‘You look warm,’ said Grace drily as Kate followed her friend into her kitchen. It was a massive understatement; half an hour sitting in the blazing sun with Rob then a two-mile walk to Hawthorne Lane had left her frazzled. She took the glass of iced water Grace offered her and gulped it down.
‘Better?’
‘Much. Thank you.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t get a lift with Rob. Was he out on another job?’
Kate grimaced. ‘He was there.’ She filled Grace in on their conversation – and the promise to hold a vote.
‘God, this is a sorry, shitty state of affairs,’ said Grace. ‘I feel for him, I really do. And that poor girl.’
‘Me too. I just wish I could promise him something more.’
Grace nodded. ‘When are you going to hold the vote?’
‘As soon as possible. I know you’re not around much . . .’
‘No. Chemo starts again next week. Part of me’s dreading it. It’s so intense this time. But part of me wants to think it’s the last ever time, then he’ll be given the transplant, then, well . . . we just have to hope it takes.’ Grace’s eyes briefly lit up: cautious hope mixed in amongst the pain. ‘I’ll talk to Nick but I’m certain he’ll think the same way as me.’ Grace looked at her. ‘You have to carry on, Kate.’
Kate felt the full force of her friend’s belief in her, the trust she’d do a good job. It gave her strength. ‘I’m going to a trade conference next week, there’s going to be a lot of people there from the agrochemical industry. I’m hoping to corner a few.’ She suddenly remembered what she’d been carrying in her bag – she pulled out two large wrapped boxes. ‘For the boys.’
‘Arnie! John!’ called Grace and they came running in. ‘Look what Kate’s got for you.’
Identical looks of ecstatic anticipation. The paper was ripped off in 3.4 seconds, then there were exclaims of delight.
‘A dog!’
‘Mine’s got a green collar, what’s yours got?’
‘Red!’
They flung their arms around Kate and she hugged their warm, small bodies, flooded by a rush of affection. She helped get the toy dogs out of the limpet-tight plastic packaging and the boys immediately pushed the buttons on the leads so the dogs started walking. John pushed another button and his dog barked.
‘Look, she’s saying, “Thank you, Kate, you’re the best!”’ He fed her with the food that was included in the pack, then made her poo it out. ‘I’m going to call mine Kate,’ he declared, and she laughed as she watched her namesake defecate plastic bones on the kitchen floor.
‘Mine’s called Lucky,’ said Arnie, spontaneously hugging it. ‘Like me,’ he added, ‘because I’ve got my own pet!’ He held out his hand. ‘Here, Lucky!’
Kate looked at the small six-year-old boy who’d be going into hospital again in a few days’ time and wished with all her heart that he would indeed be lucky.
THIRTY-NINE
Wednesday, 22 February 2017 – two days before the accident
Try as she might, she just couldn’t focus on her work. Which was bad, because her interview was in only a couple of days’ time, but Becky found her gaze wandered around the office, her mind distracted by the fact she’d called Adam to apologize three times and not once had she got through, nor had he called back.
The first time had been later on Valentine’s night itself. She’d come home to an empty house and called Adam while she made cheese on toast in the kitchen, her mum’s enormous bunch of roses in a large vase on the table in front of her.
She fingered the soft petals as she waited for him to pick up, feeling her stomach twist when he didn’t.
‘Hi, Adam, it’s me, Becky. I haven’t behaved brilliantly and I’m sorry. I don’t want it to end like this so . . . please will you give me a call?’
She’d checked her phone all the next day but there had been nothing. No call, no text. She’d come home from work to find her mum completely loved up, she and Tim sending and receiving text messages like teenagers, her mum guffawing at some joke, which she’d shared with Becky. ‘Look! He thinks I look like a Hawaiian lady,’ she’d said, then held out her phone with a photo of the two of them both mysteriously garlanded with flowers over their winter coats and Becky had smiled indulgently.
When Kate had asked about Becky’s own date, Becky had been matter-of-fact: ‘Think I might have blown it, Mum.’ Kate had been so sympathetic and sorry that Becky had had to make out it was more of a mutual thing and both were fine about it. But she wasn’t fine. She wanted to see Adam again, as she really enjoyed his easy friendliness.
She tried him again the following evening and then at the weekend, when her mum was out with Tim – and staying over at his house (but only if Becky was OK with it). Becky had sent her off and contemplated a Saturday night alone, made all the more poignant by remembering she’d been having dinner with Adam only the week before.
Three messages were enough. He clearly wasn’t going to contact her again, and she would only humiliate herself by pursuing it. Instead she had to concentrate on her interview. She desperately wanted the job, but she knew that Piers was going to be very hard to beat.
Terence was conducting the interviews and Becky had agonized over whether or not to tell him about the herbicide story. Stories about illnesses and herbicides had appeared before but this one was different, she could sense it. She knew she was onto something, but a crucial element was missing, this she sensed too, and she wished with all her heart she’d not been so stupid with Adam.
More than anything, she wanted to be able to tell her mum she’d got the job. She wanted to pay her back for all the sacrifices she’d made.
Becky made herself focus. There was work to do. She needed to get back in touch with Grace, the mother of the twin boys in Ramsbourne. Grace had, quite naturally, been chasing her on the status of the story and Becky knew she had to come clean. It was also only fair that she let Grace – and the others – know what she’d discovered as she’d researched her story. She needed to go and see her.
Becky called Grace’s number and, getting her voicemail, left a message asking if she might be free late the following Monday afternoon – it would be a good time to go to Ramsbourne as Terence was out at a budget meeting.
Turning back to her computer, she tidied up the interview she’d done with the nanny who’d accused the footballer of assaulting her and then sent it to print so she could proofread it. She saw Piers get up from his desk and head towards the printer station on the other side of the office. He gave her a wink as he passed, and she glared at him in return. She wondered how confident he was about his interview – he’d made sure she knew he was up first, ‘always means you make the best, most lasting impression,’ he’d said, which she knew was hardly a scientifically proven fact but nevertheless still rattled her already grated nerves.
‘Printer’s chewed up your docs,’ said Piers as he appeared back at her desk. He flapped around the first page of her article as if in proof.
Becky went to take it from him, but he flicked it out of her reach and glanced down at the text.
‘“She said she didn’t think she’d get the job. There were much better candidates than me”,’ he quoted, laughing, delighted with his wit.
‘Give it here.’
‘But, Ellis, it’s so interesting. So accurate.’
‘Don’t be a dick.’
He grinned, knowing he’d got to her, and dropped the paper, letting it waft slowly down where it skimmed the desk and fell on the floor.
She glared at him, not wanted to grovel around on the carpet.
‘Sorry,’ he said, unexpectedly. ‘Here, I’ll get it, you go and check the jammed doc.’ He bent down and retrieved the paper, glanced at it. Shrugged. ‘Actually, it’s really well written.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You know why I give you a hard time. You’re the competition. And you’re good.’
Don’t be flattered, don’t be! thought Becky, annoyed. He’s playing y
ou.
‘I know,’ she said imperiously and, head in the air, walked past him, over to the printers, looking for the one with a jam. They all seemed to be working fine. She scouted around the worktops, looking for her article, but couldn’t see it. Darcy, the PA, was standing by the post-out tray, engrossed in something she was reading, and then Becky recognized it. Her article.
‘Not for publication yet,’ she said sharply.
Darcy jumped guiltily. ‘Oh, sorry.’ She quickly smiled. ‘Couldn’t help it. It’s good.’
‘So everyone keeps saying,’ murmured Becky and, taking the document back, she looked it over. It all seemed to be fine, no scrunched-up or half-printed sheets. Puzzled, she turned and looked back towards her desk.
In her seat was Piers, on her computer.
The little shit! She marched over, furious. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Damn it, she hadn’t locked her screen before she’d left, and now he was searching through – what?
‘Get off that,’ she said angrily, pulling the laptop away from him. She quickly checked the screen and saw he’d been scanning through her search history. ‘Are you really that desperate?’
‘It’s your own fault,’ said Piers pleasantly. ‘If you weren’t so secretive all the time . . .’
Becky fumed, biting her tongue to stop herself from shouting at him.
He seemed amused by her anger. ‘Oh, come on, you’d have done the same.’
His lack of shame only served to infuriate her further and she was about to explode when her phone started ringing. That would be Grace, calling her back. She slammed her laptop screen shut, took the phone from her bag – hiding the screen from Piers’s inquisitive eyes – and then headed off quickly to the only place she knew she’d get some privacy. Bolting the door behind her, she sat on the loo seat and answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Becky, it’s Adam.’
Her heart leapt. ‘Adam! Hi . . . how are you?’
‘I’m fine. I got your messages.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Becky quickly. ‘I behaved abominably. But it wasn’t just about—’
‘It’s OK,’ interrupted Adam. He stopped, quiet for a moment, and Becky waited, wondering why he was calling her.
‘No need to apologize, OK? No hard feelings. I’d like to meet. There’s something I need to tell you.’
Becky’s heart began to race. ‘Is this to do with your work?’ she asked tentatively.
He paused. ‘Yes.’
A wave of excitement gripped her. ‘Is it about the thing you couldn’t talk about?’
‘Yes.’ It was so quiet, it was almost a whisper.
‘When?’
‘Huh?’
‘When do you want to meet?’
‘Oh . . . can we do Friday? After work?’
‘Yes . . . oh, shit, no. I can’t, sorry. I’ve said I’d meet my mum’s new boyfriend. Sorry. Big thing.’ Damn, she thought, but quickly offered up an alternative. ‘But I can do Saturday?’ She waited, on tenterhooks.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘That’s fine. But I don’t want anyone to know.’
‘I won’t say anything.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t want anyone to see us together.’
Becky was surprised. ‘What . . . you think you might be being . . . followed?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I just don’t want it. OK?’ He was getting agitated.
‘It’s OK, we can do it any way you want.’ She thought quickly. ‘Premier Inn. Holborn. I’ll text you the room number. Say 10 a.m.?’
‘OK.’
‘I didn’t recognize your number.’
‘No. This is a new phone. Temporary.’
He sounded afraid then, and she got a shiver up the back of her neck.
‘I’ll see you Saturday, OK?’ she said.
‘Yeah. See you then.’
He hung up and Becky clutched her phone, heart thumping. He was going to tell her something. Something big, she could sense it. She stood up, smoothed down her skirt, composed herself, then opened the cubicle door.
‘Jesus!’
Piers was standing by the sinks, leaning against the wall. Becky stared at him in fury and dismay. What had he heard? She thought back frantically. Nothing – except where she’d agreed to meet Adam. Shit. She’d have to rearrange. Think of somewhere else.
Piers watched her. ‘Who was that, Ellis?’
‘Just fuck off, Piers,’ said Becky, angrily. ‘Just FUCK OFF!’ She barged past him and stormed out, the door slamming behind her.
FORTY
2018
Justin pulled the tractor up in the yard and jumped down from the cab. He was hot and grimy; the sun had turned the ground to dust. He headed towards the farmhouse, slowing as he neared the building: leaning against his motorbike, with his face cast up to the sun, was Janković. As Janković turned, Justin quickly resumed his normal step. He walked on and into his house, without even acknowledging his visitor.
Of course Janković followed, as Justin knew he would, letting himself into the kitchen. Justin felt Janković’s eyes follow him, watching as he got a glass of water from the tap. In anger, he spun around.
‘What?’
‘Nice to see you, too.’
It grated on Justin that Janković was so calm. ‘Cut the bullshit. Why are you here?’
‘Just checking up on our little arrangement.’
‘I offered Rob Bolton the money. Like you said.’
‘He’s in?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the others?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Janković frowned. ‘Don’t take too long with that. We want to get this tidied up as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘For all our sakes,’ he said pointedly.
Justin didn’t trust himself to speak; he took a sip of water.
‘You know a Caitriona Ellis?’ Janković asked.
The question took Justin by surprise. Did he? Jesus, yes. That woman who came to the farm a couple of months ago. Asking questions. Wasn’t she a Caitriona?
‘No.’
‘You’re lying.’ Janković walked over to the knife block and extracted one. He took it to the table and sat down, all the while holding the blade up, inspecting it. ‘You’ve broken our trust.’
‘I won’t be a part of this.’
‘You already are. You’re the one who gave us all the information. Told us about the journalist busybody.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t know you were going to . . .’
‘Go on. You can say it.’
Justin gritted his teeth. Don’t let him rattle you. ‘You still haven’t told me. Why did she die? It’s only spraying. Happens everywhere.’
‘Nothing you need to know about.’
‘No? If I’m such a valued member of the company, I want to know.’ Justin, bolstered by a rush of bravado, took a step forward. Folded his arms.
Janković looked him up and down. Then suddenly he placed his left hand on the table and, gripping the knife, stabbed the wood between his splayed fingers at a rapid speed. A quick-fire bang! Bang! Bang! He left the blade sticking up in the table and gave a triumphant laugh. ‘Pretty good, no?’ he said, flexing his unscathed fingers.
Justin stared. The man was off his head.
‘Serbian army,’ said Janković. ‘Little trick I learned. In the boring bits. When we had no surveillance to do. Of course, now it’s all different. Not possible to hide. Technology changes everything. Now I can find out anything I like about anyone. Where they go. Who they speak to. If they run.’
Justin swallowed. I will not be intimidated by this thug. ‘What if I tell you and your paymaster to stick your threats up your own arses? What if I tell everyone what you did?’
Janković picked his helmet up off the table and smiled. ‘Now you know not to do that. It’s not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.’
He turned and left, and Justin sank into a chair. He had a des
perate urge to just pick up the phone and call the police. Pray for some salvation. But he couldn’t do that. He would be dead.
He had to get himself out of this situation. Only trouble was, he didn’t know how.
FORTY-ONE
The machine beeped as it scanned Kate’s ticket and she pinned it onto her suit jacket – the one she’d bought earlier in the year for the AGM – then she was into one of the cavernous halls of the London Excel conference centre.
She looked at the floorplan that had been thrust into her hand, a detailed layout of this year’s ‘Agrochemical Britain’ conference. Some of the larger companies and organizations had booked stands. Mini pop-up representations of their multi-million-pound corporate successes. The place was awash with delegates strolling, striding, back-slapping and hand-shake pumping. There were hardly any women.
Kate found the section for Senerix’s stand. The person she wanted to talk to was Dr Roger Harris, a man in his fifties who had been with the company for over a decade and was a senior scientist in the R&D department. She’d tried contacting him numerous times, via email and phone, each missive requesting an interview.
Not once had she got a reply.
Kate prowled surreptitiously around the periphery of the stand with its green-and-yellow logo present at every opportunity. She pretended to read leaflets and study the displays flanked by bottles of their products but was actually gauging who Roger was. At one point another Senerix employee, a younger man with red hair, asked if he could help with anything, and when she politely refused, he looked at her strangely before eventually moving off. She caught him glancing her way once or twice again from across the stand and it began to unnerve her – what was his problem?
After a couple more minutes, Roger bade farewell to the man he’d been deep in conversation with and, with much mutual shoulder-squeezing and hearty laughing, the man finally left, and Roger was alone.
Now’s your chance, Kate told herself and, stuffing the leaflet she’d been idly reading back into its slot, she headed for Roger with the directness and swiftness of a torpedo.
The Daughter Page 23