There was a Land Rover and a dark green Jaguar S-type saloon parked outside the farmhouse. Steven glanced admiringly at the jag as he walked up to the door, noting in passing that it had been bought in Norwich and had a personalised number plate.
The door was opened by a small woman in her sixties with round shoulders and wearing a floral tabard over a pink, fluffy jumper and brown skirt: she had a feather duster in her hand, which she held up in her right hand like a fairy wand. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Fraser, let him in,’ said a voice with a South African accent from somewhere behind her before Steven could say anything.’
Steven entered, taking great care to wipe his feet in the presence of the person who did the cleaning and looked to Mrs Fraser for directions.
‘You’ll find Mr Lane in there,’ she said, pointing to the left with her duster.
Steven walked towards the room and found the door ajar. He knocked quietly and got a brusque, ‘Come!’ in response. There were two men in the room. Neither got up when he entered.
‘What d’you want?’ asked the one with the South African accent whom Steven took to be Lane unless the other one, who hadn’t yet spoken, should also turn out to be South African.
‘Mr Lane?’ asked Steven.
‘Yes, what d’you want?’
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your GM crop.’
Lane turned to his companion and said sarcastically, ‘Did you hear that Phil? A man from the government wants to ask us some questions about our crop. How novel. May I suggest you ask your many colleagues who’ve beaten a path to my door wanting to do exactly the same thing or better still, put your questions to our solicitors,’ said Lane coldly. ‘Now, get out.’
‘I’d rather put them to you, Mr Lane’ said Steven evenly.
‘I said to get out, pally,’ Lane repeated menacingly, looking over his glasses at Steven to emphasise the point.
Steven now understood why Lane wasn’t exactly Mr Popular in the village. He said, ‘Mr Lane, I am empowered by the Sci-Med Inspectorate to ask you anything I feel may be relevant to my investigation. Whether we do it here or at a police station or in the prison cell you will certainly end up in if you persist in obstructing me, I leave up to you. Now, shall we start again… pally?’
‘I hope you’re not bluffing, my friend,’ said Lane, but a degree of uncertainty had crept into his voice.
‘I’m definitely not bluffing,’ Steven assured him with a level gaze.
‘What exactly are you investigating?’ asked the other man who obviously thought the time right to intercede. He spoke with an English accent.
‘And you are?’ asked Steven.
‘Phillip Grimble, technical manager of Agrigene Biotechnology. It’s our crop that Mr Lane is growing.’
‘At the moment, I’m investigating your difficulty in convincing people that you should keep your licence, Mr Grimble.’
‘You mean you’re on our side?’ exclaimed Lane, looking astonished.
‘I didn’t say that and I don’t want to be on anybody’s side but from what I’ve learned so far, you do seem to be subject to certain misunderstandings over what you have in the fields out there.’
‘Misunderstandings?’ snorted Lane. ‘It’s a bloody set up. Some bastard is out to fuck us up big time.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ asked Steven.
‘Christ knows. None of it makes any sense to me. The whole thing is just plain bloody crazy. We do everything by the book, jump through all the hoops, hop over all the hurdles, get all the permissions and then they turn round and say we’re not really licensed because some clown in a lab coat can’t tell his arse from a hole in the wall. ’
‘If I understand it correctly, your crop is oilseed rape that’s been genetically altered to make it resistant to herbicides?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Grimble. ‘It can withstand the action of glyophosphate and glufosinate weed killers so these agents can be used to keep down weeds in the fields it’s growing in. They’re much more effective than the weedkillers that farmers are normally obliged to use so better yields can be expected in the long run.’
‘From what I’ve read, you’re not the only biotech company who’s come up with this idea, are you?’
‘No, of course not, but we don’t pretend to be. There are quite a few companies who are going down that road. It makes a lot of sense.’
‘Would these other companies have something to gain by discrediting your trial?’
‘It’s possible I suppose,’ Grimble agreed with an uncertain shrug, ‘but these guys are reputable companies, big names in the industry. They couldn’t afford to get involved in anything like that. It would be a clear case of industrial sabotage. Apart from that, there’s plenty room for all of us in the market once we get our crops through the trials. As I see it, it’s the media we have to worry about, not commercial opposition. They’re responsible for all the scare stories surrounding our work.’
‘Apart from that, pally, the ‘misunderstanding’ started with a lab report that came from a government lab, not from any private source,’ said Lane.
‘Government labs carry out contract work for private companies and even individuals,’ snapped Steven, immediately regretting that he’d said it. Lane’s smugness had got his back up.
Lane’s face lit up. ‘Are you suggesting that someone in a government lab could have set us up at the request of a third party?’ he asked.
‘I’m not saying anything of the sort. I just have to consider all the possibilities,’ said Steven.
‘I didn’t know government labs took contract work,’ said Grimble.
‘Neither did I,’ agreed Lane who was clearly intrigued by this revelation. ‘This is all beginning to make some kind of sense.’
‘Don’t read too much into it,’ said Steven.
‘Maybe the same person made sure the licence copy of the sequence went missing too?’ said Lane, getting his teeth into this new line of thought. ‘And maybe the same person arranged for the break-in at our solicitors when our copy went missing? Maybe you’ve been underestimating your competitors, Phil? Maybe they’re not all as moral as you are, my friend.’
Grimble shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I really can’t see these guys doing something so underhand,’ he said.
‘Someone probably said that once about British Airways,’ said Lane. Ask Richard Branson what he thinks.’
‘Who are your main competitors in this field?’ asked Steven.
‘Let’s see now,’ said Grimble thoughtfully. He started to reel off a list of companies. Steven noted that the name, Sigma was not among them.
‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Lane when Grimble had finished. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Nothing,’ said Steven. ‘Just sit tight.’
‘Do you realise how much security is costing us?’ exclaimed Lane. ‘While that bunch of pen-pushers down at the Blackbridge Arms sit contemplating their navels and arguing about how many angels can balance on the head of a pin — always assuming that they can agree on whether it’s a Scottish or an English pin?’
‘It must be very frustrating for you,’ said Steven. ‘But try to look on the bright side: your crop is still in the field and it’s still growing.’
‘But for how much longer?’ said Lane. ‘These clods down in the village have already had a go at us. They’ve obviously been told that we’re growing the crop from hell up here and there doesn’t seem to be anyone in authority to disillusion them. If any of them wakes up with a headache, it’s not the eight pints they had the night before at the Castle Tavern, oh no, it’s down to Lane’s crop and all these nasty genes in the air. We’re the cause of everything from housemaid’s knee to pre-menstrual tension round here!’