Deception

SEVEN

Steven was once more stopped by security men at the entrance to the track leading up to Peat Ridge Farm.

‘I want to speak to Mr Lane,’ he said to the uniformed man who had waved him down.

‘No press. On your way!’

‘I’m not press.’ Steven showed his ID. The guard frowned and showed it to his partner who read it and then pulled out his mobile phone. Steven watched him read from his ID and wait for a response. It came with the return of his ID and a wave of the hand that he should proceed.

There was a Land Rover and a dark green Jaguar S-type saloon parked outside the farmhouse. Steven glanced admiringly at the jag as he walked up to the door, noting in passing that it had been bought in Norwich and had a personalised number plate.

The door was opened by a small woman in her sixties with round shoulders and wearing a floral tabard over a pink, fluffy jumper and brown skirt: she had a feather duster in her hand, which she held up in her right hand like a fairy wand. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s all right, Mrs Fraser, let him in,’ said a voice with a South African accent from somewhere behind her before Steven could say anything.’

Steven entered, taking great care to wipe his feet in the presence of the person who did the cleaning and looked to Mrs Fraser for directions.

‘You’ll find Mr Lane in there,’ she said, pointing to the left with her duster.

Steven walked towards the room and found the door ajar. He knocked quietly and got a brusque, ‘Come!’ in response. There were two men in the room. Neither got up when he entered.

‘What d’you want?’ asked the one with the South African accent whom Steven took to be Lane unless the other one, who hadn’t yet spoken, should also turn out to be South African.

‘Mr Lane?’ asked Steven.

‘Yes, what d’you want?’

‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your GM crop.’

Lane turned to his companion and said sarcastically, ‘Did you hear that Phil? A man from the government wants to ask us some questions about our crop. How novel. May I suggest you ask your many colleagues who’ve beaten a path to my door wanting to do exactly the same thing or better still, put your questions to our solicitors,’ said Lane coldly. ‘Now, get out.’

‘I’d rather put them to you, Mr Lane’ said Steven evenly.

‘I said to get out, pally,’ Lane repeated menacingly, looking over his glasses at Steven to emphasise the point.

Steven now understood why Lane wasn’t exactly Mr Popular in the village. He said, ‘Mr Lane, I am empowered by the Sci-Med Inspectorate to ask you anything I feel may be relevant to my investigation. Whether we do it here or at a police station or in the prison cell you will certainly end up in if you persist in obstructing me, I leave up to you. Now, shall we start again… pally?’

‘I hope you’re not bluffing, my friend,’ said Lane, but a degree of uncertainty had crept into his voice.

‘I’m definitely not bluffing,’ Steven assured him with a level gaze.

‘What exactly are you investigating?’ asked the other man who obviously thought the time right to intercede. He spoke with an English accent.

‘And you are?’ asked Steven.

‘Phillip Grimble, technical manager of Agrigene Biotechnology. It’s our crop that Mr Lane is growing.’

‘At the moment, I’m investigating your difficulty in convincing people that you should keep your licence, Mr Grimble.’

‘You mean you’re on our side?’ exclaimed Lane, looking astonished.

‘I didn’t say that and I don’t want to be on anybody’s side but from what I’ve learned so far, you do seem to be subject to certain misunderstandings over what you have in the fields out there.’

‘Misunderstandings?’ snorted Lane. ‘It’s a bloody set up. Some bastard is out to fuck us up big time.’

‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ asked Steven.

‘Christ knows. None of it makes any sense to me. The whole thing is just plain bloody crazy. We do everything by the book, jump through all the hoops, hop over all the hurdles, get all the permissions and then they turn round and say we’re not really licensed because some clown in a lab coat can’t tell his arse from a hole in the wall. ’

‘If I understand it correctly, your crop is oilseed rape that’s been genetically altered to make it resistant to herbicides?’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Grimble. ‘It can withstand the action of glyophosphate and glufosinate weed killers so these agents can be used to keep down weeds in the fields it’s growing in. They’re much more effective than the weedkillers that farmers are normally obliged to use so better yields can be expected in the long run.’

‘From what I’ve read, you’re not the only biotech company who’s come up with this idea, are you?’

‘No, of course not, but we don’t pretend to be. There are quite a few companies who are going down that road. It makes a lot of sense.’

‘Would these other companies have something to gain by discrediting your trial?’

‘It’s possible I suppose,’ Grimble agreed with an uncertain shrug, ‘but these guys are reputable companies, big names in the industry. They couldn’t afford to get involved in anything like that. It would be a clear case of industrial sabotage. Apart from that, there’s plenty room for all of us in the market once we get our crops through the trials. As I see it, it’s the media we have to worry about, not commercial opposition. They’re responsible for all the scare stories surrounding our work.’

‘Apart from that, pally, the ‘misunderstanding’ started with a lab report that came from a government lab, not from any private source,’ said Lane.

‘Government labs carry out contract work for private companies and even individuals,’ snapped Steven, immediately regretting that he’d said it. Lane’s smugness had got his back up.

Lane’s face lit up. ‘Are you suggesting that someone in a government lab could have set us up at the request of a third party?’ he asked.

‘I’m not saying anything of the sort. I just have to consider all the possibilities,’ said Steven.

‘I didn’t know government labs took contract work,’ said Grimble.

‘Neither did I,’ agreed Lane who was clearly intrigued by this revelation. ‘This is all beginning to make some kind of sense.’

‘Don’t read too much into it,’ said Steven.

‘Maybe the same person made sure the licence copy of the sequence went missing too?’ said Lane, getting his teeth into this new line of thought. ‘And maybe the same person arranged for the break-in at our solicitors when our copy went missing? Maybe you’ve been underestimating your competitors, Phil? Maybe they’re not all as moral as you are, my friend.’

Grimble shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I really can’t see these guys doing something so underhand,’ he said.

‘Someone probably said that once about British Airways,’ said Lane. Ask Richard Branson what he thinks.’

‘Who are your main competitors in this field?’ asked Steven.

‘Let’s see now,’ said Grimble thoughtfully. He started to reel off a list of companies. Steven noted that the name, Sigma was not among them.

‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Lane when Grimble had finished. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Nothing,’ said Steven. ‘Just sit tight.’

‘Do you realise how much security is costing us?’ exclaimed Lane. ‘While that bunch of pen-pushers down at the Blackbridge Arms sit contemplating their navels and arguing about how many angels can balance on the head of a pin — always assuming that they can agree on whether it’s a Scottish or an English pin?’

‘It must be very frustrating for you,’ said Steven. ‘But try to look on the bright side: your crop is still in the field and it’s still growing.’

‘But for how much longer?’ said Lane. ‘These clods down in the village have already had a go at us. They’ve obviously been told that we’re growing the crop from hell up here and there doesn’t seem to be anyone in authority to disillusion them. If any of them wakes up with a headache, it’s not the eight pints they had the night before at the Castle Tavern, oh no, it’s down to Lane’s crop and all these nasty genes in the air. We’re the cause of everything from housemaid’s knee to pre-menstrual tension round here!’

‘I’m sure the police are aware of the situation,’ said Steven. ‘They’ll keep an eye on things; make sure they don’t get out of hand.’

‘I wish I had your faith,’ said Lane. ‘But the police aren’t going to alienate the whole community by paying us too much attention. They’ll find some reason for not being around at the critical time. You mark my words, pally. Police forces work in the interest of those who pay them.’

‘Where do you see Thomas Rafferty and Crawhill Farm fitting into the great scheme of things?’ asked Steven.

‘Rafferty?’ exclaimed Lane with obvious distaste. ‘The people’s champion? It’ll take more than a few organic carrots to save that clown’s liver from an early grave. You can’t tell me this organic thing is Rafferty’s idea. Somebody’s working him from behind.’

‘Someone with influence,’ added Grimble. ‘My people checked the area out thoroughly before we applied for permission to grow our crop here. There was absolutely no mention of an organic farm in the offing at that time. Crawhill got its accreditation after we got our licence.’

‘I suspect many of the villagers might suggest that there was no hint of a GM crop in the fields up here either,’ said Steven.

‘We didn’t advertise it publicly for obvious reasons, conceded Grimble. ‘Do you blame us?’

‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind. You don’t think it possible that Rafferty or whoever was behind the application, didn’t know that the Peat Ridge crop was GM when they applied for accreditation?’

‘That’s not my recollection of events,’ snapped Lane. ‘It was some weeks after the initial hue and cry that Rafferty joined the rabble with his organic farm story and lawyers started appearing on every street corner.’

Steven nodded and said, ‘Well, thank you for your help, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.’

Steven thought he would visit the police before going to see Thomas Rafferty. This involved a drive out to the town of Livingston, one of Scotland’s new-towns, sited between Edinburgh and Glasgow and where he drove around in a concrete maze for a while before eventually finding police headquarters, the main station for the area that included Blackbridge. He found that the desk sergeant was apparently expecting him and took from this that Sci-Med had done their job well. He was informed that Chief Inspector Brewer was to be his contact and was shown to his office.

Brewer turned out to be a tall, thickset man in his mid to late forties, with a shock of wiry grey hair and a bulbous nose, which he was blowing when Steven entered. ‘Bloody hay fever,’ he complained, crumpling the used tissues and throwing them in the wicker basket by his desk. Steven noted that it was more than three-quarters full. ‘What can we do for the science police?’

Steven told him that he was there to take a look at the general situation in Blackbridge, and in particular, the ongoing spat over the GM crop on Peat Ridge Farm.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s become a case of “too many cooks”, if you ask me. The civil servants and lawyers can’t make up their minds over who’s in the right and who’s in the wrong so my lads have been left standing in the middle, dealing with the angry locals who are making up their own stories.’

‘That’s largely my view of the situation too,’ agreed Steven. ‘I heard there was an arson attempt the other night?’

Brewer nodded and said, ‘Luckily, the local vet got wind of it and called us in time. We got there before the buggers could do any real damage but they had enough petrol between them to run two cars at Le Mans.’

‘Local?’

‘The usual suspects. They were warned in no uncertain terms that if there was any repeat of that kind of nonsense they’d be for the high jump.’

‘Do any good?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. They think they’ve got a just case and that always means trouble. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than a tearaway who’s been given what he sees as a good reason to play Robin bloody Hood. As I see it, the only way to put an end to all this nonsense is for the men in suits to make some firm decisions and quickly. By God, there are enough of them.’

‘So I hear,’ said Steven. ‘What about the main players on the ground, Lane and Rafferty?’

‘Lane is an abrasive pain in the arse, which isn’t helping the situation any but he seldom puts a foot wrong in terms of legality and he certainly knows his rights. Rafferty is generally thought of as a harmless waster, popular with the locals because he’s one of them and always ready to stand his hand in the boozer where he used to spend most of his time and money. He hasn’t been going there so much in the past few weeks. His wife left him a short while back so maybe he’s turning over a new leaf with this organic farm thing. Trying to get her back, maybe?’

This was a new slant on things thought Steven.

‘Beats me why they can’t resolve this GM situation,’ said Brewer, ‘If a government lab says the crop in Lane’s field is not the one they were licensed for then surely that’s an end to the matter. The crop should be destroyed and the company responsible punished with the full weight of the law, considering just how much hassle they’ve caused round here. But just because Lane and his partner starts hiring a few lawyers and mouthing off about “a set-up”, the suits start shitting themselves and passing the buck around like it was radio-active.’

‘That’s where I come in,’ said Steven. ‘The problem with the crop analysis is that certain key bits of evidence have gone missing, as has the scientist who performed the tests. That’s what’s making the legal position a bit tricky, a grey area, you might say.’

‘And there’s nothing lawyers like better than grey areas,’ said Brewer. ‘They’re usually stuffed full of new BMWs and holidays in the Bahamas.’

‘Spot on,’ agreed Steven. ‘Left to lawyers, this could run and run.’

‘Does that mean we just have to grin and bear it?’ asked Brewer.

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Steven. ‘There’s a third player in all of this. I don’t know who as yet and I’m not at all sure why but I’m going to do my level best to find out.’

‘I don’t think I understand what a “third player” could hope to get out of the situation?’ said Brewer.

‘I’m not sure I do either,’ confessed Steven. ‘I thought industrial espionage might be the front runner with one of Agrigene’s competitors trying to set them up in order to make life difficult but after talking to Agrigene’s technical manager, I’m not so sure any more. There’s not enough to be gained.’

‘But you obviously do think that the company is being set up in some way, don’t you?’ asked Brewer.

‘I think public opinion is being orchestrated against them by people who know exactly what they are doing.’

‘But what about the government report on the crop in Lane’s fields. I’m told it clearly showed that it wasn’t the one they were given permission to grow?’

‘Out of interest, who told you that?’ asked Steven.’

Brewer shrugged and said, ‘A bloke from the ministry talked to the residents of Blackbridge. I was in attendance. He said that there was a problem with the identity of the crop on Peat Ridge Farm and they were looking into it. One of the residents pressed him on the nature of the problem and he said that it contained three foreign genes instead of two. Simple as that.’

‘That was a misunderstanding,’ said Steven.

‘That’s what the bloke from the company said but then he would wouldn’t he?’ said Brewer.

‘Actually, he’s quite right,’ said Steven. ‘But I suspect no one wanted to hear the company’s side of things?’

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Brewer. ‘You can’t expect the man in the street to understand complex scientific arguments or even want to but if a government lab said that there were three foreign genes present when there should only have been two, then that’s easily understood and all he needs to know. If it wasn’t for the fact that the civil servants are all at each other’s throats that crop would be under a destruction order by now and we’d no longer be sitting on a powder keg.’

‘And if Agrigene should be turn out to be innocent of any wrong-doing, like I think they are?’

‘Then that’s a matter for them and the government to sort out, not the villagers or the police. A clear statement from above would be nice — any clear statement right now.’

Steven left police headquarters, having been assured by Brewer that assistance would be on hand at any time should he need it. He drove back over to Blackbridge and along the track leading to Crawhill Farm. The farmhouse was a traditional, stone-built, affair without frills or features. It was pretty much what you’d see if you asked a five year old to draw you a house. Steven knocked loudly on the front door. It was answered by a smartly dressed man, wearing a dark suit, immaculate white shirt and striped tie, who looked him up and down before saying, ‘Yes?’

‘I wonder if I might have a few words with Mr Rafferty?’ said Steven.

‘Mr Rafferty isn’t giving interviews.’

Steven held out his ID, which the man examined carefully before looking at Steven thoughtfully and saying, ‘Wait here a moment.’ He left Steven standing on the doorstep while he disappeared inside.

Steven got tired of just standing there so he took a stroll about the yard. He found a man carrying out repairs on a combine harvester there and said, ‘Nice day.’

‘No’ bad,’ replied the man. ‘What’s your business then?’

‘I’m here to see Mr Rafferty.’

The man looked him over before saying, ‘Another civil servant. Right?’

‘Sort of.’

‘We’ll soon have one each around here. What’s your particular bag?’

‘Environment,’ said Steven.

‘Environment? About time you buggers did something about the rat problem then. My laddie’s lying in St Johns with Weil’s disease thanks to these bastards. They’re all over the place.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Steven, now remembering Macmillan telling him that one of the boys’ fathers worked on Crawhill Farm. He diplomatically didn’t point out that swimming in stagnant water where rats might be present was not the brightest thing to do at any time.

‘Maybe you buggers could go up the canal and start beating the bastards to death with your umbrellas and briefcases!’

Steven smiled and said, ‘It’s a thought and I’ve heard worse suggestions.’

The man broke into a smile too, approving of Steven’s response. ‘Nae offence like.’

‘None taken.’

Steven saw the man who’d opened the door to him coming towards him. He was now accompanied by another man, also smartly dressed.

‘I got tired waiting,’ said Steven by way of explanation.

‘Sorry about that. Mr Rafferty will see you now. Would you mind if we were present?’

‘Who are you?’ asked Steven as he was ushered inside the house.

‘I’m Charles Childs, this is Martin Leadbetter. We’re business associates of Mr Rafferty.’

Steven waited until Childs had led the way into the farmhouse kitchen and invited him to sit before asking exactly what business they were in.

‘We’re venture capitalists,’ replied Childs.

‘Venture capitalists?’ exclaimed Steven. He hadn’t reckoned on venture capital going into something like farming. Biotechnology on the other hand, would be quite another matter.’

Childs took his surprise as an invitation to explain unnecessarily what venture capital was. ‘We’re constantly on the lookout for good business opportunities to recommend to our principals. That’s why we’re here. We have the investment capital and Mr Rafferty has the ideal farm for investment from our point of view. The demand for organically grown produce is growing all the time.’

‘And judging by the price they charge for it in supermarkets, you could well be on to a good thing,’ said Steven, hoping to relax the atmosphere. People were always more inclined to let things slip out when they felt secure.

Childs was pleased at his response and smiled. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

‘Please,’ replied Steven. ‘I expected Mr Rafferty to be here?’

‘He was on the telephone, I’ll just go fetch him,’ explained Leadbetter.

Childs had just put a large caffetiere down in the middle of the table when Leadbetter returned with Rafferty. ‘Sorry about that,’ said Rafferty. ‘I had to call the vet about my dog. He’s sick again.’ He stretched out his hand and said, ‘Tom Rafferty, what can I do for you?’

Steven knew from the Sci-Med file that Rafferty was forty-eight. He looked younger thanks to a shock of curly red hair. He wore jeans, carpet slippers and a checked shirt, open at the collar to reveal a gold chain.

‘Good of you to see me, Mr Rafferty, I’m Steven Dunbar from the Sci-Med Inspectorate in London. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Fire away,’ said Rafferty, helping himself to coffee. Childs had already filled the other cups on the table.

‘Have you always had an interest in organic farming?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ replied Rafferty, a bit unsurely.

‘So what made you apply for accreditation?’

‘A business proposition from these gentlemen.’

Steven admired Rafferty’s apparent honesty. ‘Does this mean that you intend to sell the farm or at least take on business partners?’ he asked.

‘No, definitely not,’ said Rafferty abruptly. ‘I’m keeping the farm. It’s mine and it stays that way. I have to keep it.’

‘Have to?’ asked Steven, puzzled at Rafferty’s strong reaction to his question. The man suddenly looked very vulnerable.

Rafferty looked at Childs first and then directly at Steven. ‘Trish, my wife left me. She had good reason to. If I show her that I’ve turned over a new leaf and can make Crawhill a going concern again, I think she’ll come back to me.’

Steven got the impression that Rafferty had rehearsed what he’d just said. He said, ‘But you’ve got a plant hire business. I thought it was doing quite well?’

‘Not that well. The machines are getting old. They need a lot of attention. Trish always said it was lazy money. She never liked that.’

‘I see,’ said Steven. ‘So how exactly does your business arrangement with these gentlemen work?’

‘They put up the finance for the change over and subsidise the farm until it’s up and running. When I start to make a profit they’ll get their money back and a handsome return on their investment.’

‘What about the plant hire business?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I see. You’re taking a bit of a risk aren’t you?’

‘I want Trish back,’ said Rafferty.

Christ, I know the feeling, thought Steven, suddenly feeling sorry for Rafferty but at least in Rafferty’s case it was possible.

‘I don’t really think there’s much risk involved,’ said Childs. ‘Organic produce is a winner.’

Steven nodded but inside he was thinking that this was a strange thing for a venture capitalist to say. Surely the whole point of venture capital enterprise was to deliberately seek out and invest in high-risk projects with a view to getting really big returns? When all was said and done, high street banks would be happy to invest in sure-fire winners and wouldn’t demand nearly so much in return. He kept this however, to himself. ‘How far along the road have you come to getting your organic farm off the ground?’ he asked Rafferty.

‘Lane’s GM crop is holding things up.’

‘You didn’t know about that when you applied for accreditation?’

‘Of course not. The bastard kept it a secret from the whole village, didn’t he?’

‘Mr Lane says you were aware of it.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘The application was made in good faith,’ said Childs.

‘If you say so. Was it you who contracted for an analysis of the crop on Peat Ridge Farm?’ Steven asked.

‘Me?’ exclaimed Rafferty. ‘Of course not, that’s an official government lab analysis.’

‘So where did the report come from?’

‘Our lawyers, McGraw and Littlejohn, got a copy.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve no bloody idea. I suppose someone figured out what Lane and that bloody company he’s in cahoots with were up to and sent them a copy to help with our protest.’

‘That’s our understanding too,’ said Childs.

‘Does your venture capital company have a name, Mr Childs?’ Steven asked.

‘We’re not really a company as such,’ replied Childs with what he believed to be a disarming smile. ‘Just a group of wealthy individuals who like a challenge.’

Steven stared at him until he felt compelled to add, ‘However, if you should need to ask anything you can use any of these numbers.’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed over.

Steven looked at it. Pentangle Venture, it said. The phone and Fax numbers had a London code. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been most helpful.’