Free The Snares of Death by Kate Charles Page A

elliptically.
    â€˜Only that dude on the tube. The chicken dude. With the stuffed chicken thighs.’
    â€˜That’s right!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Frank Fielding of Fielding Farms! One of the biggest battery farmers in south Norfolk, star of his own television adverts.’
    â€˜ He’s coming tonight?’ Gary looked distinctly sceptical. ‘Get real, man.’
    â€˜No, not him, of course. It’s his son, Nicholas.’
    â€˜Frank Fielding’s son is coming here?’
    â€˜Yes. He saw a clip from the interview on the noon news today, and rang me this afternoon. I invited him to come along tonight.’
    â€˜But why?’
    Rhys smiled and proffered a bowl of crisps. ‘He believes in what we’re doing and totally repudiates his father’s way of life. But not his money, I believe,’ he added. ‘He’s got a fair chunk of money, and says he has a few ideas about how we might use it.’
    â€˜Holy shit!’
    â€˜Precisely.’
    The dog showed more animation than he had all evening when the young woman – she would not appreciate being called a girl – entered the room. He lumbered to his feet and swished his long tail; the young woman greeted the dog before speaking to either of the men. ‘Hello, Bleddyn. How’s my favourite boy tonight?’ She scratched his ears and communicated silently with him for a moment, finally raising her head and regarding the men. ‘So. Now we’re official. BARC has been formally launched.’
    â€˜That’s right, Maggie,’ Rhys replied. ‘A little later we can have a toast. Fiona’s bought us some sparkling grape juice. And we can watch the video of my interview, if you haven’t seen it.’
    â€˜How could I have seen it? You know that I just got off work.’ Maggie glared at him, took her coat off and threw it on a chair, then flopped down on the floor beside the dog. She, too, was wearing a T-shirt, but hers bore the name of The Green Scene, the vegetarian restaurant where she worked. ‘And I’ve just eaten, so don’t bother offering me any of those crisps.’
    Maggie Harrison looked from Rhys to Gary, ready to begin. Everything about her spoke of a strong, uncompromising personality, from her long, straight brown hair to her determined jaw. She had round, horn-rimmed spectacles that collided with her poker-straight fringe, and she wore no make-up.
    â€˜We won’t start just yet,’ Rhys said, then explained to her about Nicholas Fielding and his phone call.
    Maggie was horrified. ‘Frank Fielding’s son? Frank Fielding is a capitalist pig of the worst kind – one who’s made his money from the dead bodies of another species. It’s blood money. We should have nothing to do with his son, or his money. We’ll tell Nicholas Fielding he can –’
    â€˜We’ll do nothing of the sort, Maggie.’ Rhys spoke more severely than was his wont. ‘Nicholas Fielding seemed very sincere. He said that he’s been thinking about all these issues for a long time, and when he saw the piece on telly he knew he had to join us. If he wants to atone for his father’s sins –’ The doorbell rang. ‘That must be Nicholas now.’ With a last warning look at Maggie, he went to answer it.
    The young man whom he ushered into the room a moment later was not quite what any of them had expected. He was younger than he had sounded on the phone, certainly not yet twenty. And he looked nothing like bluff, hearty Frank Fielding, the stereotypical florid-faced farmer, known to the entire television audience of the United Kingdom for his intrusive, ubiquitous advertisements for stuffed chicken thighs. Nicholas Fielding was tall and willowy, and his chestnut-coloured hair was worn in a shoulder-length bob. His features were delicate to a degree that could almost be described as pretty, and the few spots that marred