‘That would be good.’
‘Did she have a computer? There might be something there that would give you an insight into what she was doing.’
‘Some kids broke in. Trashed the house. They took it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Notebooks?’
Kate brightened. ‘It’s possible. I haven’t actually cleared her room out.’ Her face fell again. ‘Actually, we didn’t find any when we put it back together again after the break-in.’ She sighed inwardly. If only I still had the laptop, it might have given me more information, she thought. Like who owns Ashdown Farm.
‘So, where did she get it from? You in journalism too?’
Kate let out a bark of laughter. ‘Me? No. I work in B&Q. She’s the one with the brains.’
‘You have brains.’
‘Seriously. You have to stop it. It’s embarrassing.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t even finish school.’ Kate picked up the next application and showed it to Greg. Attached to the front was a picture, not of the applicant but of a cat dressed in a blazer and balanced behind its ear was a pen.
When she got back, Tim was in bed, reading, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He pushed them onto his forehead as she walked into the bedroom.
‘I was about to call,’ he said.
‘Sorry. Got carried away, lost track of time.’ She snuggled up to him.
‘Did it go well?’
‘We found a few good candidates in amongst the crazies.’
‘Good.’
She leaned over and kissed him, and Tim cracked a smile. ‘You stink of booze. He take you anywhere nice?’
‘Some ridiculously fancy cocktail bar.’
‘Did he.’
‘Don’t be jealous. It was rubbish.’
‘I know you’re lying. By the way, something I need to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Iris. She’s been in hospital.’
Alarmed, Kate sat up. ‘What?’
‘She had another fall. Bashed her face. She’s fine now,’ he quickly reassured her. ‘I called the ambulance, she was checked out, a couple of strips put on, and then I brought her home in a cab.’
‘Thank goodness. Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I didn’t want to disturb you . . . knew you were busy,’ he said, and she frowned. ‘It wasn’t like I couldn’t take care of it myself. She’s fine,’ he reiterated.
‘Did she call? Here?’
‘No, she couldn’t get to the phone. I saw the sign,’ he explained. ‘The flamenco lady hadn’t been put back on the windowsill.’
Kate bit her lip. ‘Maybe I should cancel my plans tomorrow.’
‘That doctor? It’s taken you ages to track him down.’
He was right. Kate would go and see Iris in the morning and then decide what to do for the best.
TWENTY-FIVE
Kate was horrified to see that Iris was sporting a black eye to go with the cut on her cheek, when she went round the next day. ‘It’s the sideboard’s fault,’ said Iris. ‘Attacked me on my way down.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. Bit bruised. Ego too.’
She pointed to the handrail she’d reluctantly decided on putting next to the toilet. ‘I feel like an invalid,’ she grumbled to Kate. ‘Never get old.’
‘I think that might be out of my power.’ Kate had come over with her toolkit and was marking the place on the wall where she was about to screw the rail in.
‘Good God, to think it comes to this. Still, if I’m going to have one, it should be there. The last thing I want is to fall with my knickers around my ankles.’ She clutched her bosom. ‘The shame of it!’
‘Sorry I wasn’t around yesterday.’
Iris flapped her away. ‘Tim was there, don’t worry. Good night with Greg?’
‘Yeah. Some great CVs,’ said Kate.
‘And how’s it going with this detective work?’
‘You mean Becky’s story?’
Iris nodded.
‘Well, I still don’t know who owns Ashdown Farm. It’s virtually impossible to find out the real individual behind these offshore companies.’
‘Scheming tax dodgers?’
‘And the rest. I’ve had to throw myself at the mercy of a forensic accountant.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Me neither, until in class the other day. They specialize in digging up dirt. Investigate what’s really going on behind the scenes.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘It is. Four hundred.’
‘To do the job? I suppose that’s not too bad.’
Kate grimaced. ‘An hour.’
Iris’s mouth dropped. ‘Good God. How on earth . . .?’
‘Like I say, I begged for mercy. Managed to persuade the trainee to take pity on me. Still costing a bit but I’ve got a couple of discounted hours out of her. Might not be enough but it’s worth a try.’
‘So, what are you going to do when you find out who it is?’
‘Sue him. Or her. On my course, I’ve found out that I can pursue them under “tort law”.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘I’m slowly building up the case about the poisons that these people have had sprayed on or near them and what it’s done to them. And –’ she took a deep breath – ‘I’ve found a doctor!’
‘To make them better?’
‘If only that were possible. No, who also believes that herbicides are bad news. This doctor has had several children in his rural village become ill with cancer. He’s written a report stating that there is a link between herbicides and leukaemia – and in that report he mentioned Senerix, the agrochemical company who make the stuff that’s put on the fields at the farm in Sussex. I want him to look at Arnie’s case, and the others, and put his claims on record.’
‘Will he?’
‘Not yet. I emailed him last week, but he fobbed me off.’
‘He scared?’
‘Probably. He doesn’t know me. It’s a big thing to put your name to for a complete stranger.’ Kate started to drill, and the conversation paused. Iris, sitting on the loo lid, picked up her TV-listings magazine.
‘So, what next?’ she said when the drilling abated.
‘I thought I’d go and see him. Try and persuade him . . .’ said Kate, tentatively.
Iris beamed. ‘Good for you. Where is he? Local?’
‘France.’
‘Oh my Lordy Lord.’ Iris wafted her face with her magazine.
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s positively foreign!’
‘I know. Exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never been abroad before. I’ve got my flight booked . . .’
‘When for?’
Kate’s eyes shone. ‘This afternoon.’
‘What?!’
‘After getting his email, well, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I rang his surgery and asked for an appointment to see him. The earliest they could fit me in was tomorrow morning.’
‘But I thought he fobbed you off?’
‘He did.’
Iris was puzzled. ‘Go on.’
‘He thinks I’m a patient. I phoned up for a medical appointment. Gave the receptionist another name so he didn’t refuse to see me. Pretended I was on holiday there but have unfortunately contracted a virus that needs professional attention.’
Iris laughed. ‘Sneaky!’
‘There, that’s done now,’ said Kate, patting the handrail. ‘Why don’t you give it a whirl?’
Iris eyed it with a mixture of suspicion and disdain. ‘Oh, all right.’ She grabbed the rail and pulled herself up.
‘Ta da!’ said Kate. ‘You will be all right while I’m away, won’t you? I was going to ask Tim to look in on you.’
‘I’ll be as right as rain.’ Iris looked at the rail. Sighed. ‘I suppose I could always hang a towel on it. Disguise it. Right, time for some Rooibos tea. Stops the signs of agi
ng apparently.’ She made her way towards the kitchen. ‘Just make sure you don’t come back until he’s made a statement. Signed!’
TWENTY-SIX
Her first trip overseas. She was actually in Bordeaux! In France! Kate was slightly amazed that she’d made it as she gazed across the river at a stunning bridge, lit up in the gathering dusk. Flying had not been without its challenges. It had never occurred to her that she might not know what to do. The check-in man had looked at her in puzzlement when she’d asked what happened after she’d handed over her new passport. After being directed through security, there were yet more Krypton Factor-like challenges to navigate. Where did she go next? She couldn’t call Tim as he was navigating a 196 bus through the rush-hour traffic. She was about to ask a friendly-looking fellow passenger when Greg had rung her to double-check the shortlist of CVs for the bursary. She’d kept him on the line a minute longer.
‘Could I ask a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing but . . . I’m at an airport. Where do I find the plane?’
He’d been stunned into silence and then burst out laughing. She indulged him. Yes, yes, very funny. Whenever you’re ready.
The laughter died. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’
‘That’s why I asked.’
‘Have you never flown before?’ He sounded amazed.
‘Now, let me think. Yes, there was that time I flew first-class to the Bahamas and lay on a beach for two weeks having someone massage my toes and spray me with mists of pure mineral water.’
He laughed again.
‘I could really use a hand here – I kind of need to not miss this.’
‘Sorry. You go to the gate.’
‘Gate? What gate?’
‘You see a bank of screens?’
Kate looked around. Saw some a few metres away and headed over. ‘Yes?’
‘Your flight will be listed. And when they’re ready, they’ll put the gate number up. As soon as they do, you follow the signs and go sit in a small holding pen until the airline crew direct you onto the plane.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a little less luxurious than your previous trip.’
‘That’s it. I’m going home again.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Short break. France.’
‘Nice. Any particular reason?’
‘Just fancied it. Never been.’
‘Clearly.’
There was a moment of silence, where it was evident she wasn’t telling the whole story, but he didn’t pry.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘I’m pathetic.’
‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re normal.’
She wasn’t really, she was a stunted adult with less life experience than most, due to a teenage pregnancy and a lack of education. Not that I’d change having had Becky for the world, she quickly thought.
Now, as she looked around the pedestrianized streets of Bordeaux, Kate felt herself slow and relax as she moved with the ebb and flow of the evening crowd. She took the time to take in her surroundings: wrought-iron curls above heavy wooden doors, white stone buildings oozing grace and majesty – and the lights! Lights everywhere: on the buildings, in the squares, turning the trees into clusters of glowing emeralds. This was a city that came alive at night. And walking around it was free.
Kate was worried about how much this impromptu trip had cost – with the expense of paying the forensic accountant, every penny of her savings had long gone, and she’d had to sell a good chunk of her shares. It’s important, it’s important, she told herself firmly, quelling the rising anxiety. The doctor’s testimony was crucial to her case. She had to get Dr Zayan on side tomorrow – how, she still had no idea, but it would be an expensive failure if she didn’t.
Kate was hungry but had already decided to avoid the restaurants. Street food was cheaper. She found a deli and bought a baguette filled with Brie and tomato for a few euros and went to sit on a bench in the centre of a square. It was lively; cafes lined the wide pavements and the outside tables were filling up, garlanded by groups of people with their glasses of wine and plates of charcuterie. There were a lot of smokers, Kate noticed. And dogs, the French seemed to like their dogs, many hunkered under chairs and tables, chins settled on paws for the long night. It wasn’t a loud, frenzied crowd as it might have been in London, where drinkers stood in crowds, talking at high volume, blocking the pavements. No one stood here. They sat in civilized groups.
It was a shame she couldn’t join them, she thought, find herself a table for one and order a drink and watch the people go by. She looked longingly at the cafe nearest to her. An empty table beckoned. Oh, what the heck, why not? It would cost less than ten euros and seeing as this was her first-ever trip abroad and something she’d been yearning for all her adult life, she could allow herself an hour of escapism.
She walked over and took a seat, the iron chair scraping on the cobblestones. No one else took any notice of her, no one looked at her strangely, wondering why she was alone. She picked up the menu. A waitress appeared and Kate scanned the wine list. Understanding very little of it, her eyes settled on one word. Well, when in Bordeaux . . . She pointed to it on the menu. ‘A glass of this one, s’il vous plaît.’
As she sipped the wine, enjoying its smooth warmth, she thought about what she was going to say to Dr Zayan tomorrow. Wondered how he was going to react when he learned that she didn’t have a virus after all.
The following morning Kate ordered a taxi to St Couraque, a small village fifty kilometres north of Bordeaux, as it had no train station and that was the only way she could see to get there. It cost eighty-five euros, which made her wince – she could ill afford it. The car picked her up at eleven from her hotel and wound its way through the city, crossing the river with St Michel cathedral behind her, the sun on the water lighting her way ahead. Once they’d left the main road, the car looped through the countryside that had made the region so famous. Rows upon rows of neat ordered vines marked dark-green grids across the landscape. Occasionally, they would pass a grand chateau standing sentry over the burgeoning crops below. It was serenely beautiful, a landscape that had inspired artists for decades.
As they came into St Couraque, with its cobbled square, the church bells were striking noon and the dozen or so shops were bringing in their goods from the front, ready to close for lunch. Kate paid the driver and he drove off, the engine noise fading fast. The last of the shutters went down and then it was quiet. She saw a few people turning into side streets, presumably to their homes, then noticed she was the only person left in the square. Feeling disconcerted, she looked around for Rue Albert, which she knew was one of the roads leading off the square, and headed down it.
A very neat, very clean front door with a buzzer, and a gold nameplate with the name Dr Bernhard Zayan embossed across it, told her she’d reached the right place. Kate pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. Inside, a middle-aged receptionist with her hair in a bun looked up.
‘Bonjour. You must be Madame Thomas.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Kate. It had been necessary to concoct a fake name, so Dr Zayan didn’t automatically dismiss her.
‘The doctor is free now,’ said the receptionist and indicated another door to the side of her desk.
Kate knocked tentatively.
‘You can just go in,’ the receptionist instructed.
She opened the door. Dr Zayan sat at a large modern desk, a computer in front of him, books lining the pale-olive painted walls. A small box of children’s toys stood in the corner and, projecting out from behind a blue curtain, Kate could make out the end of an examination table.
He looked up and rolled his wheeled chair back from the desk. ‘Take a seat.’
She did, noticing a photo of a vibrant brunette hugging two small boys Blu-tacked to the wall in front of him. His wife and children, she thought.
‘So, I understand you are h
ere on holiday?’ he said with a thick accent.
‘Yes . . .’ said Kate. He had striking blue eyes, made even more noticeable by the fact he had incredibly short hair, shaven almost to his tanned scalp.
‘And you have some virus, no?’ he prompted.
‘Not exactly.’
He frowned and checked his computer. ‘I must apologize . . . this is what we have . . .’
Kate took a breath. Smiled. ‘I’m actually here because . . . I wanted to talk to you.’
He raised a bemused eyebrow.
‘A while back, a woman wrote to you. A woman from the UK, asking if you would talk to her on record about your experiences of – and beliefs on – the use of herbicides in agriculture. Specifically, the beautiful vineyards,’ she waved a hand towards the window, ‘around here.’
He stiffened, and the welcoming smile had gone.
‘And I know you refused,’ she hurried on, ‘but—’
‘You can tell her no. And you can also tell her to stop sending her . . . friend?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You can tell her to stop sending you to come out and harass me.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Pardon?’
Kate said nothing, just smiled hopefully.
He sighed. ‘It’s you.’
‘Guilty as charged. Listen, before you kick off,’ she said quickly, ‘please just hear me out.’
He said nothing, and she was encouraged. ‘As I said in my email, a little boy I know is ill – really ill, because he has leukaemia. I believe he got this disease from the crop-spraying that goes on right outside his house and I want to help him, his family.’ She paused. ‘I’m a lawyer . . .’
He looked at her sceptically.
‘. . . in training –’ she kept on talking despite his look of disbelief – ‘and I’m planning to sue the people responsible for spraying these poisons metres from where he – Arnie – lives. I’m building my case and you . . . you are a brick.’
He stood. ‘I am not,’ he said softly.
‘Please don’t throw me out. I’ve come all this way specially . . . I know you’re an expert on this. Those children, in your article – you’ve ascertained before that herbicides have caused cancer. Twelve children in this village alone, whose school backs onto vineyards – twelve children in eight years have had cancer—’
The Daughter Page 14