Ken McClure: Deception

‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’

Macmillan settled himself behind his desk and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair to make a steeple with his fingers before appraising the man before him.

There was no doubt that Steven Dunbar looked well. Long rambling walks in the hills, trying to find answers to questions, although none existed, had, if nothing else, given his complexion a healthy tan and kept his weight down when otherwise his over-indulgence in alcohol over the past few months might have softened him and thickened up his middle. As it was, his lean, muscular body filled his dark blue suit to perfection.

‘Lisa’s death was absolutely tragic,’ said Macmillan. He had finished with the visual appraisal. It was time for the psychological one. ‘You two had such a short time together. How long has it been now?’

‘Nine months,’ replied Steven evenly.

‘You must still feel very bitter.’

‘It happens to lots of people,’ replied Steven. ‘Slings and arrows.’

‘Very philosophical,’ replied Macmillan. He smiled but his eyes didn’t.

‘I think if it had happened to me, I’d be very angry.’

‘Oh, I’ve been there,’ replied Steven. ‘But I got over it. Mind you, you won’t find me watching, Songs of Praise for a while.’

Macmillan nodded sagely. ‘Cancer, wasn’t it?’

Steven nodded.

‘Still a killer despite all the breakthroughs they’ve been making,’ sighed Macmillan. The look in his eyes suggested that he’d just set Steven some kind of test.

‘I think we both know that most of the “breakthroughs” aren’t breakthroughs at all,’ said Steven, without noticing the look. ‘They’re research groups trying to get their names in the papers in order to attract more grant money. When push comes to shove, the work’s always “at a very early stage” and they hope “it will lead to advances in patient treatment in about five to ten years time”. It almost invariably never does and what genuine ‘breakthroughs’ there are, are usually diagnostic rather than therapeutic. They can tell you at a much earlier stage that you’re going to die but they still can’t do a damn thing about it.’

‘That’s all a bit cynical, isn’t it?’ said Macmillan.

‘I’d prefer, “realistic,” ‘said Steven. ‘Seeing things as they really are, is part of my job, is it not?’

Macmillan broke into a genuine smile. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wish they’d call the buggers to account for their supposed “breakthroughs” myself.’

‘Making them repay the grant money they’ve flushed down the toilet might be a better idea,’ said Steven.

‘Research progress is always such a difficult area to appraise,’ said Macmillan. ‘There are so few facts to go on and that means we’re left with expert opinion masquerading as the next best thing and it very often isn’t. Medical research can be such a happy hunting ground for the charlatan and confidence trickster.’

‘It’s the loudest voice that wins through, not the brightest. The singer not the song.’

‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘We are agreed on that and this may actually be relevant to your assignment,’ said Macmillan. ‘If you’re feeling up to it, that is?’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘There’s some kind of a scientific disagreement over a genetically modified crop up in Scotland. It’s probably just a storm in a teacup — something to do with the paperwork in a licensing agreement, but I’ve got an uneasy feeling about it and it’s such a touchy subject these days that I think we should take a look.’

‘What sort of gene modification are we talking about?’

‘The company concerned, an outfit called, Agrigene, has obtained permission to grow two fields of genetically modified oilseed rape. Apparently the variety can withstand the action of powerful pesticides thanks to a couple of foreign genes their scientists have introduced to the seeds.’

‘Sounds reasonable enough.’

‘It probably is, if truth be told, but the government of the day made such a hash of the BSE affair that nobody believes a word officialdom says when it comes to matters of biological safety. As I recall, the relevant minister wearing a funny hat didn’t seem to work too well either.’

‘It was his predecessor announcing that it was quite safe to eat your words as long as they didn’t contain beef, that I remember best,’ said Steven.

‘But we’re not here to question the wisdom of our masters,’ said Macmillan, putting an end to that line of conversation.

This was something that Dunbar liked about Macmillan. He might look like a typical po-faced Whitehall mandarin with his regal bearing and swept-back silver hair but underneath, he came pretty close to being one of the lads. But only up to a point and when that point was reached he was good at letting it be known without giving offence. He also had a well-deserved reputation for being fiercely loyal to his staff and was almost obsessive in his determination that Sci-Med should remain independent of direct executive control. He had come close to resigning on several occasions when bigger government bodies had tried to influence the course of his department’s investigations.

‘No, we just have to live with the consequences of their actions,’ said Steven. ‘So what exactly has this company done wrong?’

‘They didn’t tell anyone locally what they were doing. They did their best to keep everything quiet and persuaded the farmer involved to do likewise.’

‘Can’t say I blame them in the circumstances, considering what’s been happening to fields of GM crops here in England.’

‘Quite so, and as far as the book goes, they appear to have done nothing wrong. They went through all the right channels and are, by all accounts, properly licensed to grow their crop.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘When the locals found out about it, they didn’t like it one little bit and they’ve been kicking up one hell of a fuss ever since.’

Steven shrugged. ‘I suppose I can see their point of view too,’ he sighed. ‘Fear of the unknown, happily fuelled by the media, no doubt.’

‘Well, it’s turned into more than just a few farmers shouting the odds, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re now going to tell me that one of the locals is an organic farmer and he insists that his crop is going to be cross-pollinated by the big bad grass in the next field,’ said Steven.

‘Spot on,’ smiled Macmillan, ‘but there’s a twist to it. The company, Agrigene, says that this chap was not licensed as an organic farmer when they sought permission for their trial. They insist that they checked the area out thoroughly beforehand for any such farms. They maintain that the paperwork for this chap must have been processed after permission for their trial had been approved.’

‘But why?’

‘Just so as to make trouble for them, so they say.’

‘Sounds a bit bizarre, even allowing for commercial paranoia about government regulations.’

‘It gets worse and this is the real worrying aspect. The opposition now maintains that the Agrigene crop in the fields is not the one that they were licensed for.’

‘Now that sounds a bit more serious,’ agreed Steven. ‘How did they come to that conclusion?’

‘They had a sample of it analysed at a ministry lab over in Ayrshire. The lab reported the presence of a third foreign gene, not declared by the company at the outset.’

‘So the locals are right?’

‘Agrigene deny it. They don’t deny that there is a third foreign element in the genetic make-up of their crop but they say that to call it a foreign gene is a technical misunderstanding on the part of the lab that analysed their crop.’