Pecking Order (29 page)

In the egg-packing room, he rummaged around in the boxes under the sink until he found a yellow pair of marigolds. They were nearly as good as his government ones, he concluded, shoving them into his pockets and turning out the light. He would show Agent Orange that he didn't require any rest. He'd been selected as a Government Agent and it was the only time he'd succeeded at anything. It was his duty and he would stick to it.

Once again the wind was blowing. It seemed to pick up at night as if sunlight drained it of its strength. Or darkness increased it. But amongst the trees its progress was hampered, dense leaves and branches absorbing each gust so the air inside the copse felt motionless and heavy.

As he paced cautiously between the trunks, Rubble let his fingers trail through the waist-high bracken, enjoying how the marigold gloves numbed the sensation of the fronds brushing against his fingers. He bent his head back to look at the canopy above and saw the moon shining between the leaves. He got to the tree behind Miss Strines' house and leaned against it, studying the rear of her property. Staring at the black windows.

He thought of her curled up in her bed just beyond the thin layers of glass. Gleefully he imagined her face as he stepped into her bedroom. He decided then that he wouldn't speak, wouldn't risk replying to any of her cruel comments. He knew how easily she could exert the power of the classroom over him, making him stumble over his words, trip up on his thoughts. No, he wouldn't say a thing. Just walk up to the bed and twist her skinny wrinkled neck until it snapped.

As he vaulted over her back fence it creaked loudly. His feet connected with her lawn and he lifted his hands off the top of the fence, causing a horizontal strut to spring back against a vertical post with a thud. From the garden to his right he heard rustling; probably a foraging animal disturbed by the noise. He was halfway across the lawn when the security light mounted beneath her gutter came on with a click. The sharp light shone across the grass, partly spilling into the neighbours' gardens.

'Something's out there,' a small voice whispered.

Rubble looked to his right and saw a tent pitched on the back lawn. It shivered slightly as its occupants stirred. Sleeping bags rustled again as the glow of a torch shone from inside the frail structure, illuminating two forms sitting up inside.

'Daddy! Something's scaring us!'

He had just made it back into the trees when a bedroom window was pushed fully open. 'Right you two! Any more noise and you're coming back inside,' a voice announced, in a hoarse whisper. 'You wanted to sleep by the forest, you better get used to sleeping near the animals that live in it.'

The zip of the tent opened with a lazy buzz and a little head emerged, 'But we heard something running. Something big, like a monster.'

'Laurence, there are no monsters. Now do that zip back up and go to sleep.'

The head disappeared into the tent and the window closed again.

Rubble waited for Miss Strines' security light to go out then retreated back into the woods. He was filled with frustration. The missions he went on with Agent Orange always seemed to work out fine. He was determined not to return to his caravan without a result.

Crossing the village green, he walked quietly along a side road until he reached a large house with handrails and ramps leading up to the doors. Even though he had never entered the building, he knew a load of old people were inside: it was where his own parents had gone when they were ready to die. He crept around the side of the building, stopping at each ground floor window and gently trying to pull them open. But all were properly shut. Looking up, he saw one or two on the first floor were slightly ajar. But he couldn't get up to them without a ladder. Angrily he walked back to his caravan, deciding that, on a warmer night and without this annoying wind, he could well have a bit more luck.

Chapter 48

Clare opened the front door and a delicate smell instantly made her mouth water. She paused for a moment before identifying it as frying chicken. She walked into a surprisingly tidy flat to see Zoe at the cooker, stirring pieces of meat round and round in a frying pan.

'What sort of chicken is that? It smells delicious.'

'Just normal stuff from the supermarket,' answered Zoe, glancing over her shoulder with a smile.

‘Then you must be using some sort of seasoning. It smells far too good.'

‘My secret ingredient.' She picked a small foil wrapped cube off the work surface and held it up.

Clare took it and said, 'Chicken stock?'

'That's right,' her friend replied, sounding pleased.

'You’re frying chicken in chicken stock?’

‘It's the only way to make the stuff actually taste of chicken. So come on - how was he acting?'

'I don't know. The bastard cancelled his tutorial. I was hanging around in the coffee room for ages. Heard footsteps and it was that creep Julian pinning up a note saying Eric was ill and his tutorial was cancelled. Thing is, he must be riled - that was his end-of-year tutorial for his first years. The note said to leave any work in his pigeonhole and it would be returned next term. That's a real cop-out.'

'Shame. It would have been useful to see his face. I bet he's shitting himself.'

'Maybe, but I need more. I've got to track down this Rubble bloke.' She pulled a notebook from her bag as Zoe tipped a bowl of sliced peppers and mushrooms into the pan. 'I went on the internet at the library this morning and got the number for the headquarters of the RSPCA down in this town called Horsham. I'm going to ring them and see if they have a list of battery farms around here.' She went into me front room and sat down in the armchair next to the phone. 'Oh - how's the job hunt going?'

Zoe appeared in the doorway, spatula in hand. She brushed the nails of her other hand up and down her shirt front, examined them and said, 'Got an interview tomorrow.'

'Well done, girl! You'll be needing to put me up soon. This flat's been booked for some convention being held at the university. We've got another three days and that's it.'

'No worries. I'll register with all the local estate agents this afternoon. With the end of term, there'll be loads of flats around,' answered Zoe, going back into the kitchen.

Clare picked up the phone and called the RSPCA. An automated answer service gave her various options. She waited on the line, refusing to press any buttons, until eventually a woman's voice spoke to her.

'Hello, the RSPCA. Can I help?'

‘Yes, I'm trying to locate the nearest battery farms in my area for a university project. Can you supply me with any such information, please?'

'To be honest, I'm not sure. Please hold the line.'

She waited for almost five minutes before the voice returned. 'I can give you the number of the British Egg Industry Council. They should be able to help.'

'Oh,' said Clare with disappointment. 'I was hoping you might have a list of farms by region - I'm phoning from the Manchester area.'

‘I can only give you the number for the British Egg Industry Council,' she repeated brusquely.

Clare sensed the woman was now sticking to written guidelines or perhaps the whispered commands of someone more senior. 'All right then, cheers.'

She noted down the number and thanked her, though she wasn't sure for what. Immediately she phoned the number she's been given and an elderly-sounding lady answered the phone. She sounded as if she was in her kitchen, not an office. Clare repeated her request and the woman's voice instantly hardened with suspicion.

'What sort of a project?'

Clare hadn't expected such an aggressive answer. In her haste, she hadn't prepared a detailed speech. 'Well, it's a general project really, examining the productivity of battery chickens compared to free-range ones. Mortality rates, that sort of thing.'

The voice was now curt and official, 'Please send your request in writing with evidence of the university you say you're studying at. We'll then consider it.'

'But I need to make a start pretty urgently. Is there not just a standard list of farms and phone numbers you could send me?'

‘You could be anyone. Because our clients have to be careful about divulging their locations, any request needs to be in writing. Do you need our address?'

'Forget it.' Clare hung up as Zoe sat down on the sofa with a plate of stir-fried noodles in each hand. She handed one to Clare. 'The bitch. You'd think I was wanting to read her diary or something.'

‘Who, the RSPCA?' asked Zoe, stabbing a piece of chicken meat with her fork.

‘No, they weren't interested. Just gave me the number of the British Egg Industry Council. So I rang them. You'd have more luck phoning the freemasons and asking for a full and frank divulgence of their membership.'

'So nothing then?'

'Nothing.'

'What next?'

'I don't know. If only I knew something more about how the law worked. Don't most solicitors give you the first appointment for free? I could go to one and just throw everything on the table. See what the response is.'

‘What you mean a feather and a newspaper clipping?’

Clare sighed with exasperation. 'It can't end here Zoe. It just can't. People don't get away with stuff like this. Do they?'

She looked uncertainly at Zoe who was thinking about the statistics for unsolved murders and the number of people who simply vanish each year. 'No they don't,' Zoe made herself say. 'Rubble is your key to all this. He'll ring again. It's just a matter of time.'

'Yeah, you're right,' answered Clare, examining the lumps of meat interspersed with the noodles and chopped vegetables. As she ate her food she remembered reading an article in the University paper about the availability of ethnic foods in the city. Once she'd finished her meal she said, 'Cheers Zoe, that was tasty. While I'm waiting for Rubble to ring, let's make Maudsley sweat a bit more.'

'What are you planning?' asked Zoe, suddenly full of life.

'Show you later,' answered Clare, mischievously.

After dumping her plate in the sink she left the flat and caught a bus back into the city. Jumping out at the terminal, she walked the few streets to where a large cluster of shops and restaurants formed the city's Chinatown.

Selecting the largest supermarket, she climbed the steps into a cavernous room stacked to the ceiling with produce. Unlike her usual supermarket, there were no signs hanging from the ceiling telling her where different types of food were located. Everything was piled directly onto shelves that were free of glossy point-of-sale signs detailing special offers or two-for-one deals.

Any notices she could see were handwritten in Chinese characters. She had no idea what they said. She walked past a twenty-foot length of shelving devoted entirely to different types of noodle. Next came a section of tinned produce, exotic fruits and strange varieties of mushroom. She spotted a row of blue tins all labelled 'Mock Duck'. Looking more closely at the label she saw that it was chunks of fried gluten, one side pressed with tiny bumps to give the impression of skin. Next to them was a deeper shelf stacked with what appeared to be irregularly shaped brittle pancakes. Lifting one up she was shocked to see it was an entire duck, stamped flat and dried out.

Ahead of her a row of open shelves overflowed with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables. Pak choi, spring onions, chillies, limes, beansprouts. Plastic-wrapped packets of pale round objects. She searched for the English translation on the label and found the words 'fish balls with seaweed'. In the fridges next door she recognised various types of seafood. Comatose crabs half-buried in crushed ice, claws bound with rubber bands. Rows of red snapper lying on their sides, dead eyes staring upwards. And then came the poultry section. Chicken carcasses cleaved in two. Shrink-wrapped parcels of giblets. At the very end of the section she saw a crate of severed chicken feet. She remembered being in halls on her first year and the group of Chinese students who always ate their evening meal together: sometimes all of them hunched around an enormous plate of fried chicken feet. Holding the things in their fingers, nibbling and tearing at the tendons with their teeth. She looked into the crate. The long-nailed toes were partially curled inward, like fingers on a hand when it is completely relaxed. The undersides of the feet even had little fleshy pads. Examining the severed ends she could see the cleanly shorn bone and a thin layer of flesh. She plucked a plastic bag off the shelf and gingerly picked one up. The foot was cool and dry in her hand. Quickly she dropped it in the bag, then tried to scoop up a handful. But her nails caught on their claws and a shiver went through her. Instead she used a forefinger and thumb to pick one up at a time, dropping them into the bag until it held about twenty. She walked to the small row of tills and handed them over to a round-faced Chinese lady. With lightening speed, she spun the bag round, knotted the neck and dropped it on a scale. 'One pound fourteen.'

Clare handed over the money, thanked her and walked back down the stairs to the street.

Chapter 49

Eric was sitting in his study reading through Patricia's proposal for the research grant when he heard the creak of his letter box and the thump of something falling on his mat. He went to the window and gazed at the back of the postman as he made his way round the close, red bag hanging from one shoulder, hair blowing in the morning wind.

Eric stepped out into the hallway and looked at the items that lay at the base of his door. With their messages of ' Our best-ever rate!' and 'Enjoy the Gold Standard', the two envelopes were obviously from credit card companies. How they got hold of his name, he didn't know; he'd never owned a credit card in his life. He dropped them straight into the small wastepaper basket in his study, then sat down to examine the plain brown jiffy bag.

It weighed a fair amount, probably the same as half a bag of sugar. He squeezed it gently with his fingers and could feel the oddly shaped contents through the layer of padding. His name and address were written in clumsy block capitals, as if the person had been holding the pen in their fist or writing with the wrong hand. As was often the case, the postmark had only partially printed - he could see the package had been posted yesterday; but not from where.