Deception

EIGHT

Steven stopped for a moment to speak to the man in the yard he’d talked to earlier. This time, he was crossing the yard carrying a can of fuel oil. ‘I hope your son gets better soon,’ said Steven.

‘Cheers,’ said the man. ‘Don’t forget to tell the briefcases to start swinging at these rats.’

‘I’m on my way there now,’ smiled Steven. ‘I might just put your idea to them.’

‘A hard day’s work wid kill the buggers.’

At that moment an unearthly howl interrupted the conversation. ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Steven.

‘Just Khan,’ said the man. ‘Tom Rafferty’s dog. I think he’s going to have to get him put down or maybe a part in a Hammer movie!’

‘He said his dog was sick,’ remembered Steven. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘If it was human, he would have been banged up as a psychopath long ago and if anything, he’s been getting worse of late. Tom’s had him for years. Christ knows what he sees in him. He scares the shit out of everyone else. Mind you, maybe that’s the reason!’

‘I think Mr Rafferty said something about phoning the vet,’ said Steven.

‘He scares the shit out of the vet too!’

The howl went up again and Steven said, ‘Right, I’m off.’

He changed his mind about going directly over to the Blackbridge Arms. He felt that he needed to walk for a bit and do some thinking. He didn’t want to tramp round the depressing streets of Blackbridge so he opted once more for the canal towpath, this time heading west along the southern edge of Peat Ridge Farm. He paused for a moment to look at the golden flowers of the oilseed rape crop in the fields, thinking that it looked exactly the same as any other oilseed rape he’d ever seen but then, as he reminded himself, there was no reason why it shouldn’t. It made him reflect that people, including himself, tended to associate genetic alteration with physical change. In fact, they were happier when this was the case because you knew where you were with something you could see. Knowing that the genetic material of this crop had been altered in some invisible way put it in the same league as other things you couldn’t see, like viruses or bacteria or poison. He moved on when he became aware of a patrolling security guard regarding him suspiciously and then start to move towards him.

He had now spoken to both the main parties in the current dispute. Ronald Lane was an unpleasant, abrasive individual, capable of being devious and opportunist, he had no doubt, but he was the kind who took pride in doing so within the rules of the game. There were a lot of businessmen like that. They saw it as sailing close to the wind and it gave them a buzz. Thomas Rafferty, on the other hand, was not nearly so well educated or accomplished as Lane but could probably be just as devious, given the chance. The villagers, by all accounts, saw him as a bit of a rogue, a man who drank too much and who didn’t have too much liking for hard work but this morning, he had seen a man who had lost his wife and who appeared to want her back desperately. To this end, he seemed prepared to change, maybe even start out on a whole new course in life with the organic farming venture. Could this particular really leopard change his spots? he wondered or was not the road to hell paved with good intentions?

The players behind the two principals were very different characters. Phillip Grimble, the technical director of Agrigene seemed a thoroughly decent individual who had been reluctant to even consider the company’s competitors stooping to skulduggery. This could have been an act, of course. Coming across as a thoroughly decent individual was a prime requisite for any successful confidence trickster, but in Grimble’s case, he didn’t think that was the case. Childs and Leadbetter warranted more suspicion. Venture capitalists getting into organic farming? Backing a man like Tom Rafferty? Even for people who liked a challenge, Rafferty struck him as one hell of a risk to take on for the sake of a few fields of vegetables.

On the other hand, Pentangle had not actually put their money where their mouth was to any great extent. They had not purchased a share in Crawhill, although, he conceded that that might have been down to Rafferty refusing them one. Rafferty had reacted quite strongly when asked if he had sold the farm or any part of it. At the moment, Pentangle’s investment was minimal apart from the fact that they were picking up the protestors’ legal bills. They had not however, admitted to being behind the independent analysis of the Agrigene crop and that was odd. According to Rafferty, the report had been sent to McGraw and Littlejohn from person or persons unknown. Maybe that was the way it had been done but if Pentangle should turn out to have any connection with a rival biotech company, it might explain just about everything.

It was even a very clever idea to hide behind a venture capital initiative, thought Steven. The only thing it didn’t explain was why they had gone to all this trouble. This was a real puzzle. According to Phillip Grimble — and he thought he believed him — there was very little to be gained from putting a halt to one GM trial on a crop that was being tested at several sites all over the UK.

Steven decided that he would ask Sci-Med to run a thorough check on Pentangle while he would pay a visit to McGraw and Littlejohn on the off chance that they might actually know the identity of the party who had commissioned the crop analysis. As he walked back along the towpath he again saw the security guard who had looked at him suspiciously earlier. He had stopped patrolling the southern edge of the field and was keeping an eye on his return.

As Steven came to a point directly opposite him he saw the man suddenly start hopping around in agitation and begin swearing loudly. ‘Fucking things!’ he exploded, letting fly with his boot at a rat that had run out from the crop and over his foot. He missed by a mile and the animal scampered up the bank and across the towpath into the canal.

‘Bloody things are everywhere,’ said the guard, regaining his composure and now obviously feeling slightly embarrassed at his impromptu dance routine when it had been his intention to come across as intimidating.

‘The living’s easy for them round here,’ said Steven. ‘Plenty to eat and a nice canal with no traffic on it.’

‘Roll on harvest time and I can get my arse out of here,’ said the man. ‘I’ve heard jokes about watching grass grow. I never dreamed I’d be doing it for a living.’

Steven walked on and started thinking about the rat he’d just seen. He wondered why it had chosen to run over the guard’s foot. It was a strange thing for the beast to do when it had had plenty of alternatives. It could have exited from the rape field at just about any point along the edge and yet it had chosen to come out at the exact spot where the guard had been standing. Curious, but maybe not without precedent, he thought. The boy, Ian Ferguson, had been bitten by a rat for no apparent reason, according to what he and his chums had told the authorities at the time. It had been assumed that they must have cornered the animal in some way but maybe that hadn’t been the case after all? This line of thought started him thinking about the man in the Castle pub telling the others what the local vet had said about a puppy being attacked by rats. Again it had been assumed that the dog had come across a rat hole in the bank and got his just deserts for intimidating the creatures but again, this was an assumption. Maybe he would have a word with the vet about this. There was a lot of talk about a general increase in the size of the rat population, had anyone mooted a marked change in their behaviour? he wondered.

Steven drove over to the Blackbridge Arms and parked his car in the street outside after finding the car park full to overflowing. It was now almost two o’clock in the afternoon but he hoped he might still be able to get something to eat.

‘Lunch is finished,’ said a skinny girl with rounded shoulders and lank hair, who happened to be crossing the hallway carrying a tray when he entered.

‘Maybe a sandwich?’

‘Lunch is finished, sir,’ she repeated with a smile so artificial it looked like rictus on the face of a corpse.

‘Hey, ho,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Maybe I’ll just have a beer and a packet of crisps at the bar.’

‘Please yourself.’

Steven had just looked into the door of the bar when a hand touched him on the shoulder and he turned to find Eve Ferguson standing there. ‘Sorry about Mona,’ she said. ‘We’ve been run off our feet today. The place is going like a fair because of all the ministry people but the owner refuses to take on any more staff, mainly because he’s a greedy git.’

‘No problem,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll just have a beer.’

‘Have a seat in the back lounge,’ said Eve conspiratorially. ‘I’ll bring you some sandwiches. Ham and cheese okay?’

‘Just the job.’

Steven followed her directions to the ‘back lounge’ and found himself in a low-ceilinged room, furnished with a range of unmatched sofas and armchairs. It smelled of dust and Axminster carpets. There were several other men there, sitting round in a circle. They seemed to be having after-lunch coffee. Steven took a seat in an old winged armchair by the window that seemed to have been left as an orphan when the neighbouring group of men had formed their circle. He sat with his back to them.

As he waited for his sandwiches, he found their conversation interesting. Their suits and briefcases said that they were ministry people; their accents said that they were Scots. After a few minutes Steven learned that they were employees of the Scottish Executive.

‘For once the lawyers were quite clear,’ said one. ‘To proceed with a destruction order without confirmation of disparity from the licence sequence is just asking for trouble.’

‘But the licence sequence still hasn’t surfaced and frankly it doesn’t look like it’s going to. Let’s face it, MAFF’s licensing section haven’t misplaced it: they’ve lost the damned thing and that’s an end to it. We could be letting an illegal crop trial proceed with all the dangers that might pose, simply because we don’t have a missing piece of paper. If that gets out we’ll be pilloried by the press.’

‘On the other hand,’ said another man, ‘if we do junk it, the company might well sue us and win.’

‘We could always pass the buck to the Department of Health?’ came the suggestion.

‘McKay won’t hear of it. It would be too damaging to the Scottish Parliament. Our people would be portrayed as lame-duck MPs with no real power of their own. I’m pretty sure he’s been instructed to make sure this is seen as a Scottish decision, made without any interference from Westminster.’

‘But if this crop really isn’t the one they were licensed for it might really pose a risk to health… ’

‘Forget it. McKay’s made up his mind. He won’t countenance any kind of hand-over. I think the minister has put his job on the line over it.’

Eve Ferguson came in and disturbed Steven’s eavesdropping. She was carrying a tray with a heaped plate of sandwiches and a beer on it, which she laid down on the table beside Steven’s chair.

‘I didn’t think you’d be working today,’ whispered Steven.

‘I thought I would be as well working here as sitting moping at home,’ said Eve. ‘Mum and Dad have each other. The funeral’s tomorrow.’

‘How are they?’

Eve shrugged in reply.

Steven ate his sandwiches and continued to pick up snippets of information as he ate, still with his back to the talkative group and pretending to be looking out of the window. By the time the men filed out of the lounge to return to the various rooms that had been commandeered for use as committee rooms, he had a pretty good idea of the impasse. The Scottish Rural Affairs people, under their Blackbridge project leader, McKay, had marked out the problem as being very much within their jurisdiction. They had more or less said that he was under instructions from his minister to make this perfectly clear to the outside world; in fact, this appeared to be their prime objective as witnessed by an apparent reluctance to make any firm decision that went with the responsibility. They were clearly afraid of the risk of exposing themselves to litigation and probable ridicule if they lost. The Ministry of Agriculture people saw the problem as being within their province because they had actually authorised the Agrigene trial before the inception of the Scottish parliament, which was only months old. They seemed to regard Scottish Rural Affairs as being some new hick thorn in their side, not that it sounded as if they were any keener on making decisions than the Scottish lot were. The Department of Health, on the other hand, was anxious to take charge and make a decision but weren’t being allowed to because it could not clearly be established that the crop on Peat Ridge Farm was actually a health risk. Without that precondition and concession from Rural Affairs, they could not override them. Steven remembered Eve’s allusion to Gilbert and Sullivan at their first meeting and saw that she’d hit the nail on the head. This lot could go round in circles for ever.

Steven decide to drive into Edinburgh and see if there was anything to be gleaned from having a word with Rafferty’s solicitors about the ministry sponsored report on the Agrigene crop. Before he left, he took a look into several rooms before he found Eve Ferguson in the kitchen. ‘Just thought I’d say thank-you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ said Eve. ‘How’s our environment doing these days?’

‘I’m still looking into it.’

‘You don’t seem to have much to do with the others,’ said Eve.

‘We’re a solitary lot, we environmental people.’ smiled Steven.

Eve looked at him questioningly before saying in a child’s voice, ‘Who was that masked stranger, mummy?’

‘That sort of thing.’

‘Well, you’d best be off or Tonto will be getting tired waiting.’

‘He’s an Indian. He can sit for days without moving a muscle.’

‘A bit like my Tommy,’ said one of the women who were washing dishes at the sink. It made the others laugh. ‘I never realised he was an Indian. I just thought he was a lazy bastard.’

Eve accompanied Steven back out into the hall where she collected her coat from behind a door marked, Staff Only. ‘You’re off too?’ he asked.

‘Lunchtime’s over,’ Eve replied. ‘But I’ll be back for dinners.’

‘You couldn’t show me where the local vet lives, could you?’

‘Of course, it’s not far. ‘Has Silver gone lame?’

Steven smiled. ‘No, I just need to ask him something.’

Eve showed him where James Binnie lived and then said good bye.

‘I hope tomorrow’s not too awful for you,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ Eve replied, looking back over her shoulder.

Steven knocked on the door and waited. It was opened by Binnie’s wife. He asked if he could have a word with the vet.

‘I’m afraid James is out at the moment. He went over to Kirkliston to look at a lame horse. Is it an emergency?’

Steven replied that it wasn’t. He just wanted to have a chat with the vet about something when he had a spare moment.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ asked the woman.

‘Everyone has been talking about an increase in the rat population. I wanted to hear a professional view of the situation.’

‘And you are?’

Steven told her.

‘Rats, eh? Well, I should think James would be delighted to talk to you about rats, Doctor Dunbar. Perhaps you might even persuade him to remove the one he put in the fridge the other night while you’re at it!’

Steven asked about this and was told about the attack on the Labrador puppy. It was the case he’d heard mentioned in the pub.

‘Why the rat in the fridge?’ he asked.

‘James said that he wanted the vet school in Edinburgh to take a look at the creature but he just hasn’t got round to taking it over yet, a familiar enough scenario,’ the woman smiled.

‘Do you know why he wanted it examined?’

‘He didn’t say. I think what worried him was the fact that he had another case of rat bite to deal with last week and then of course, there was the tragedy of young Ian Ferguson. I think James has started to wonder just what exactly is going on.’

Steven nodded and asked when he might call back.

‘It will probably be after four by the time he gets back from Kirkliston,’ said Ann Binnie, ‘and then he’ll have to go over to Crawhill to see to Tom Rafferty’s dog.’

‘Better him than me,’ said Steven.

‘You know the dog?’

‘I was at Crawhill this morning,’ said Steven. ‘I heard it. Made the Hound of the Baskervilles sound like a sissy.’

‘Khan’s a bit of a handful, I’m afraid.’

‘Looking for a bit of a mouthful, by the sound of it.’

Anyway, that’s going to keep James occupied for a bit. I think perhaps tomorrow morning might be best. He’ll be going to the Ferguson boy’s funeral at ten. Maybe some time when that’s over?’

‘Fine,’ said Steven.

‘I’ll tell him to expect you.

Steven walked back to his car and started out for Edinburgh and the offices of legal firm, McGraw and Littlejohn. Finding the building was easy enough but finding a place to park near it, in the Georgian heart of Edinburgh, was another matter. He did eventually find one but it was nearly half a mile on the north side of where he wanted to be. He fed the ticket machine with enough money for an hour and started to walk back uphill to Abercromby Place.

A solid black door furnished with brass knobs and nameplate gave access to an inner glass door, which gave way in turn to a wall with a sliding glass panel in it. Steven pressed the bell below it and a young girl slid back the panel. He showed his ID and said that he’d like to speak with the partner dealing with Thomas Rafferty of Crawhill Farm.

‘Just a minute,’ said the girl, appearing puzzled.

It was the reply Steven expected. ‘The first person to ask you, ‘how can I help you,’ in any organisation was always guaranteed to be unable to do so. He heard the girl ask someone named Mrs Logan for help. Mrs Logan, a middle aged woman with wrinkled, parchment-yellow skin, appeared at the window and Steven made his request again. Once more he showed his ID.

‘You’re a doctor… but also some sort of policeman?’ said Mrs Logan.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ agreed Steven pleasantly.

‘Just a minute.’

In all it took Steven some seven minutes more to clear the hurdles of the outer office and be shown into the inner sanctum of Hector McGraw, senior partner in the firm.

‘You have me at a disadvantage, Doctor, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from the Sci-Med Inspectorate before’ said McGraw, standing up to greet Steven. ‘What exactly do you do?’

Steven explained briefly the function of the SMI and its powers.

‘Sounds like a very good idea,’ said McGraw. ‘Where do we come in?’

‘You’re handling the action against the GM crop trial at Peat Ridge Farm in Blackbridge,’ said Steven. ‘You obtained a lab report on the crop from a ministry lab over in Ayrshire. I’d like to know who commissioned the report.’

‘But it was a ministry report,’ said McGraw.

‘But commissioned privately.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said McGraw.’

‘How did you come by it?’ asked Steven.

‘It simply arrived on my desk.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘The report clearly stated that the crop contained three foreign elements instead of the two stated in the license so we brought this to the attention of the relevant authorities.’

Despite the fact that McGraw had professed surprise at his visit, Steven had the distinct impression that the man’s responses to his questions had been prepared in advance, as if he had been expecting someone to ask them. ‘Did you check the report’s authenticity?’ he asked.

‘Well, no,’ replied McGraw, putting on a defensive grin. ‘The report was on official paper. There didn’t seem any need to… ’

‘So an official looking piece of paper is sent to you anonymously and you do nothing to check whether it’s genuine or not. Is that what you’re saying?’

McGraw appeared flustered for the first time. ‘As I say, the ministry letterhead seemed to suggest that it was kosher.’

‘How difficult do you think it would be to forge the letterhead?’ asked Steven.

‘But why would anyone want to… ’

‘Because many thousands of pounds are tied up in this crop trial,’ interrupted Steven, making it sound like that was obvious.

‘Are you saying that the report was forged?’ asked McGraw.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ conceded Steven, but he suspected that McGraw already knew that. There was something about the man’s smugness that suggested to him that McGraw hadn’t bothered to check the report’s authenticity because he had been expecting it to.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said McGraw with a smirk.

‘Who is paying Mr Rafferty’s legal bills?’

‘I think that’s an improper question.’

‘But one I think you should answer.’

‘And if I refuse on the grounds that it would be a breach of client confidentiality?’

‘I’ll ask Inland Revenue to go through all the documents on the firm’s premises with a fine tooth comb,’ replied Steven.

‘But they’d find nothing wrong with anything!’ protested McGraw.

‘I know,’ replied Steven. ‘But it wouldn’t look very nice.’

‘That is outrageous.’

Steven remained silent.

McGraw drew in breath angrily and gave him the information he already knew. ‘Mr Rafferty has the backing of a venture capital company named Pentangle. They have asked for our note of fee to be submitted to them.’

‘May I see the correspondence?’

McGraw got up from his desk and opened a filing cabinet. He took out a dossier and handed it to Steven without comment. Steven flicked through it and found the official letter from Pentangle giving invoice instructions. There was nothing of interest in it save for the Pentangle reference to be, ‘quoted in all correspondence’. It was SigV. Steven read this as, Sigma 5. He felt glad he’d come.