‘I deserve that money. I’ve been twenty-five years with the company. And the doctors said I’d been under great stress.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you had. And I bet it hasn’t let up, either. Must have been a great strain trying to decide whether or not to mention it to the other farmers.’
‘As far as I was concerned, the problem was with the feed. The meat was perfectly safe. They’d done the tests.’
‘Oh yes, they’d done the tests, but not enough. Or rather not enough to be sure that in some cases, where the drug was used in conjunction with certain antibiotics, the hormones wouldn’t pass over into the food chain. Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? And that was what Tom Shepherd had found out last October when he came to talk to you.’
He sighed. ‘More or less, yes.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him to let it be. Not to rock the boat. I mean all he had was questions. There was no proof, no proof at all. The incidents with the dogs could have been pure coincidence. And even if by some remote chance they weren’t, it was because the dogs ate the offal, where the residue build-up would have been much worse. Humans would never be affected to that degree. That was, and still is, my professional opinion as a veterinary surgeon.’ Well, he had to try it, really, but it wasn’t with much conviction.
I waited. He closed his eyes. ‘Do you know how much Vandamed had spent developing AAR to that stage? Upwards of four million pounds. They weren’t going to throw it all away because of a couple of freak results. It wasn’t as if Tom’s own hands were that clean, anyway. If he had gone to them, they would have just reminded him how he got his new job in the first place.’
‘You’re saying he took your advice and didn’t go back to Ellroy?’
‘That’s right. He didn’t.’
Well, it wasn’t his first lie and it wouldn’t be his last. ‘So he kept his suspicions to himself. But just in case, just for his own protection he wrote it all down, didn’t he? The whole deal. Wrote it down and sent a copy to you for safekeeping?’ He opened his mouth. ‘Don’t bother to try and pretend. You’ve already told me he did.’
He scowled. ‘What of it? By that time it was too late anyway. The police said he was already starting to receive those death threats.’ He snorted. ‘Animal rights. Poor old Tom. Who would have thought it?’
‘You know, you’re a really bad liar, Maurice.’
‘Listen. I know nothing about what happened, you understand. Nothing. I’ve worked hard all my life. Done the best I can for the animals in my care. I nearly died because of their wonder drug. But in the end I’ve made it work for me. I’m sorry for Tom and I’m sorry for Mattie, but my grief is my own affair. And I’m not going to let it take away from what’s rightfully mine. Mine and Myra’s.’
‘Even though Shepherd and his daughter are dead?’
‘Animal rights, not me.’
Interesting, the power of auto-suggestion. ‘And what about the others? The ones in two or three years’time who buy a leg of pork and end up deader than the pig it came from?’
He shook his head. ‘Even if it were possible, which I dispute, thousands of people have heart attacks every year. Most of them are prime candidates. Tom said himself it’s almost certainly random. It’ll affect less than one pig in a thousand, if that. It probably wouldn’t make any difference anyway. They’d need to stuff themselves silly and then some.’
‘And what happens when someone finds out?’
‘How’re they going to do that? Some chap with heart trouble snuffs it. Who’s going to think to ask him how many pig’s kidneys he’s been eating recently? No doctor would make the leap. Unless they already knew.’
‘Or unless someone told them.’
‘I told you. I nearly died once. I want to stay alive a bit longer.’
‘Well, you’re going the right way about it. I mean, seeing as you’ve already outlived the only people who could have prejudiced your happy retirement, I’d say their deaths put you home and dry.’
‘Mattie Shepherd’s killing had nothing to do with this. It was animal rights. And Tom committed suicide. Injected himself with his own rat poison. Everybody knows that.’
‘Yes. But nobody but you knows what he said that afternoon when he called you.’ I waited, then pushed. ‘However, let me give it a guess. He’d worked it out, hadn’t he? Worked out who was really behind his daughter’s death. How far did he blame you, I wonder. Not enough, obviously.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said in a voice of a man sleepwalking through lies. ‘Tom committed suicide. It was nothing to do with me.’
‘Yes. Well, let’s just hope the anxiety of continuing to believe that doesn’t give you another heart attack.’ I stood up. There comes a point when you just don’t want to be around someone with so little courage. Especially when you’re going to be so much in need of your own.
‘It’s been an education, Mr Clapton. I can see now why Tom Shepherd kept coming back to you. I mean everybody needs a good friend when they’re in trouble. I’m sure you’ll do the same for me too, though you should know that according to his secretary Marion Ellroy is at meetings all day in London and not contactable until this evening’s reception. I wonder what they can be celebrating? Maybe you’ll know when you get your next cheque in the post.’
I picked up my bag and walked to the door. In the kitchen I saw Myra putting the finishing touches to the laden tray. ‘Oh, one more thing. Your farmer friend Peter Blake was buried last weekend. A simple ceremony at the local church; nicely done from what I could see. One pig’s kidney too many, eh? Don’t expect the Vandamed retirement newsletter mentioned that? But then you did say you didn’t want to be bothered. No need to worry, though. According to the local registrar’s office the death certificate read “natural causes”. Well, he’d already had palpitations. And everyone knows how much he liked his food. Tell your wife I’m sorry I don’t have time for her scones. Too much cholesterol.’
CHAPTER TWENTY This Little Piggy Went to Market
I had to get away from the house with its front garden of spring wonder. I drove down the street and parked by a hole in the road left by British Gas. Farther down the pavement a girl was taking a dog for a walk, or possibly the other way round. It was a young labrador full of puppy energy and the smells of life, entranced by every tree and lamppost. She must have been twelve or thirteen, another would-be Mattie. I felt sick. From what I had heard and for what I had done.
I understood now that I could never have saved her. The papers in her hand, the phone call, the car keys, it was all part of a complex, orchestrated dance of death, and I had never even got near the dance floor. But Shepherd’s death had been more mine than I had realized. By telling him what I knew about Mattie’s animal rights affair and her fingers in his filing cabinet I had lit a fuse which could lead only back to him.
I could see him now in his study, knowing exactly where to look and knowing exactly what it was he wouldn’t find. Who else to call but the man with the copy? The only man he felt he could trust. For so long I had thought he must have been calling Vandamed, to warn them that the proof of his secret—whatever it was— had gone. It never occurred to me that they might be the ones who had taken it.
The question is, did it occur to him too? Vandamed’s own brand of rat poison. Murder or suicide? Maybe it didn’t even matter that much. Poor old Shepherd. If only he’d been able to tell me. Or someone else. They might not have loved each other till death did them part, but she was his wife. She would at least have listened.
Come on, Hannah. No time for pity now. I looked at my watch. It was just before 2.00 p.m. Frank had said he’d be back after lunch. I needed to talk to him so badly, but I didn’t have a lot of time to spare. Knowing Maurice’s itchy finger with the dial he would already be on the phone now, calling his minders. If he made it sound urgent enough they just might find the boss after all. As for the reception that Ellroy was due to attend that ev
ening, well, it was apparently rather hush-hush. If it was to celebrate what I thought, then it was interesting that Clapton hadn’t been invited. Maybe I wasn’t the only one to have doubts about his reliability.
I drove back into town and went straight to the office. No one was there. There were four messages on the answering machine. I rolled them back. Two inquiries from bona fide members of the public, one from Frank’s wife and one from Hannah. I listened to my own voice telling of an after-dark appointment with animal rights. What a lot had happened since then. It was impossible to tell whether or not Frank had called in and heard it. But if he had, he’d left no message in reply. I sat down at the computer and wrote him a little essay.
It took longer than I expected, but then there was a lot to say. Insurance, really. Just like poor old Tom Shepherd. Making sure those who ought to know, do. Of course, it wasn’t without its loose ends, but with luck Frank and I would have those stitched up by the end of the day. I printed it out and saved the file. I called it ‘PORKIES ’. Because that was basically what it had all been. I put it in an envelope on his desk. On the top I wrote ‘FRANK’ in big bold letters, and then, ‘Read this before you do anything else.’ Then I used the fax line as a phone to dial into our answering machine and left a fifth message. It read: ‘There’s a letter on your desk. But if you get this message later than 3.30 p.m. Thursday, meet me first. From 6.00 on I’ll be at the Hortley Hotel outside Framlingham.
I reckoned it would take me the best part of two hours to get there. After that I had no real plan at all. I knew enough to know that I shouldn’t move without Frank. But I also knew I couldn’t leave it too long. Besides, if Vandamed had something to celebrate, it was most definitely the time for us to join in.
The Hortley Hotel was just as I remembered it. But the weather wasn’t as good. Already the blossom was ragged, soaked and blown away by wild coast winds. It was just six days since Nick and I had been here, petting under the apple boughs with a future together still a possibility.
Nick. I hadn’t given him much thought these last two days. I let him walk into my imagination and take off a few clothes. But the signal was weak, cluttered with the aftermath of another man’s violence and my need to pay back my debts. And it went deeper than that. In the end despite all the pig meat I think Nick and I had probably died of natural causes. His post-mortem would no doubt favour a different pathology—one that included my lack of commitment and an unbalanced, obsessional attitude to work. And, of course, he’d be partially right. All I would say in my own defence is that as male problems go it is always more evident in the female. And that I am not unaware of it. As he—and others before him—had said, maybe it was just a question of meeting the right man. Of course I find the idea insulting (when did anyone ever suggest it to Philip Marlowe?), but I don’t rule it out altogether. I ’ll keep you informed on that one. For now the only man I really needed to meet was my boss.
I had alighted on the Hortley Hotel more out of chance than design. Near and yet so far. But it felt like a good choice, a place public enough not to stand out, and private enough to be alone, where the clientele—it was Thursday night so there was little passing trade—was more small-town business then average pig farmer.
Even so, as local memories go, last weekend was recent enough for me still to be something of a celebrity. I went to work on my physiognomy. The hospital nurse had equipped me with some clever make-up (Nick had obviously triggered in her illusions of a romantic recovery), which I hadn’t bothered with up until now as it looked too crude, but when applied thickly enough it did something to obscure the bruising. The eye it couldn’t touch, but a pair of tinted glasses helped. Of course it didn’t exactly render me invisible, but then what woman wants that …?
I got there just before 6.00 p.m. I sat nursing a large orange juice and looked out over the gardens down to the pond, waiting for my favourite ex-policeman to arrive.
I was so busy thinking, winding the Ariadne thread of the story back towards the centre of the labyrinth, that I didn’t notice him come in. So the first I knew was an unexpectedly soft, lilting voice, really quite attractive, not at all like the carrion call across the dark stream behind the pub.
‘Hello, Hannah. Sorry I’m late.’ Loverboy at last.
At least he was better-looking than Frank. To have found me he must have been looking hard. That made me happy. How much he would have destroyed following in my footsteps was a little more worrying, but I would no doubt find out soon enough. For now I was too excited by the meeting. He had great physical presence, I grant you that. But then, of course, I had more reason than most to remember it. He was older than the Vandamed mug shot, more mature even than Mattie’s furtive snap, which made him not that much younger than me. Full frontal, the face was a little too broad to be really stunning, and the hair was different, dark now and cropped right back, more James Woods than James Dean. But the same man, and one that most women would be tempted to get into bed with. Unless, of course, you knew where he’d been.
He watched me for a second and there was a kind of pride in the look. A man surveying his handiwork. I wanted to ask him if it was better than sex, but didn’t want to hear the answer. For Mattie’s sake I hope he was equally adroit at both. He put out a hand on the table in front of me. I glanced down. In the fleshy curve between thumb and first finger there was a small but perfectly formed bite-sized welt. I looked up at him. Put your fingers in my mouth next time, buddy, and I’ll chew them off. Only now did the fear return. I felt a sick surge of panic in my gut. And something worse near by.
‘Are you pleased to see me or is that just a knife in your pocket?’ I said, and my voice was OK, a little throaty but firm. Humour. Refreshing the bits that other emotions can’t reach.
‘Well, you know how it is, Hannah? Some women you just can’t leave alone. We’re going now, all right. Arm in arm. Just like we can’t get enough of each other. If you make any move or say anything at all, I’ll stick you with six inches of steel.’ And I knew that he meant it.
We got up and walked out, his arm around my waist, the edge of the blade lying like a shard of ice against my side. A man reading a copy of the Financial Times glanced up as we passed, then back down at the state of the economy.
The driveway was deserted. His van was parked off the road, an ordinary tradesman’s Transit, nothing fancy, a hundred of them to be seen every day pootling down country lanes. The back door was already open. Just as we got there he wrenched me round to face him; lovers’rough stuff, an embrace too tight for breath, let alone a knee up into the groin. For a second I almost thought he was going to kiss me, but once again it was all for show. Where his lips should have been there was a nasty-smelling rag. Over the nose and into oblivion. Chloroform; you’d think a drugs company could manage a little more sophistication …
It was dark, but the smells were not Ford Transit kinds. Welcome back to the sweet stench of the piggies. I could hear them near by, a raucous screeching sound, panic and fear in equal measures. I moved and felt rustling straw beneath me. Away in a manger. Nobody ever mentions the pig shit. And the noise. Not just animal but mechanical: somewhere in the background the clanking and turning of machinery. I moved some saliva around and spat it out on the ground. I wiped my lips on the back of my hand, then pulled myself up on the edge of the pen.
At the far end of the shed the pens had been dismantled to be replaced by one big enclosure. Inside pigs huge with hormone flesh were packed so closely together that they could hardly move. They were jostling against some big wooden doors at the end of the pen. I thought about the geography of the building. Outside those doors would be that crude little concrete corridor connecting one shed to the other. At last I understood its function. I also understood the function of the machinery. I wasn’t the only one. No wonder the animals were squealing. These big piggies go to market. Vandamed had no doubt stopped giving them the tranquillizers. What had Maringo told me about having to withhold drugs for a certain numbe
r of days before slaughter to avoid cross-over? Bit of a joke really, considering what some of them would be carrying around in their kidneys. The sight of them made me feel sick. Or maybe it was the smell. Or the remains of the chloroform. I turned and slid down on to the floor again, propping myself up against the side of the pen. Better this way round. Apart from the view.
There, leaning over the opposite rail, watching his captive wild life was the managing director of Vandamed International, British Division. He looked surprisingly at ease in his suit amid all the shit and filth. I’ve had enough of this, I thought, being put to sleep by thugs and waking up in strange places with suave men watching over me.
‘How you feeling?’ he said raising his voice over the screeching.
‘Better than the pigs.’
He glanced at them, then back at me. ‘I suppose it doesn’t help. Knowing they’re part of history.’
Time for the civilized conversation. Thank God for a man who’d read the books. ‘You got the go-ahead, then?’
‘Two days ago. Successful final trials. Now full-scale production.’
‘Shame the architect didn’t live to see his house built.’
‘It is indeed. We could have made it a grander celebration. As it is, without Tom—well, it’s just a token effort. A couple of managers from the meat industry, some journalists—’
‘And a few suckling pigs,’ I said, as the sound of their terror welled up all around us.
He shrugged. ‘All humanely dispatched according to the rule book, I assure you. You know, this is a big moment for us, Hannah. By the end of next year we should be in a position to start feeding some of the profits back into the community. We’re planning on creating a Shepherd research fund. It’ll be a lot of money.’