Free Deception by Ken McClure Page A

can never get anyone in authority to give you a straight answer to a simple question. I got fed up asking the local suits and briefcases so I tried phoning the lab that carried out the analysis, but I hit the same wall. Getting information out of them was like drawing teeth.’
    ‘ If you say absolutely nothing to the press you can never get into trouble,’ said Steven. ‘It’s the way people look after their pensions in the civil service.’
    ‘ Can I quote you on that?’ smiled Brown.
    ‘ I’d rather you didn’t.’
    ‘ As for this organic farm business at Crawhill, it’s just too bizarre for words. I haven’t spoken to a soul in the village who believes that Thomas Rafferty is the least bit interested in organic farming – or any kind of farming come to that. By all accounts he’s a waster who’s been making a living out of hiring out farm machinery. For years his only other recorded interest has been in pissing large quantities of lager against the wall, so much so that I heard his wife left him recently.’
    ‘ Maybe he’s thinking of selling up,’ suggested Steven. ‘Maybe he’s trying to turn the farm into a going concern to make it more attractive to prospective buyers?’
    ‘ That’s possible, I suppose,’ said Brown thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I hadn’t thought of that angle. So why won’t he speak to the press? You’d think he’d want all the favourable publicity he could get. We’ve got a ready-made villain in Lane so Rafferty would seem well placed for the starring roll of organic-growing hero. And where do the minders come in?’
    Steven shrugged. ‘Could be the Magnificent Seven,’ he said, ‘come to aid the poor peasant farmer?
    ‘ There were only two.’
    Steven gave Brown a sideways glance and saw that he was preoccupied, not stupid.
    ‘ The first thing I’m going to do when I leave here is run a check to see if Crawhill has been put on the market,’ said Brown. ‘That was a good idea of yours. Would you like to be informed of the result?’
    ‘ If you like,’ said Steven. He gave Brown his mobile telephone number.
    ‘ If this works out, I’ll owe you a bottle of Scotch.’
    Steven had had an even better idea but was keeping it to himself for the time being. It proposed that Rafferty had already sold the farm and was acting as some kind of front for the new owners. That might well explain the presence of the people Brown had described as minders but also begged the question as to why the new owners needed a front man at all. The obvious answer to that was that they didn’t want anyone to know who they were. Steven worked the idea through to a conclusion. Why not? Because . . . it would be embarrassing for them? Why embarrassing? Because . . . the new owners were not private buyers at all. They were . . . corporate buyers. They were . . . a commercial company. They were . . . a biotech company! A rival biotech company to Agrigene!
    That would make a lot of sense, Steven thought as he continued to work on the hypothesis. They move in to the area and buy the farm next door to their competitor; then they manage to get an organic farm accreditation. It would give them the perfect basis for courting public sympathy while causing trouble for Agrigene and screwing up their experimental programme.’
    ‘ What kind of a civil servant are you exactly?’ asked Brown.
    ‘ A thirsty one,’ replied Steven.
    Brown ordered two more drinks and Steven made vague noises about liasing with the new Scottish Parliament over environmental concerns. Inside, he was thinking that this theory about Crawhill might also explain where the protestors were getting the money from for lawyers and independent crop analysis. It didn’t explain however, how they had managed to get organic accreditation so easily or why the crop analysis they’d obtained was so scientifically vague,
    ‘ So you’re with the MAFF people up here,’ said Brown. ‘Or are you with the new Scottish parliament lot?’
    ‘