‘Miss Wolfe. Tom should have let us know you were coming.’ And he held my eye as well as my hand. All the right training. Except it wasn’t that long ago I had met another American businessman. He had been younger with more obvious sex appeal, but that was hardly an excuse. It was still a raw memory, how easily I had fallen for the charm. I didn’t intend to be that gullible again.
‘Tom didn’t know.’
The hint of a raised eyebrow. ‘I see. Should I ask why not?’
‘I didn’t want to bother him,’ I said evenly.
‘Whereas you don’t mind bothering us.’ Although I have to say he didn’t sound that bothered.
I shrugged. ‘Do you mind?’
‘That depends on what you want.’
Verbal foreplay—after three years of conversations with Comfort I could take a degree in it. I smiled con fidently. ‘A little information?’
He looked at me for a moment without answering, then picked up the phone and pressed a button. He was still looking at me as he told his secretary to put his next appointment on hold and bring up some coffee. Then he sat down and put his feet up on the desk.
‘You got fifteen minutes, Miss Wolfe. You ask. I’ll answer.’
And so, basic power relationships established, the talking began. Starting with Shepherd’s present job and its scale on any ALF hit list.
‘It’s no secret. We’re not the only people doing this kind of work. Genetic engineering could, in theory, enable us to counteract the development of cancerous cells; basically stop the cancer before it begins. Of course genetics is an emotive subject: dabbling with God’s plan, that kind of thing. But that’s not the point. The ALF didn’t blow up Tom’s car because what he did was any worse than anyone else. That’s nonsense. Vandamed scrupulously observes the letter of the law in its use of animals for research. No question of that.’
‘So why did they pick him rather than anyone else?’
He shrugged. ‘Tom has a very powerful job. Over the last ten years funding for independent medical research in this country has diminished dramatically. I’m an American, so I don’t need to have an opinion about your political system. And in many ways I had an enormous admiration for Mrs Thatcher and what she did here, but in terms of the opportunities for government research, well, take it from me, you’ve got one hell of a brain drain on your hands. Vandamed’s cancer programme is not only one of the biggest in the country but also the most securely funded. Now that gives us a high scientific profile. And Tom is part of that.’
‘So it wasn’t what he did, but who he was?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’ve been targeted before, right?’
‘Over the past five years we must have had a dozen attacks on our laboratories, here and in London. Animals released, computer research destroyed, in one case even the publication of stolen documents.’
‘You surprise me. I wouldn’t think you were that easy to penetrate.’
‘Apart from you, you mean,’ he said, and it wasn’t clear with how much humour. I thought about looking guilty but it didn’t seem worth the drain on my acting abilities. ‘Yeah, well, in the past our security arrangements have left something to be desired.’
I let it go. ‘And before Shepherd got the job as head of research, what was he doing?’
‘He was in charge of our farming development division.’
‘I’ve already told Miss Wolfe a little about AAR,’said Alan Grafton, who had been so quiet we’d both forgotten he was still there.
Ellroy glanced at him, then back at me. ‘Then you ’ll already know how proud we are of it.’
‘Not really.’
He looked at me, as if deciding how much to tell. He took a big breath. ‘How much do you know about pig farming?’ Pig farming? About as much as I could write on a side panel of a beat up VW. Or less. ‘Not a lot, eh? Well, believe me, you will. AAR is going to revolutionize the industry. You British are very fond of your eggs and bacon. You eat a lot of pigs. Fact is, right at this moment you eat more pigs than you’ve got. At last count you were importing something like nine hundred million pounds of bacon and ham. And you’re not the only ones. The Germans are crazy about their sausage and Eastern Europe’s getting hungry for everything as long as the price is right. Your pig farming’s pretty efficient already. Working without subsidy it’s had to be. But it could be better. Everybody’s trying. You even got hybrid pigs with more teats for more piglets. But what you really need is to get little pigs to become big pigs quicker. Ideally before puberty sets in, so you don’t have to cope with castration or boar-tainted meat. That’s where AAR comes in.’
He stopped to take a well-deserved mouthful of coffee. It struck me my fifteen minutes were almost up, but he was cooking now. Nothing like business talk to get them going. ‘What is it? Some kind of growth hormone?’ I asked, because I never really liked lectures and because Ben Maringo’s leafl ets had a lot to say about how miserable things could get for animals pumped with growth hormones. Not to mention for the rest of us. The worst had been the story about Italian babies developing oversized genitalia after eating baby mush made from calves stuffed with growth hormones. Talk about the twilight zone…
He shook his head. ‘Wrong,’ he said almost gleefully. ‘AAR is not a growth hormone. It’s a performance booster. Very different. We’re talking an entirely synthetic compound here. It was developed out of a drug for asthmatics, a drug which was shown to have side effects in increasing muscle production. Of course the implications for livestock farming were obvious even then, but it took a lot of work to perfect the right—safe—compound.’
‘And was that what Tom Shepherd did?’
‘Yes, indeed. AAR was his baby. And as a result, when it goes into full production later this year, AAR will produce bigger pigs and leaner meat, which not only makes it more profitable for the farmers, but cheaper and—most important—healthier for the consumer.’
‘What about for the pigs?’
He smiled. ‘I told you, it’s not a growth hormone. Also it doesn’t need to be injected or implanted in the animal. AAR was specifically developed to be given through the feed.’
‘The research?’
‘All totally legit. You have my word. Tom Shepherd was not allowed to torture the pigs.’
And that, as they say, was that. Assuming he was telling the truth (and a little independent research would confirm or deny it), then Tom Shepherd and his bosses were squeaky clean. What was a girl to do? Go home, give loverboy’s photo to the police and forget the whole thing? Well, you know me. Why give up when there was the possibility I could work even longer hours for less money? I tell you, being in opposition to eighties culture has it drawbacks. I dug into my bag and pulled out the big brown envelope. Well, why not? After all, they knew more about animal rights activists than I did. Maybe they all combed their hair in a certain way? Or smoked the same brand of cigarettes? A kind of freemasonry of terrorism … I held out the photo to Ellroy.
‘This is probably a waste of time, but have you ever seen this man before?’
He picked it up and stared at it for a good long time. Then he shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’
He handed it back to me. Alan Grafton leaned forward. I passed it to him. He took a look, then another look. And I saw the slightest flicker. If Marion Ellroy hadn’t noticed it, he certainly noticed I had.
‘Alan? Do you know him?’ he asked quickly.
‘I—I’m not sure. Maybe. Is it important?’
‘It could be, yes.’
‘Then I’d better check. I mean, assuming that’s all right with you, Marion?’
This time the boss glanced at his watch. But what could he say? The door closed on Grafton and there was a moment of silence. Then Ellroy said quietly, ‘Is this guy someone I should know about?’
‘Probably not,’ I said.
‘You know, this conversation is beginning to feel a little unbalanced.’
I smiled gaily. ?
??I think we’re on the same side.’
He made me wait for it. ‘Yeah, well, I hope so.’
I smiled. Female charm. Not Marion Ellroy’s favourite topic when it came to the Shepherd family, but I got there somehow. His face darkened at the mention of the she-devils, but he kept his cool, until in passing I repeated Christine’s comment about how the job had maybe been too much for her husband.
‘I tell you, Miss Wolfe, this is one hell of a guilty lady you’re dealing with, and you should bear that in mind. In terms of the job she doesn’t know shit from Shinola. Tom Shepherd is one of best scientists it’s ever been my privilege to work with, a man of unassailable talent and dedication. And if he’d maybe got a little more support at home, all their lives would have been different.’
‘Is that why you paid for his lawyers?’
‘I don’t know what all of this has to do with the scum who wiped out his daughter, but yes, we did. And we’d do it again. Vandamed’s a company that believes in helping its employees. And at that particular time in his life Tom needed more help than most. I think—’
Except I’d never find out what. He hit the phone almost before it rang, said yep a couple of times, then wrote something down.
When he turned back to me, I knew the story had a future. ‘Alan says he can’t be sure, but the photo looks a little like a young guy who worked for us sometime last year. A temporary cleaner, went by the name of Malcolm Barringer. Our records say he was a student from Ipswich Polytechnic. So, you want to tell me who he is now?’ The hesitation gave me away. ‘Listen, Miss Wolfe, we’ve been more than cooperative with you today. But I didn’t become managing director by being a complete Mr Nice Guy. Or a complete idiot. Are you telling me we’ve been infiltrated?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m telling you I don’t know.’ He waited, watching me closely. After a while I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said, but with remarkable good humour. He played with his pencil for a while, then chucked it lightly on to the table in front of me. ‘OK,’ he said on a long sigh. ‘How about I put it another way? Since you’re clearly not working for Tom Shepherd any more, how would you like to work for us?’
Well, well. You play hard to get and everybody wants you. ‘Looking after your employees’ interests, you mean?’ I said because I couldn’t resist it.
He shook his head. ‘How you British hate the corporate ethic, eh? Yeah, I suppose you could call it that. Or you could see it as a way of getting the bastards who blew up a fourteen-year-old kid. His job killed her. Which means I’m partly responsible for her death, too. And that feeling’s never going to go away. But then you’d know all about that, I guess.’ Clever old Ellroy. Recognizing the strengths and weaknesses of others. All part of the job. I dropped my eyes. ‘You see, Hannah, right at this moment you seem to be doing a better job than the police.’ He paused. ‘I’m presuming whatever it is you haven’t told me you haven’t told them either.’ I don’t think I actually shook my head, but I certainly didn’t nod it. ‘So, how about we do it together?’
It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. Or even that I didn’t trust him. Because in some ways he’d been pretty straight with me. So let’s just say I was having too much fun being on my own. He didn’t give me long to answer, but then I suppose in his position he’s not used to hesitation. He made a little clicking noise with his tongue.
‘Well, no need to decide now. Give it some thought, OK? You know where to find me.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN Leader of the Pack
Give or take a bypass, Ipswich was on my way home, but the minute I got back in my car I realized I had a more pressing need. Another case of too much coffee. Of course feminism has given us girls the confidence to pee anywhere, but it had been a long time since breakfast and if I was going to stop I might as well make it work for me. En route to Vandamed I had passed a rural little pub with some beaten-up farm vehicles outside: local people, local gossip, and with luck everything I ever wanted to know about pig farming. Unfortunately it took me a while to find it again. In fact, in the end I had to ask. Twice in one day. I won’t tell Frank if you don ’t.
I pulled off the road into the forecourt of a farm. Two men were in the yard. As I got closer, I saw one of them had the back of an estate car open and was carefully lifting into it something wrapped in a large rug. I caught a glimpse of a dog’s head lying heavily at one end. It didn ’t look well. The vet—at least that’s who I assumed it to be, though he didn’t look anything like his TV counterparts—made his patient comfortable, then gently closed the back.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I know, Greg.’
The farmer was shaking his head. He looked pretty upset. If you hadn’t seen the dog you might have thought it was his wife they were taking away. ‘Aye, but you bring him back, OK?’
‘I’ll do what I can.’ But he didn’t sound hopeful.
I felt a little hesitant about interrupting, but they had spotted me, anyway. I gave them my best stranger-in-astrange land smile and told them I was looking for a pub where I might get a good beer and a sandwich. The farmer was too preoccupied with his dog to answer, but the vet said that if I followed him he’d point me out somewhere on the way to the surgery.
I tailed the estate down a few narrow lanes till we came to a T-junction, where he rolled down his window and signalled left while he went right.
It was the same pub. Inside it had the feel of a working man’s retreat: no horse brasses or gilt-framed prints, just solid old wood tables and simple chairs. There were three men sitting at a table by the fire, and a dour old character propping up the bar, no doubt put there by the local tourist board. They glanced up as I came in, and it was clear from the look they gave me that the establishment did not double as the singles bar for suburban Framlingham. The atmosphere had a distinct touch of An American Werewolf in London about it.
I went to the loo, then sat at the bar. I really wanted a large vodka, but a driving licence is important for a girl in my profession, so I settled for half a lager and two antique cheese rolls. The chap on the end bar stool fixed me with an Ancient Mariner stare. I smiled and raised my glass. He kept looking. I found myself thinking of the Government’s failed policy to provide adequate community care for mental patients.
The conversation of the men sitting by the fire came across the room in waves: dog trials, silage, a new outbuilding which had stretched somebody’s mortgage to the limit. And pigs. A lot about pigs. The size of them, the state of them, and how soon they could be looking to sell the meat of them. Final trials. Outside as well as inside the perimeter fence.
In the end my curiosity got the better of me. I picked up my drink and wandered over, using the excuse of the fire to get closer. They noticed me, but pretended they didn’t.
I went in all guns blazing: I was the bright-eyed reporter from a national newspaper who’d just interviewed the managing director of Vandamed about his new wonder drug, and now needed some first-hand evidence. OK, so it’s every private eye’s worst cliché. The fact is more often than not it works. But then I generally use it in the city. Could be that they like the media better there.
I shifted emphasis to the problems of pig rearing in an age of EEC subsidies. That’s the great thing about living in a television culture—everybody knows almost nothing about something. This time I hit raw nerves. Two out of the three of them jumped immediately. Seven minutes later I could have gone on Mastermind. How much more money a year does a Welsh hill farmer earn from keeping two thousand sheep in pasture rather than pigs? Pass. Answer: sixty thousand pounds. Yeah, well, I was surprised too. And once their indignation was aroused, it was but a small step to the new world order as heralded by AAR. For the first time in a market economy, it seemed, pigs could fly. And so could the men who farmed them.
‘So Vandamed’s right. This is going to revolutionize pig farming? I mean the meat yield of these animals will be really that different?’
‘Aye, well, according to the tri
als it certainly seems to be.’ The man who spoke was small and wiry, with a shock of black hair peppered with grey, or maybe it was paint.
‘Come off it, Duncan. You don’t need any trial to tell you that. Just take a look at the buggers,’ chipped in his fair-haired companion.
I was sitting at the table now, notebook open, scribbling furiously. The man to my right, Mr Silence, was watching me. I wrote ‘big buggers’ , but in a squiggly handwriting so he couldn’t read it. Then I looked up. ‘That’s amazing. And what about the taste? Vandamed says the drug encourages muscle production and therefore leaner meat. Is that true?’
‘Well, that we wouldn’t know.’ The fair-haired man again, eager to chat. ‘Seeing as it’s still in the trial stages we’re not allowed to eat it. Still, we have it on good authority that it’s delicious, don’t we, Duncan?’ And he grinned at his companion. The nudge-nudge implication was obvious. With so many pigs round for the slaughterhouse they obviously didn’t notice when the odd one went missing.
I wrote down ‘meat delicious’. ‘So what about the pigs themselves? How has it changed their lives?’ This time farmer number three seemed more interested. I nodded encouragingly at him. He was a ruddy-faced man with a definite touch of the Van Morrisons to his physique. In Oxford Street people would have turned to look at him. But he wasn’t the one who was out of place here.
‘You a meat eater yourself then, are you, Miss, er …?’
‘Parkin. Helen Parkin.’
‘Miss Parkin?’
‘Yes. Course,’ I said meeting his gaze. Well, one cod does not a vegetarian make.
‘So, you like pork?’
‘Yes. And ham and bacon.’