FOURTEEN
As Steven was driving up the hill between Peat Ridge and Crawhill farms he slowed near the canal bridge when he noticed newly erected barriers across the access steps on both sides leading down to the towpath. He stopped the car and got out. Plastic-covered notices headed, ‘Public Health Notice’ were tied with string to the striped barriers, declaring the towpath closed to the public until further notice. They didn’t say why but when he looked over the bridge parapet and saw several men dressed in white coveralls and carrying what looked to be 0.22 calibre rifles, he realised that the rat cull must have started.
The men were spaced out at intervals of fifty to a hundred metres and walking slowly eastwards with their weapons cradled in the crook of their elbows. Steven crossed to the other side of the road and looked along the towpath in the other direction. He could see another two similarly dressed men patrolling to the west before a turn in the canal obscured any further view.
As he watched, one of the men raised his weapon to his shoulder and fired at something on the opposite bank. Steven couldn’t see the target or the outcome but the gesture the marksman made with his left arm suggested that he’d hit what he’d been aiming at.
He felt a sense of relief that at last someone in authority seemed to be getting something done in Blackbridge. It made him reflect on the power of the press as he got back into his car and continued his drive back to the city. But did it justify the anguish that Alex McColl must have caused the Ferguson family? Was it a case of the end justifying the means or just the lucky by-product of an opportunist tabloid crusade fuelled by hypocrisy?
Steven found a parking space in a narrow street of Victorian villas, running parallel to Melville Drive and the Meadows. He fed the nearby machine with sufficient coins for a one-hour ticket and stuck it on his windscreen before walking back the two hundred metres or so to The Royal Dick School of Veterinary Medicine, known locally as the Dick Vet. He asked at the servitor’s box for Dr John Sweeney and was in turn asked his business. He wasn’t surprised at the question. There were notices all around reminding staff to be vigilant in the light of continuing threats from animal rights groups. He showed his ID and the servitor picked up a phone.
‘Visitor for Dr Sweeney… From the Sci-Med Inspectorate… Right, will-do.’ The man replaced the receiver and turned back to Steven. He pointed to the lift and said, ‘He says to go on up. Third floor, room 308.’
John Sweeney proved to be a small man with narrow shoulders and a mop of crinkly brown hair. He wore a pristine white lab coat over a Bengal striped shirt and university tie with a large, skewed sausage knot in it. There was at least a two-inch gap between his throat and the start of his shirt collar, giving him the air of a learned tortoise emerging from his shell. He wore brown corduroy trousers and highly polished shoes of a colour somewhere between dark brown and red. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I understand we have a mutual friend,’ said Steven. ‘James Binnie, the vet over at Blackbridge?’
Instead of the smile of recognition that Steven expected to see at the mention of Binnie’s name, he saw a look of caution appear on Sweeney’s face, even nervousness. ‘Ye..s, I know James. We qualified together many years ago. What is it that you want exactly? He inquired tentatively.
‘It’s about the rat that James brought over to you the other day for autopsy. I was wondering if you had completed your examination on it?’ asked Steven.
‘The rat,’ Sweeney repeated, diverting his gaze.
There was no element of question in Sweeney’s voice, Steven noted. The man had simply repeated the word as if stalling for time. ‘What about it?’
‘We were wondering about your findings, Doctor?’ Steven repeated, somewhat unnecessarily, he thought.
‘It was fine,’ said Sweeney.
‘Fine?’ queried Steven.
‘I’m sorry, I should have got back to James sooner, but I’ve been busy with one thing and another. No, there was nothing unusual about the animal’s body condition. It seemed perfectly healthy.’
‘I see,’ said Steven, aware that he was unnerving Sweeney by watching him intently. ‘And the toxicology tests?’
‘There was no trace of any glyphosphate or glufosinate compound in the animal at all.’
‘So it was a perfectly normal rat in every respect?’
‘Yes… absolutely,’ said Sweeney.
Steven was convinced that the man was lying. The look on his face, the way he shuffled his feet uncomfortably and a reluctance to establish eye contact all said that he was. Steven took a deep breath before saying, ‘Doctor Sweeney, I know James asked you to carry out this examination unofficially, as a friend, but now I’m asking you officially, with the full weight of the law behind me, ‘Did you come across anything unusual in your examination of that rat? Anything at all?’
Sweeney’s eyes opened wide like saucers. ‘I can’t say that I did,’ he stammered.
His wordplay didn’t work. ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Steven persisted.
‘Can’t.’
Steven let Sweeney stew in his own obvious discomfort for a few moments to see if anything else would emerge.
‘Damn it, I really can’t see why you people don’t talk to each other,’ Sweeney blurted out. ‘I take it you’re all on the same side?’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Steven calmly.
‘Nothing,’ said Sweeney, recovering his composure.
Steven had a thought. He remembered that many public sector employees were obliged to sign the official secrets act as part of their work contract. He asked if this was the case with Sweeney.
‘Yes, I’ve signed it,’ replied Sweeney, looking relieved again.
‘Then I won’t bother you any more in the circumstances,’ said Steven resignedly. ‘It would be unfair.’ He played his last card in what he saw as a losing hand. ‘I would however, add that sometimes a man has to decide what’s right and what’s wrong in his own mind… and act accordingly, regardless of what the rules might say.’
Steven left the building feeling dejected. He felt as if he were trying to run in ever-deepening soft sand. He took what was positive from the meeting with Sweeney and tried to concentrate on that. There had almost certainly been something wrong with the rat but Sweeney was under orders to keep quiet about it, maybe under the threat of breaking the official secrets act. From the look of relief on Sweeney’s face when he’d asked about herbicides, they had had nothing to do with it, so he supposed that that was some kind of progress.
The question that worried him now was how had the opposition known about Binnie’s request to his friend? It had been a completely unofficial thing so Binnie must have mentioned it to someone other than himself and his wife, Ann. He’d ask him about that when he saw him next. In the meantime he could only hope that his appeal to Sweeney’s sense of what was right in his own conscience might bear fruit and he might see fit to confide in his old friend, Binnie.
Steven saw that it was after 4pm. Time was getting on and he still had a lot to do before meeting Eve. He drove over to his hotel, got his things together and checked out, saying that he had been recalled to London at a moment’s notice. This was for the benefit of anyone who subsequently tried to trace his movements through the hotel register. He drove over to an area of the city near Bruntsfield Links, where he’d noticed that every second or third house seemed to be a small hotel, and checked in to a suitably anonymous-looking one. It had the added bonus of having its own car park round the back of the building. He didn’t want his car lying out on the street if he could help it.