hasn’t cared about anything that didn’t come out a bottle for years. I think that’s why Trish left him.’

‘His wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘So who do you think is behind the organic farm idea?’

‘I’ve no idea. It really doesn’t make much sense but everyone in Blackbridge seems paranoid about something these days. People just don’t know what the hell’s going on. They’re afraid of the day they’ve never seen.’

‘And quite understandable if all they have to go on is rumour and fear of the unknown. I take it you’re not overly impressed with the authorities right now?’

‘Don’t talk to me about “authorities”,’ said Eve with feeling. ‘They’re tripping over each other and the more bodies they send in the less it is that gets done. We’ve got people from the Department of Health, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, the Ministry of Health and Community Care and the Ministry of Rural Affairs. Sometimes it seems that all that’s missing is PooBah and the Lord High Executioner!’

Steven smiled and asked, ‘What were these last two ministries again?’

‘They’re new Scottish ones,’ said Eve dismissively.

‘You’re not a big fan?’

‘Of Mel Gibson, you mean?’

Steven laughed and said, ‘I can see how he might have had something to do with it all.’

‘I’ll say! People were seduced by the film, Braveheart and all that talk of freedom and self-determination. Rise up and be a nation again! Heady stuff. If Mel’s speech had gone, “I will never give up my… partially devolved freedom with limited tax raising powers,” it might have been closer to the mark. What we’ve finished up with is 129 self-seeking numpties, duplicating what we already had and at much greater expense. I’m not entirely convinced that all of them can read and write. From what I’ve seen down at the hotel, all they can really do really well is squabble.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Steven, failing to pick up the last bit of what Eve had said about the hotel.

‘I’ve been working at The Blackbridge Arms during the summer vacation,’ she explained. ‘I can’t help but hear what’s going on. The civil servants have sort of made it their unofficial headquarters.’

‘So you’ve had a first hand view of democracy in action and government inter-departmental co-operation?’

‘Is that what they call it? If one lot says black, the others will say white on principle so in the end nothing gets done. On top of that McKay and Smith are always at each other’s throats over executive responsibility.’

‘Who?’ asked Steven, secretly delighted at all the information he was getting.

‘McKay is from Rural Affairs, the Scottish lot; Smith is from MAFF in London. When Smith suggests something, McKay automatically insists that it should be the province of his department, then that balloon, Barclay pops up… ‘

‘Who?’

‘Cyril Barclay. He’s something to do with Health and Safety. He pops up and says that matters concerning health have priority over them both so any decision should be his. McKay and Smith naturally disagree about this and they start arguing all over again.’

‘Meanwhile Rome burns.’

‘Quite so. What exactly is your “sort of” involvement in the affair?’ asked Eve.

‘I’m just an observer of the situation,’ replied Steven. Coming as close to the truth as he could. ‘My boss asked me to get a feel for what was going on up here. You’ve been a tremendous help.’

‘Maybe I’ve said too much but then again, no one told me not to. To the briefcases I’m just a waitress.’

‘And what else are you?’ asked Steven.

‘I’m doing a masters degree in Food Science at Heriot Watt University.’

Steven smiled and said, ‘You probably know more about GM crops than anyone else down there!’

‘All they want from me is gin and tonic, so that’s what they get,’ replied Eve. ‘Oh my God… ’

Steven looked at her to see what had alarmed her. He followed her line of vision to a rat that was swimming across the canal. It disappeared into the undergrowth on the far bank but the look of fear and revulsion stayed on Eve’s face as she obviously relived her brother’s death.

‘Let’s go,’ said Steven, putting a comforting arm around her and leading her away from the spot.

They walked back down the hill together to where Steven had left his car. ‘It was nice meeting you, Eve,’ he said as they stopped beside it. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.’

‘Yes, I would probably have preferred a moonlit beach in Hawaii to the Blackbridge Canal too,’ said Eve with a smile. ‘But it was nice meeting you too. Take care.’

‘Do you think I could contact you if I have any more questions about local matters?’

Eve looked thoughtful for a moment then she replied, ‘Wait until after Ian’s funeral.’

‘Fair enough.’

Steven drove into Edinburgh and booked into the first large anonymous hotel he came to on the western outskirts. He was hungry; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast time so he ordered chicken sandwiches from room service and a bottle of Stella Artois. He set up his laptop computer while he waited and made a modem connection to Sci-Med in London. The only incoming message said that Sci-Med had as yet failed to discover who was paying Thomas Rafferty’s legal bills but they would keep working on it. Steven in turn asked them to find out what they could about the current state of Thomas Rafferty’s business. He also asked them to find out if any attempt had been made to sell Crawhill Farm and finally he made a general enquiry about, Sector One Security, the firm that Lane had brought in to provide protection at Peat Ridge Farm. Reputable or not?

By the time Steven had eaten his sandwiches and drank his beer, he had his reply from London. Rafferty’s plant hire business was still solvent but profits had been declining over the last two years. There had been no investment in new machinery at all thanks to a reluctance in the banks to lend to Rafferty whom they saw as a bad risk because of his drinking. As a result of this, many of his machines were getting a reputation for being unreliable through age and lack of proper maintenance. He was still managing to find customers but he’d had to drop the hire price considerably in order to persuade them to take the risk and it was a considerable risk. Farmers often depended on being able to take advantage of windows in the weather. One or two days delay because of mechanical breakdown could have serious consequences.

Crawhill Farm was not currently on the market nor had it been in the recent or even distant past. Lastly, Sector One Security was a reputable firm. It employed the usual motley crew that low wages inevitably decreed but management was good and the guards were subject to competent supervision. There had been no complaints about the firm.

‘Well,’ thought Steven, ‘Nothing to get too excited about there.’ He acknowledged receipt of the message and reported that he would be visiting the MAFF lab in Ayrshire on the following day. He asked that Sci-Med warn them of his impending visit, giving an estimated time of arrival of between eleven and twelve.

Steven checked out of his hotel just after nine in the morning and began what was to be a trouble-free journey across the central belt of Scotland. The weather was grey and showery throughout West Lothian and Lanarkshire but blue skies welcomed him to Ayrshire and he pulled into the car park of the government lab at 11.15, after putting off some time by stopping for coffee at a hotel on the outskirts of Ayr. He didn’t want to arrive early.

The lab was a two storey concrete building, probably built in the early seventies, Steven thought, its squarish, unimaginative design being offset to a certain extent by the fact that it stood in attractive, well-maintained grounds. He parked in one of two spaces marked for visitors and noted as he got out that the director and several other staff had their own marked places in the car park. He saw this as an indication of the type of lab he was about to enter. Civil service labs were noted for their sense of order; a place for everyone and everyone in their place.

Steven called in at the general office, where he was checked against a list of expected visitors and invited to sign in. After this he was taken to the director’s suite on the upper floor by a small woman, wearing a purple suit and who seemed to have some difficulty in walking. Steven guessed at a hip problem. He was introduced to Dr Robert Fildes, a red-faced man in his early fifties who looked more like his image of a jolly farmer than a scientist. The image was currently bolstered by a rather loud tweed jacket.

‘How can we help?’ asked Fildes. He sounded cultured and intelligent, causing Steven to lay the farmyard image to rest.

‘I understand that the lab undertakes private contract work on occasion?’ said Steven.

‘As much as we can get these days,’ smiled Fildes. ‘Changed days. Sometimes I wonder if we’re a government lab or a pizza parlour.’

‘How does this contract business work exactly? I don’t see you advertising.’

‘No, we don’t advertise,’ agreed Fildes. ‘But our expertise in certain areas is well known. Our staff are usually approached by commercial concerns on an individual basis to carry out work and the lab gets a percentage of the fee. It’s all above board.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Steven. ‘So if I want to have, say, some seeds analysed, I would approach a member of the staff here and negotiate directly with him or her?’

‘If you happened to know an appropriate member of staff, that is,’ agreed Fildes. ‘If you didn’t, you might approach me as unit director and I could tell you whether or not we had someone with the expertise you required on the staff and put you in touch.’

‘I see. Perhaps you could tell me how the contract for this work was handled?’ Steven took out a copy of the DNA analysis on the Agrigene crop growing in Robert Lane’s field in Blackbridge and pushed it across Fildes’ desk.

Fildes put on his reading glasses and read it.

‘A direct contact with a member of staff, I seem to remember. Our Dr Millar was approached personally and carried out the work himself.’

‘But the report would go out as being an official report from this lab? A government lab report?’

‘That’s right. That’s the way we do things. Contract work is treated no differently to any of the other work we do here. I’m not really with you here. Is something wrong?’

‘No, just a routine check’ replied Steven. ‘But I’d like a word with Dr Millar, if that’s all right with you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ said Fildes. ‘Gerald Millar is no longer with us. He took early retirement.’

Steven was taken aback. ‘Must have been very recent,’ he said.

‘Just a few weeks ago.’

‘Was this something he’d been planning to do?’

Fildes seemed a little embarrassed. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It rather took me by surprise as it did everyone else round here.’

‘I see,’ said Steven slowly. ‘Then perhaps you could tell me who commissioned the analysis?’

Fildes took in a deep breath and shook his head. ‘That would be a breach of confidence,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand how important that is for the people who contract for our services.’

Steven nodded. ‘In normal circumstances,’ he said. ‘But telling an agent of the Sci-Med Inspectorate is hardly going to constitute a breach of trust. No one else need know about this.’

Fildes looked thoughtful for a moment then said, ‘I suspect you have the powers to demand access if I refuse?’

Steven shrugged and said, ‘I don’t think it should come to that, Director, I just need the name.’

Fildes turned to the computer monitor that sat on the end of his desk and started tapping his keyboard. Steven watched a puzzled look appear on his face. Fildes adjusted his glasses and tapped some more before pursing his lips in annoyance and getting up from his chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment,’ he said, before opening his office door and asking his secretary to fetch something.’

There was a wait of about three minutes during which there was a change to small talk about the pleasant nature of the lab’s location and how nice it must be to live in Ayrshire.

Instead of coming right into the room, Fildes’ secretary opened the door and said, ‘Could I have a word please, Doctor?’

Fildes excused himself and went outside for a moment. Steven heard him raise his voice and say, ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ before all went quiet again. Several minutes passed before Fildes came back into the room. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how embarrassed I am to have to tell you that we don’t appear to have a record of the contract on file,’ he said. ‘The details weren’t entered on the computer and the paperwork doesn’t seem to be around either. I can only assume that Dr Millar must have been so preoccupied with his impending retirement that his routine must have been upset.’

Steven smiled but there was little humour in it. He said, ‘In that case, I’m afraid I am going to have to ask for Dr Millar’s address.’

‘To my further embarrassment, I’m not going to able to help you with that either,’ said Fildes. ‘Gerald’s no longer in the country. He and his wife decided to go and live in South Africa for a while. They have a married son out there I believe, but that’s really as much as I know.’