Ken McClure - Deception

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘As for this organic farm business at Crawhill, it’s just too bizarre for words. I haven’t spoken to a soul in the village who believes that Thomas Rafferty is the least bit interested in organic farming — or any kind of farming come to that. By all accounts he’s a waster who’s been making a living out of hiring out farm machinery. For years his only other recorded interest has been in pissing large quantities of lager against the wall, so much so that I heard his wife left him recently.’

‘Maybe he’s thinking of selling up,’ suggested Steven. ‘Maybe he’s trying to turn the farm into a going concern to make it more attractive to prospective buyers?’

‘That’s possible, I suppose,’ said Brown thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I hadn’t thought of that angle. So why won’t he speak to the press? You’d think he’d want all the favourable publicity he could get. We’ve got a ready-made villain in Lane so Rafferty would seem well placed for the starring roll of organic-growing hero. And where do the minders come in?’

Steven shrugged. ‘Could be the Magnificent Seven,’ he said, ‘come to aid the poor peasant farmer?

‘There were only two.’

Steven gave Brown a sideways glance and saw that he was preoccupied, not stupid.

‘The first thing I’m going to do when I leave here is run a check to see if Crawhill has been put on the market,’ said Brown. ‘That was a good idea of yours. Would you like to be informed of the result?’

‘If you like,’ said Steven. He gave Brown his mobile telephone number.

‘If this works out, I’ll owe you a bottle of Scotch.’

Steven had had an even better idea but was keeping it to himself for the time being. It proposed that Rafferty had already sold the farm and was acting as some kind of front for the new owners. That might well explain the presence of the people Brown had described as minders but also begged the question as to why the new owners needed a front man at all. The obvious answer to that was that they didn’t want anyone to know who they were. Steven worked the idea through to a conclusion. Why not? Because... it would be embarrassing for them? Why embarrassing? Because... the new owners were not private buyers at all. They were... corporate buyers. They were... a commercial company. They were... a biotech company! A rival biotech company to Agrigene!

That would make a lot of sense, Steven thought as he continued to work on the hypothesis. They move in to the area and buy the farm next door to their competitor; then they manage to get an organic farm accreditation. It would give them the perfect basis for courting public sympathy while causing trouble for Agrigene and screwing up their experimental programme.’

‘What kind of a civil servant are you exactly?’ asked Brown.

‘A thirsty one,’ replied Steven.

Brown ordered two more drinks and Steven made vague noises about liasing with the new Scottish Parliament over environmental concerns. Inside, he was thinking that this theory about Crawhill might also explain where the protestors were getting the money from for lawyers and independent crop analysis. It didn’t explain however, how they had managed to get organic accreditation so easily or why the crop analysis they’d obtained was so scientifically vague,

‘So you’re with the MAFF people up here,’ said Brown. ‘Or are you with the new Scottish parliament lot?’

‘Neither really,’ replied Steven. ‘I’m here to assess if anything should cause concern to the Department of the Environment but I understand that MAFF have everything under control.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ said Brown.

‘Why d’you say that?’

‘You’ve just heard the local mood for yourself,’ said Brown with a nod to the table behind him. ‘The locals are planning civil war by the sound of it and MAFF and the Scottish Executive are sitting on their arses along the road, arguing the legal niceties over who’s responsible for what.’

‘But they must have had meetings with the community?’ said Steven.

‘One of their chaps gave a talk to the locals in the village hall saying that they were currently looking into discrepancies in the licensing agreement up at Lane’s place. That’s the last I heard.’

‘The legal wrangle’s still going on,’ said Steven.

‘I wish to God, they’d keep people informed,’ said Brown. ‘There’s nothing rumour likes better than a vacuum.’

Steven silently agreed.

The conversation was over but Brown was delayed in leaving by a man coming in through the doors of the pub and standing there as if about to make an announcement. As if by magic a hush fell on the place and the man in the doorway said, ‘The Ferguson boy’s dead. ‘Died this morning in St John’s Hospital. His mum and dad were with him, poor wee bugger.’

‘I thought he was holding his own,’ said one man. ‘I thought the three of them were.’

‘He developed a wound infection on top of everything else and it was just too much for him.’

‘Christ, it could hae been Eck,’ exclaimed a man at a table near Steven. ‘Ah’d better get hame and tell Mary.’ With that, he scraped back his chair, got to his feet and left.

‘His boy was one of the swimmers,’ explained one of the others. ‘Makes you think when something like that happens.’

‘It’s about time they did something about they bloody rats up there. They’re all over the bloody place.’

‘It’s the same all over the country, man. I saw it on breakfast TV. Somethin’ to do wi’ the weather getting warmer.’

‘Bloody global warmin’. If it’s no wan thing...’

‘They’re vicious little buggers too. I met the vet in the paper shop this morning and he was saying that he had a woman in last night from Gartside. Her Labrador puppy got himself bitten up by the canal. She was in a right state. If some guy hadn’t come along on his bike, the mutt could have been in real trouble. As it was, the guy managed to kill a couple of the buggers and help her get the dog home.

‘I can remember when Meg cornered one in the barn,’ said one of the other men, launching into a rat story.

‘I’ll have to go phone the boy’s death in,’ whispered Brown at Steven’s elbow. ‘I’ll let you know about Crawhill.’

Steven nodded and found himself alone but not for long. Alex McColl returned, looking less than pleased. ‘Couldn’t get near Rafferty,’ he complained. ‘You’d think he’d be looking for all the press coverage he could get right now,’ he added.

‘Your colleague was just saying that,’ said Steven. ‘Who stopped you?’

‘A couple of guys in suits. They were too polite for minders. Apart from that, they had an IQ bigger than their collar size. When I asked them who they were they told me they were, “Mr Rafferty’s business advisors”.’

‘Everyone’s got a fancy title, these days,’ said Steven.

‘Aye, no one shovels shit these days. It’s, excrement relocation officers, we have to deal with. What’s been happening here?’

Steven told him about the Ferguson boy’s death.

‘Well, that gives me something to file, I suppose,’ said McColl, looking pleased and getting out his notebook. He missed the look on Steven’s face when he said it.

‘There’s likely to be a pretty weepy funeral too if I’m not mistaken. I’ll get a snapper along for some graveside stuff. That should keep the wolf from the door for a bit.’

Steven swallowed hard and reminded himself that he was just here as an observer. Decking a gentleman of the press would not be a good idea... however satisfying it might be in the short term. He decided to leave.

‘You’ve not finished your drink,’ pointed out McColl.