Ken McClure - Deception

‘I’ve had enough.’

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.’