Deception (5 page)

A lab report from
a government lab
– he underlined this - gave the impression of the presence of a third,
unlicensed foreign gene
in the crop and hadn’t done much by all accounts to correct what he now believed to be, a false impression. This, he felt, was decidedly odd as was the fact that the original analysis had not been produced to demonstrate that the strains were (must be?) in fact identical.

It was normal practice for Sci-Med investigators to spend as much time as they felt necessary, familiarising themselves with their assignment file before starting out on their investigation. Occasionally it was necessary for them to be sent on mini-courses if the subject matter should turn out to be highly specialised. This usually involved Sci-Med setting up a one to one meeting with an acknowledged expert in the relevant field to carry out a personal briefing.

Steven saw no need for any crash course in this instance; he felt quite at home with the technical elements of the investigation, but he did want to ask some questions. Firstly, he wanted to know if it were normal practice for government labs to carry out private contract work – as the MAFF lab had apparently done on this occasion. He would also ask Sci-Med if they had any information about who had paid for this work and who was footing the protestors’ legal costs. Finally, he wanted to know the whereabouts of the original DNA analysis of the Agrigene crop strain. When he had the answers to these questions he would start thinking about heading north.

The response to Steven’s questions arrived on his laptop at a quarter to noon next day. Yes, it was normal practice for government labs to carry out analyses on a contract basis for private companies and even individuals. This was part of a government initiative to make such labs more ‘cost effective’ and this kind of work was actively encouraged. No, they had no information about who had paid for the analysis of the Agrigene crop or who was paying McGraw and Littlejohn’s bills, but they would try to find out. Finally, they themselves had noted that the original crop analysis had not been supplied when they had requested a copy from the ministry’s licensing department. They had asked again for it and would forward it as soon as it became available – probably some time this afternoon.

Steven was a little disappointed at the response to his query about private work being carried out in government labs – he thought he had stumbled across something unusual, but he supposed that this was now the way of the world in the public sector. Everything had to make a profit these days. Colleges and universities were encouraged to cooperate with industry, form partnerships, seek sponsorship and welcome consultancies. Collaboration was the name of the game. Ivory towers and the acquisition of knowledge for the sake of it were concepts that belonged within the ivy-covered walls of the past.

He was even more disappointed that the original DNA analysis of the Agrigene crop was still not available because he saw that as the key to sorting out the whole misunderstanding. It was such an obvious thing to do - compare the original sequence to the current one - that he couldn’t understand why this had not already been done. If the two sequences were identical, the crop was licensed, if not, there was a problem. It seemed so simple that he had to consider that he was missing something. He decided to phone Sci-Med to find out if there was any chance of hurrying up the access to the document.

‘
We’ve already put in an urgent request,’ came the response. ‘We’ll send it over by courier as soon as it arrives.’

Fine, thought Steven. If he got it this afternoon and the sequence was identical he could take the overnight train up to Scotland, visit both sets of lawyers and clear up the matter of the mystery gene in a civilised manner.

At a quarter past three Macmillan phoned him in person and asked him to come in to the Home Office. He didn’t give any indication why but Steven got the impression that he was less than happy about something. His ill humour had obviously transmitted itself to Miss Roberts when he arrived because she gave him a warning shrug before whispering that he should go straight in.

‘
Sit down,’ said Macmillan, looking up from his papers momentarily.

Steven sat.

‘
The bastards! What do they think they’re playing at?’

‘
Sir?’

‘
I’ve been warned off! Me! How dare they!’

Steven sat quietly until Macmillan was ready to continue.

‘
I understand from Miss Roberts that you put in a request for the original DNA analysis on the Agrigene crop?’

‘
It’s the obvious key to settling the argument about whether the crop they were growing was the one they were licensed for or not,’ said Steven. ‘A simple comparison is all that’s required. It will still leave the proximity problem to the organic farm site but at least it would get any allegation of illegality out of the way and probably put an end to our interest in the affair.’

‘
Well, they’ve ‘misplaced’ it. Would you believe it? The licensing authority has bloody-well misplaced it.’

‘
Sort of weakens the case against Agrigene then,’ said Steven.

‘
They think not,’ said Macmillan. ‘They maintain that the fact the original licence was for two foreign genes and the current analysis says there are three is sufficient enough to sustain the protestors’ case.’

‘
But that’s not on,’ protested Steven. He told Macmillan about his identification of the third gene.

‘
But surely
they
must know that,’ said Macmillan.

Steven shrugged his agreement. ‘You would think so.’

Macmillan looked at him for a moment before saying, ‘When the ministry told me the sequence was missing, it occurred to me that Agrigene might have a copy of the original analysis themselves so I called their MD and asked him. He asked me if I was, “trying to be funny”. When I asked him what he was talking about he put down the phone on me.’

‘
What did he mean by that?’

‘
I called him back and when I explained what my position was and what the Sci-Med Inspectorate was all about, he calmed down a little but I don’t think he fully trusted our independence. He made some remark about it being a bit like the police investigating themselves but I did get out of him what had happened. The company’s copy of the license was sent to their solicitors in Glasgow when the allegation was first made. The solicitors’ premises were subject to a break-in during the next few days and guess what went missing? ’

‘
The license?’

‘
The license,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘Among other things, of course.

Steven let out a low whistle.

‘
I called MAFF’s licensing department back and asked if their premises had been broken into too. I asked if this was the reason their copy had “been misplaced” and if so, had the matter been reported to the police? The lackey I spoke to damn nearly perforated his backside sitting on the fence. ‘Said he’d get back to me.’

‘
Did he?’

‘
The minister’s PPS called me in person to assure me that there was nothing for Sci-Med to concern itself with in the situation in Scotland. They were on top of things and the minister would consider it a personal favour if we wouldn’t “muddy the water”.’

‘
Well, well, well. I’m beginning to think that Agrigene has a point. Someone is out to get them.’

‘
But why?’

‘
Maybe someone made a cock-up over accrediting an organic farm next to a GM crop and they’re looking for excuses to pull the plug on Agrigene?’ suggested Steven.

Macmillan looked at him thoughtfully as he tapped the end of his nose slowly with his index finger. ‘And the minister would deem it a personal favour if we didn’t muddy the water . . .’ he intoned slowly. ‘Well, I think not. Something tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye. ’

‘
So I run with it?’ asked Steven.

‘
Your daughter still lives in Scotland?’

‘
Near Dumfries.’

‘
How far from Blackbridge?’

Steven shrugged. ‘About eighty miles, I suppose.’

‘
Why don’t you go visit her this weekend but take a quiet, unofficial look at Blackbridge while you’re up there and see what you think. If you smell a rat . . . well, to hell with the minister. We’ll go ahead with the investigation anyway.’

THREE

Moira Lawson hesitated in the hallway of her bungalow, debating whether or not to put on a jacket, and then decided against it. It wasn’t often possible to venture out of doors in the evening in Scotland without one so she thought that, for once, she would live dangerously and enjoy the experience. ‘I’m just taking Sam for his walk,’ she called out to her husband in the living room. A longhaired Labrador puppy scampered round her feet, tail wagging furiously, while she listened for a reply.

She took a distant grunt as ‘message received’ and collected Sam’s extending lead from the hall table to clip it to his collar, explaining to him, as she always did at this time, that it would be just until they got to the top of the road and then he could have his freedom. She didn’t want him bounding in and out of the neighbours’ gardens.

Sam strained at the lead all the way up the road, nose close to the ground, tail never still. When she stopped to speak to one of the neighbours near the top of the hill, he immediately investigated the halt to his progress by jumping up on the woman and offering his instant affection.

‘
You’re a big soft sausage, aren’t you?’ laughed the neighbour, making a fuss of him. ‘They’re lovely at that age, aren’t they?’

‘
Daft as a brush,’ smiled Moira. ‘All energy and no brains.’

‘
Are you taking him up by the canal?’

‘
Moira said that she was.’

‘
You must have heard about the three kids along in Blackbridge?’

‘
I certainly did, Weil’s disease; can be quite nasty apparently. Damages the liver. I was speaking to one of their mothers, coming back on the bus yesterday. She’d been in at the hospital. She was saying that they’ve all been through a bit of a bad time but at least, her boy was getting better. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the laddie who’d been bitten.’

‘
I heard about that. Which one of them got bitten?’

‘
Mrs Ferguson’s son. He had to have an operation on his foot: it was torn quite badly apparently. I hear he’s still very ill; some complicating factors to do with the bite becoming infected, I think.’

‘
Dirty things, rats, makes me shiver, just thinking about them. Mind you, who in their right mind would want to swim in the canal? It’s all green slime apart from anything else.’

‘
What were we saying about all energy and no brains? I think it applies to young boys as well as young dogs.’

The neighbour laughed and conceded the point. Moira continued her walk. She joined the canal towpath and took off Sam’s lead. He was off like a rocket but a rocket with little or no sense of direction. He gave every indication of wanting to run in all directions at the same time. Moira introduced some purpose to it all by picking up a small stick and throwing it along the towpath. As she continued with the game it occurred to her that she was enjoying herself as much as Sam. The sun was low but still warm and the wind had dwindled away to nothing. The air was full of the smells of late summer, only marred a little by the smell of the algal bloom on the surface of the canal.

Sam paused in the game to do his business and Moira took the chance to look up at the sky, thinking to herself how much nicer it would be if Scotland had more of this kind of weather. There were so few occasions when proper clothing was not a major consideration. She was very glad that she had not bothered with a jacket. The cool of the evening on her bare arms was very pleasant. The insects hovering above the surface of the still water and the drifting ‘wishes’ from the willow herb made her think of Peter Pan and fairies.

Sam looked up at her expectantly and she launched the stick again. ‘Go on, then, you daft mutt,’ she encouraged. She tried to throw the stick further this time and lost direction a little. It landed in the water. Sam bounded along to the spot but Moira did not want him plunging into the stagnant water so she called out to him to stop. Sam paused unsurely at the edge, his basic instinct being challenged by his partial training.

‘
Good boy,’ Moira called out as Sam settled with his rear end in the air and his nose pointing down at the water.

‘
There’s a good boy. Just you wait there,’ said Moira as she walked towards him.

Suddenly Sam let out a yelp of pain and Moira saw him start to throw his head feverishly from side to side. She thought at first that he had something in his mouth – her first thought was that he had tried to pick up a hedgehog and was learning the lesson but as she got closer she could see that this was not the case at all. A small animal had attached itself to Sam’s face by sinking its teeth into Sam’s snout. Her blood ran cold when she saw that it was a rat.

Moira desperately wanted to help Sam – wanted to free him of the vile vermin that was causing him such pain, but she found herself unable to through her fear and loathing of rats. Her arms moved like the sails of an uncertain windmill as she tried to approach but was forced to draw back through sheer revulsion. The nightmare moved up a gear when a second rat scampered up on to the bank and attached itself to one of Sam’s front paws. Moira screamed but the sound that came out sounded totally alien, a mixture of terror and anger that she’d seldom – if ever, felt before.