‘I’ll get off about ten. Maybe we could meet then?’
‘See you at ten.’
Steven returned to thinking about Childs and what he should do. This, he saw as a test of his own character. What he really wanted to do was confront Childs, put the automatic in his mouth and blow his head off for what he’d subjected Jenny to, but years of training had drummed into him the fact that letting things get personal could be the kiss of death. He must remain cold and dispassionate or at least as cold and dispassionate as he could manage. He was still human and in this case, that meant bloody angry.
The obvious thing would be to inform the Dumfriesshire police. He felt sure that Jenny would identify Childs and the fact that he drove a blue Range Rover, which the other children had seen, would seem to be the clincher. There would be a lot of satisfaction to be gained from seeing Childs put away for what he’d done but there was a bigger picture to consider. Steven recognised, albeit reluctantly, that Childs had done what he’d done to protect his own assignment. The question he had to ask himself was, would seeing him in court bring him any closer to finding out what that business was all about or who was really behind it?
After a few minutes thought, he could see that the only chance of that would be if Childs spoke out at his trial in order to save his own skin. The chances of that, he concluded — even in the face of a long prison sentence, were remote. Childs and Leadbetter were both ex-Special Forces not a couple of cheap crooks on the make. If they had been selected for the assignment at Blackbridge it was because they were the best. They would keep their mouths shut. There was also the strong possibility that the establishment would find some way of not bringing Childs to court if it suited their purpose and it obviously would. The whole thing could end up with himself and a lot of policemen down in Dumfries feeling very bitter about nothing having been achieved. He would bite the bullet and do nothing for the moment.
He called Jamie Brown to see if he’d managed to speak to Gus Watson.
‘I didn’t get very far, I’m afraid,’ said Brown. ‘He’s worried about his job right now so he’s not inclined to rock any boats. I think he hopes that Trish Rafferty will keep on the plant-hire business and do something about his working conditions, which he says are pretty bad, but, as he put it, jobs in this area are about as common as flying pigs. Mind you, if the GM people get their way, flying pigs might become a bit commoner!’
Steven felt in no mood for humour. He asked, ‘What about the organic farm plan? Does he see himself fitting into that at all?’
‘I don’t think so. Gus didn’t understand Rafferty’s interest in organic farming any more than anyone else around here.’
‘So what’s bugging him about his work conditions?’ asked Steven.
‘He reckons that the condition of the machinery is much worse than it would be if it were housed properly. He’s fed up repairing damage caused by exposure to the elements. Most of the storage sheds have leaking roofs.’
‘Seems a reasonable complaint. Out of interest, did he ever talk to Childs and Leadbetter about the problem?’
‘He did,’ said Brown. ‘He says they just weren’t interested.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ murmured Steven, pleased to get even more confirmation that Childs and Leadbetter had no real interest in the financial state of Crawhill Farm. ‘Did Gus have anything to say about our “venture capitalists”?’
‘Just that they’re no farmers. “Wouldn’t know a cow from a unicorn,” was what he said, so he couldn’t see where the expertise to run an organic farm was going to come from.’
‘I hear Trish Rafferty’s coming back to Crawhill tomorrow,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll see what develops then.’
‘That should be interesting,’ agreed Brown.
Steven sat in his car about fifty metres from the Blackbridge Hotel, waiting for Eve who was late — it had already gone quarter past ten and he was beginning wonder if anything was wrong when she finally appeared, looking harassed.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she apologised. ‘We’ve been rushed off our feet this evening. One of the girls has gone down with flu and we’ve been really busy.’
‘No problem,’ said Steven. ‘What shall we do?’
‘I could do with a drink,’ said Eve. ‘We could drive over to Livingston?’
They drove the short distance to Livingston and found a hotel bar that wasn’t too crowded. ‘So what’s wrong?’ asked Eve, reading Steven’s general demeanour.
He told her what had happened to Jenny.
‘Childs and the other one were in the hotel bar tonight!’ said Eve. ‘The bastards! Have you told the police?’
Steven told her why not.
‘You must have been out of your mind with worry,’ said Eve.
‘I’ve had better days,’ agreed Steven with masterly understatement.
‘They really don’t want you snooping around, do they?’ said Eve in her attempt at matching it. ‘Are you any closer to knowing why?’
‘If anything, I’m further away,’ Steven confessed. He told Eve about the lab report on the chemicals and the rat.
‘But if it’s not the weed-killer and it’s not the GM crop itself, what else can it be?’ exclaimed Eve.
‘Trish Rafferty knows,’ said Steven.
‘I’ll have another go at her tomorrow when she comes home,’ promised Trish.
TWENTY
Early on Monday morning, Steven drove over to Livingston Police Headquarters to speak with Brewer. He was feeling uneasy about Trish Rafferty coming back to Crawhill and was concerned about how safe she would be in the circumstances. The bargain she’d struck with the powers-that-be had not done her husband much good in the end and he feared that she might be seen as a dangerous loose end to leave lying around, despite her role as informant in the first place. Childs’ abortive visit to her flat on Saturday night had just added to his unease. With her husband now dead, his immunity from retribution was no longer an influencing factor in how she would behave.
‘What would you like us to do?’ asked Brewer.
‘Establish a presence at Crawhill,’ said Steven. ‘Just let Childs and Leadbetter know that you are around. You could use their destruction of evidence as a pretext for having your forensic people go over Khan’s shed again, anything you like as long as there are officers on the premises for today at least.’
‘And then what?’
‘Let’s play it by ear.’
Steven drove over to Blackbridge, not that he had anything specific to do there this morning. He just wanted to be there and get a feel for things, as if doing so might encourage inspiration to strike. As he drove along Main Street he saw Ann Binnie coming out of the Post Office and stopped to speak to her.
‘James is being cremated tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Perhaps you’d care to be there?’
‘Of course,’ said Steven. ‘I liked him a lot.’
‘Ten o’clock at Mortonhall in Edinburgh. Do you know it?’
‘I’ll find it,’ replied Steven.
‘James made me promise that I’d have him cremated if he was the first to go,’ said Ann. ‘He said that after a life spent in agricultural Scotland, he would have seen more than enough of cold, wet earth and a bit of heat would be very welcome.’ Ann smiled but her eyes didn’t. Steven sensed that, like Eleanor Rigby, she was wearing the face that she kept in a jar by the door. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. He simply said that he’d see her tomorrow and said good-morning.
He stopped a little further along the street to read a notice, tied with string to a lamppost. It was an appeal for the return of a lost dog. ‘Patch’ was being sorely missed by his two young owners, Alan and Ailsa, aged three and five, and a reward was being offered for information leading to the dog’s return. A bad photocopy of a photograph of the two young children was incorporated. He silently wished them luck then walked on past the hotel where highly polished cars belonging to the warring factions of Whitehall and the Scottish Executive filled the car park and spilled out on to the road. The imagery in his head was of hot air and balloons.