It had taken him a long time to accept the hint that, sweet as he was, she just wasn’t interested. He’d got a first-class honours in chemical engineering and had asked if he could take her number at the ceremony afterwards. Becky was ashamed to say, she’d given him a false one.
Nosiness – that natural journalist’s instinct – made her click on the email. She opened up Facebook. There he was, bespectacled, with floppy reddish-blond hair, a dimple in his chin. So, he’s managed to track me down, she thought ruefully. She didn’t have the heart to reject the request, so she just ignored it. Bye bye, Adam. About to close the site, her eye suddenly landed on something and her heart leapt. That logo. It was the second time she’d seen it that day. Goosebumps rose on her arms as she scanned the page. Oh my God, he was a Research and Development assistant at Senerix Agrochemicals. Oh happy, happy lucky day! This was one of those rare pieces of luck that Terence called ‘journalist’s gold’. Should she accept? What would Terence do? He’d go for the story, obviously. And then there was Piers – she had to beat Piers.
Becky clicked on ‘accept friend request’ and then started to write a friendly ‘It’s been so long’ message.
TWENTY
In the farmhouse kitchen, Justin turned up the thermostat then went back to his laptop. He was almost done with his monthly management report. It had been a long, drawn-out day, starting with that girl who’d ambushed him first thing in the morning. Becky, he thought, letting the name become familiar in his head. His mouth twitched into a smile: he’d liked her sparkiness, had fancied her if he was honest. Could’ve chatted her up if she hadn’t gone banging on about that eco-warrior stuff. Maybe she’d come back. He rather hoped she would. She’d said she worked for a decent paper. It was unlikely to turn into anything, but he’d better mention it. He went back to the keyboard and typed in a short sentence and then sent the report.
It was still dark when he got up the next morning, and cold enough that his breath came in clouds in the bedroom. He threw a fleece over his pyjamas and knew he’d need coffee to start the day.
As he jogged down the stairs, he thought he heard a sound below him and slowed up, listening carefully, muscles tense. Then, from the hallway, he saw a light on in the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks, braced himself for an intruder. Whoever was in there started to whistle. Something bright and jolly.
Justin stepped into the room and was greeted by the sight of a tall, thick-set man with a horseshoe moustache.
‘Good morning!’ said the man, speaking with a strong eastern-European accent. ‘Coffee?’
Astounded, Justin looked around and saw that the man had boiled the kettle and was pouring water into two steaming mugs. There was something very discombobulating about a bulky man in black leathers stirring the contents of a mug as if for all the world he were working in a tea shop.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Justin.
The man put down the kettle and held out his hand. ‘Janković.’ Despite being in his early sixties, Janković had the solid build and height of a younger man, with an impressive amount of brown still present in his close-cropped hair. The grey in his moustache was the only thing that hinted at his true age.
‘Justin,’ he replied automatically, while at the same time wondering why he was adhering to polite formalities.
‘Yes,’ said Janković. An affirmation, as if he already knew.
Justin pulled his hand away. ‘Are you going to tell me why you are in my kitchen?’
‘We have the same boss.’
‘What?’
‘He sent me.’
‘I don’t understand – you have a key?’
Janković waved at the phone charging on the counter as he pulled out a chair and sat at the wooden table. ‘Call him if you like.’
Justin cast his eyes towards his phone. Then, without turning his back on Janković, he picked it up and dialled.
‘Hey, it’s Justin. Can you call me?’ He hung up. ‘It’s his answerphone,’ he said to Janković.
‘I will make sure he listens to your message.’
Justin could feel his anger rising. ‘I want you to get out. Now.’
‘Not possible, my friend.’
‘You what? You break in here, start fucking around with the coffee like you’re in charge of a breakfast buffet. You can take your sorry Polish arse out my kitch—’
‘No, no, no!’ thundered Janković, as he slammed his fists on the table. He stared at Justin, eyes cold, his bulk leaning towards him threateningly. Justin could feel his heart hammering. This man was a lunatic. He rapidly thought of something with which to defend himself, mentally calculated the distance to the knife block.
Janković suddenly burst into loud guffaws. ‘Not Polish. Serbian.’ He sat back down. Took a genial sip from his coffee mug.
Justin was silenced.
Janković watched him. ‘You sent your report.’
‘Yes.’
‘You will let me know if she comes back.’
‘Who?’ asked Justin, even as he knew the answer.
Janković placed a card on the table. On it was printed a number. Then, without any rush, he got up and left.
Justin waited a full five minutes before he moved – only when he’d heard the sound of a motorbike start up and then drive off down the lane.
He picked up the card. He crushed it in his hand, went to throw it away, but at the last second, something stopped him. What was it Janković had said? They had the same boss.
Maybe he’d wait.
Why would his boss need the services of someone like Janković?
Troubled, Justin recalled his hope the night before that Becky would come back to the farm. Now something made him hope that she wouldn’t.
TWENTY-ONE
2018
Kate walked through the open door of the unfamiliar room and looked around, sick with nerves.
She was back in a classroom.
There was only one other person there so far; a thirty-something woman sat in the second row of desks. If the woman hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t looked up and smiled a friendly smile, then Kate would have walked out again. Instead, she croaked a ‘hello’ and self-consciously made her way over to a desk a couple of rows behind.
She sat down and wondered what to do next. Should she get out her notebook? A pen? Should she wait? She tried to see what the woman had done but couldn’t see past her shoulder. Oh God, please don’t let me show myself up, she prayed inwardly, getting a flashback to her nightmare from the previous night where she failed to answer the (very simple) questions the tutor was asking and suffered the scornful stares of the rest of the class.
She wondered what her high-school teachers would say if they could see her now, Caitriona, the disappointment, the girl who threw her life away for a night of foolishness, now sitting here at Croydon College, on the night-school course for Civil Litigation. She imagined a few raised eyebrows, perhaps condescending expressions. She wondered what her mother would say.
Other people started to come in, giving her a nod or smile as they took their seats. All in all, there were about twelve of them, all ages, all colours.
Then a small, bird-like woman entered, walking quickly, precisely, glasses perched on her tightly curled auburn head. She reached the front of the class, pushed the glasses to the top of her nose and examined everybody in front of her.
‘Marvellous. A full house. Let it still be as such by week fifteen.’
The group shuffled. It’s amazing how quickly you can feel you’re a schoolgirl again, thought Kate.
‘Anyone got anything to say about attendance?’ asked the tutor.
Maybe it was the nerves, and the fact she’d almost bolted, but Kate couldn’t help feeling defensive: why had this woman waltzed in without knowing anyone and suddenly assumed they were all going to turn into a bunch of skivers?
‘Better make it interesting then,’ Kate mumbled.
The teacher swivelled. Beady-eyed her.
> Oh bollocks, thought Kate. She had not intended to be heard but, cheeks pink, she forced herself to hold the teacher’s gaze.
‘Very good. A challenge. An understanding of what is rightfully yours, what you have paid for, what you expect. And what if it isn’t . . . interesting?’
‘Then I want my money back,’ piped up an old black guy at the back. The class laughed.
‘Excellent! I can see we’re all going to get along famously. I’m Gloria Chapman, your tutor. Solicitor for thirty-five years, now retired. From the back – name; why you’re here.’
The class began to introduce themselves. The old black guy was Clifford. He had a number of properties that he rented out and wanted to be ‘well equipped’ when it came to knowing what he could hold his less-reputable tenants liable for. There was a young mum – a professional – looking to go back to work but with a career change and so considering signing up for a degree; the course was a taster. A couple of solicitors were looking to expand their knowledge base. Then it was Kate’s turn.
‘Hi, I’m Kate Ellis. I signed up to this course because there’s someone I know who I think deserves compensation.’
Gloria stopped, intrigued. ‘Care to elaborate?’
Kate hesitated, squirming, hating the spotlight. She was sharply aware of how woefully unqualified she was, how she really had no idea what she was talking about.
‘Um . . . it’s a young boy who lives in a village in Sussex. His house is right next to a farm. I have reason to believe that the chemicals that are continually sprayed on the crops next to his house have made him really ill.’ She cleared her throat nervously. ‘And he’s not the only one. There are several people, all in the same area.’
Gloria nodded. ‘Is it illegal?’
‘Is what illegal?’
‘What the farmer’s doing.’
‘Actually . . . no.’
Gloria looked around at the rest of the class, eyebrows raised. ‘So how do you intend to sue him?’
‘Um . . . I just think it’s wrong. What he’s doing. Surely it’s against the boy’s human rights or something?’
‘Or something?’ echoed Gloria.
Kate felt herself getting hot. ‘That’s why I’m here. To figure out what’s possible.’
Gloria appraised her. ‘Tort law. That’s what’s possible. Your farmer has a duty of care to his or her neighbouring residents to make sure they don’t come into contact with pesticides that could cause them harm. If they do, through his actions, he has a duty to compensate.’
Kate was scribbling furiously.
Gloria continued. ‘Can you prove a causal link between what the farmer has done and this boy’s illness?’
‘Um . . .’ Kate looked up, bit her lip. Gloria’s eyebrows went up again.
‘So, who owns your farm?’ asked Gloria.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How are you going to find out?’
Kate was silent. She had no idea.
‘Anyone?’ said Gloria, casting her eyes around the room.
‘Land registry,’ called out Clifford, the property owner.
Gloria smiled. ‘Correct! And if a company is listed as the owner?’
‘Companies House,’ added Clifford.
Kate wrote it all down in her notepad.
‘Of course, your farmer will have public liability insurance,’ said Gloria.
‘Would that cover any claim that might be made against him?’
Gloria smiled. ‘Depends. Might cover up to ten million. You going for more?’
Kate had no idea at that moment. All this information was swimming in her head; in fact, she was finding the whole process hard to pin down.
‘Any experience as a lawyer?’ asked Gloria.
Kate looked up from her notepad. ‘No.’
Was that a look of scepticism? Or curiosity? She felt herself wobble.
‘So, you’re acting as a litigation friend.’
A what?
Gloria saw her face. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn.’
Kate didn’t answer. That was obvious.
‘Big project,’ said Gloria.
‘Yes.’
‘Better grow some balls.’
Kate staggered back home just after ten that night, shutting the door against the rain. She hung up her wet coat in the hallway and went to collapse on the sofa.
‘How’s the student?’ said Tim, as he hastily tidied up some papers on the coffee table.
‘I know nothing. Nothing.’
‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it?’
‘I honestly don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this. There’s some smart people on the course. People with degrees. Years of experience. I’m definitely the novice.’
‘And your point is?’
‘It’s hard, Tim. Really hard. Everyone else seemed to “get” stuff a lot quicker than me.’
‘You’ll speed up. It’s just new, that’s all. You figure out what you need to do?’
‘Find out who owns the farm – to start with anyway.’ As Kate put her feet up on the table, she accidentally knocked off one of Tim’s documents. She picked it up, just as he also went for it. He held out his hand.
She noticed the pile on the table for the first time. They looked official. Financial papers, legal documents. ‘You have a busy night?’
‘Just doing a bit of filing. You know.’ He opened and closed his hand for the document she was holding.
As Kate passed it over, her eyes caught the top of it.
‘But this is addressed to you in Northampton,’ she said, surprised.
‘Where I used to live. You know that.’
She did: it was where he’d grown up and his parents were still there, in the same house they’d been in for forty years. They’d Skyped once or twice, not having managed to meet yet. Kate had been caught up in her own life and they couldn’t bring themselves to visit for a weekend, as it would disrupt their routine of Friday night bingo.
‘But . . .’ She blushed, feeling as if she was prying.
‘What?’
‘The date on the top of the letter. It’s January last year.’
‘And?’
‘Well, that’s only a couple of weeks before we met.’
‘And?’
‘I thought . . . well, you didn’t ever say that you’d only just moved down south.’
‘You never asked,’ he said briskly. ‘Is it important?’
No, thought Kate, she supposed not.
TWENTY-TWO
Kate had risen early and taken the train to Ramsbourne, nervous about the task ahead. She walked down the dirt track that ran adjacent to Hawthorne Lane. It was muddy and large, squelchy ruts ambushed her supermarket trainers, however hard she tried to avoid them. She made a mental note to look in the second-hand shop for a pair of wellies. Then, after about half a mile, she came into a large yard, flanked by seven or eight big outbuildings: Ashdown Farm.
Kate looked around at the barns and the massive steel silos, wondering where the farm manager might be. Or perhaps he was in one of the two thousand acres he managed.
One of the barns had its doors wide open. She tentatively made her way across, looked into the cavernous space. Bales of hay were stacked at one end, reaching far up to the ceiling – several times her height. The room had a sweet, earthy smell and, other than the hay, it was empty.
‘Can I help you?’
She jumped. Flustered, she turned on her full-beam smile at the man who stood in the vast doorway, his arms folded. She tried to make out his features, but he was in silhouette. Best to speak.
‘Hello. I’m looking for Justin Holmes.’
He stepped forward into the light cast from a window and she recognized his face from the farm website.
‘You’ve found him. And you are?’
‘Caitriona,’ she said automatically, not wanting to give her familiar name. She held out a hand. He didn’t take it and she nervously dropped her hand by her side.
/> ‘What can I do for you?’
There was no warmth to his eyes, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed the wiry muscles on his forearms. He was blocking her exit.
‘I’ve been looking around the area . . . thinking of moving here. And I was curious . . . about your farm. Crops, is it? As opposed to . . . cattle . . . or sheep?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I love the country, green fields,’ she said, echoing Grace. ‘Then it goes all golden when it ripens. Wheat, anyway. Do you have wheat?’
‘We do.’ He spoke cautiously.
‘Ah, OK. Interesting. Yes . . . I was also wondering about how you grow it. You know . . . when you dig the field, plant the seeds. What kind of stuff you spray on the crops.’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, why? Why do you want to know that?’
She smiled disarmingly. ‘Just interested. If it’s going to be in my back yard.’
He studied her a moment. ‘They’re all standard, all approved.’
‘Herbicides?’
‘Naturally.’
There’s nothing natural about them, thought Kate. ‘What’s in them?’
‘Like I say, they’re all licensed.’
‘Can you tell me what the chemicals are? Just curious, you understand.’
‘Where did you say you were looking to move?’
‘Oh, in Ramsbourne.’
‘Yes, I got that. Where exactly?’
Flustered, she answered quickly. ‘Hawthorne Lane.’
‘Didn’t think there were any houses for sale there.’
Stupid, stupid, thought Kate. Why hadn’t she been more vague? ‘It’s only just come on the market. Not yet advertised.’
A pause and then he nodded, and she was unsure whether he believed her. ‘Good luck. I’m quite busy . . . if you don’t mind.’ He stood to one side, allowing her to walk out of the barn.
‘Sure. Nice talking to you, Justin. Great farm you’ve got. Who’s the owner here, by the way? Someone local?’ In fact, she knew it wasn’t. Her online investigation had told her the farm and the land were owned by a nondescript company that was registered in Cyprus, a place notorious for hiding the true individuals behind companies.
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