‘Is it my deodorant?’ whispered Brown. ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’
Steven hid a smile as Leadbetter arrived at the bar and acknowledged them with a nod. He ordered three beers and took them back over to the table.
‘Strange bedfellows,’ said Brown.
‘Maybe they’ve joined the same country dance class,’ said Steven, but he wasn’t smiling; he was wondering just what the hell they were telling McColl.
‘Another drink?’ he asked Brown.
‘Might as well. I’m having such a good time.’
‘I’m sorry I dragged you out here.’
‘Not at all,’ said Brown. ‘I’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall over there though.’ He nodded in the direction of McColl and Co.
Steven glanced and saw that McColl seemed to be writing furiously. ‘Strikes me, we’re going to read all about it,’ he said.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Brown, ‘My piece tomorrow is on the spiralling cost of building a parliament worthy of our new MSPs.’
‘Maybe he’ll share the story with you.’
‘Maybe the Pope will announce his engagement to Barbara Windsor.’
‘Are we off?’
‘I think so.’
Brown was just draining the last of his whisky when Gus Watson walked in through the door and the two men settled back down. For once, fate had been kind, thought Steven. This was the perfect “accidental” meeting that he’d hoped for. ‘Hello Gus. How’s the arm?’ he asked.
‘Hallo you two,’ replied Watson, tapping the white sling inside his jacket. ‘It’s fine thanks. The doctor reckons I’ll be back at work by the end of next week.’
Steven insisted on buying Watson a pint and he and Brown started steering the conversation around to where they wanted it to be. Brown asked, ‘Any chance of you getting a decent workshop now that Trish is in charge down there?’
‘She’s promised to do something about it,’ replied Watson. ‘I’m getting too old to lie out in all weathers.’
‘Beats me why you don’t use the barn to work in and store the machinery,’ said Steven. ‘That would be much better wouldn’t it?’
‘The barn’s full,’ replied Watson taking a long draw from his pint.
Steven exchanged a quick glance with Brown who said, ‘But I thought Crawhill didn’t operate as a working farm, Gus?’
‘It doesn’t. Tom has been storing some stuff for some guy in a suit who approached him over a year ago. You know Tom and easy money.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Oh, nothing dodgy, I can see what you’re thinking but it was nothing off the back of a lorry. Tom was no angel but this was a government deal with a proper contract and done all legal like.’
‘But you don’t know what it is?’
‘I was there when the lorries delivered it. Sacks of granules, I think. Tom said the government had to store it until the Europeans had agreed some standard for it or something like that, so he rented out the barn to them. You know what that Brussels red tape is like.’
Brown and Steven silently nodded their agreement and Brown steered the conversation off in another direction before Watson started to suspect that he was being pumped for information. They had what they wanted to know.
Another ten minutes and McColl and his companions for the evening rose to leave. McColl was smiling all over his face. He now acknowledged Brown’s presence and came over to him. ‘You know,’ he said gloatingly. ‘Ever since I started in this business I’ve always wanted to ring in and say, “Hold the front page! And tonight… I’m going to do it. What was it that villain in Batman used to say? Ah, I remember, So-long suckers!’
With that, he turned and left, with Childs and Leadbetter holding the door open for him.
‘Scoop McColl does it again,’ murmured Brown. ‘The journalist’s journalist, the man they call… Alex.’
‘Wee shit,’ offered Watson.
Steven and Brown said good night to Gus Watson and left the pub. ‘What now?’ asked Brown.
‘We can’t waste any more time. We’ll have to go see Trish Rafferty tonight.’
Steven felt relieved when it was Eve who opened the door at Crawhill. He felt that they now had at least a chance of getting in through the front door.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ exclaimed Eve in an astonished whisper.
‘I have to speak to Trish,’ said Steven.
‘For God’s sake, Steven, the poor woman is in the middle of making funeral arrangements for her husband,’ protested Eve.
‘It won’t wait,’ said Steven. ‘I know what’s been going on here but I need her to fill in the blanks.’
‘Who’s this?’ asked Eve, looking at Brown.
‘Jamie Brown of The Scotsman. Call him insurance.’
‘I know what Trish will call him,’ said Eve.
‘Who is it?’ demanded Trish Rafferty, coming out into the hall and looking over Eve’s shoulder. ‘What the hell do you want?’ she said when she saw Steven standing there.
‘I need to ask you some questions,’ said Steven.
‘Sling your hook,’ said Trish angrily.
‘Wait!’ Steven showed her his ID and said, ‘I’m sorry but under law you are obliged to answer them either here or at police headquarters if you’d prefer.’
Trish stared at Steven, her eyes flashing and then looked at Brown. ‘And who’s he?’ she asked.
Brown introduced himself and Trish snorted. ‘There’s no bloody way that I’m obliged to speak to bloody reporters,’ she fumed.
‘No, you’re not,’ agreed Steven. ‘We can talk on a one to one basis if you prefer.’
‘You’d better come in.’
Trish said to Eve, ‘Look after this one, will you? See that he doesn’t pinch the silver while I talk to Sherlock here.’
Eve took Brown into the living room with an apologetic smile while Trish led Steven through to the dining room where they sat down at the table to talk.
Steven could see that Trish — arms folded across her chest, was in no mood to be co-operative so he said, ‘Let me tell you what I already know. That barn out there — he gestured with his forefinger — is full of BSE infected material. The local rats have been eating it and they have developed their own form of BSE that’s why they’ve been going around biting everyone. Your husband is responsible for that situation in some way and you shopped him to the authorities over it. You told them everything in exchange for a promise of immunity for him and his co-operation in what they’re doing here at the moment. How am I doing?’
Trish Rafferty had gone pale. She swallowed and said, ‘No comment.’
‘Won’t do.’ Said Steven. ‘I have to know the missing bits. What kind of a hold do Childs and Rafferty have over you?’
‘No comment.’
‘For God’s sake, woman, the Ferguson kid is dead; James Binnie is dead; your own husband is dead and all because of what’s been going on here. ‘Do you want to be an accessory to murder?’
‘They were accidents,’ insisted Trish.
‘James Binnie’s death was no accident and neither was your husband’s,’ said Steven, playing his ace. ‘Someone locked them in the shed with Khan and then doused the lights. Think about it, Trish!’
‘You’re lying!’ she stormed.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Steven calmly. ‘James Binnie had a friend at the vet school who told him exactly what was wrong with the rats. He came here to have it out with your husband and Childs and Leadbetter killed them both.’
Trish shook her head, unwilling to accept what she was hearing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They promised me nothing would happen to Tom if he just did what they told him.’