Fatal Impact (15 page)

22

A
lison checked emails on a mobile. ‘It’s all arranged. A protest has been organised for tomorrow at PT headquarters
in Emerald Vale.’ She looked at their host. ‘Len, I think it’s better if you aren’t seen there.’

‘They set me up–’ Len stood and began pacing the room. ‘They’ve shut me down.’

‘Minister Moss is scheduled to make a big announcement at midday. It’s a good opportunity to deflect publicity from Livelonger Organics. If you’re seen there, the media will make you the feature, not PT’s wrongdoing.’

Anya was surprised at how quickly the organisation had rallied. As in many regional areas, environmentalists were seen by many as radicals, regardless of their scientific arguments. They were perceived as obstructionists, people who stopped jobs and got in the way of ‘progress’.

The campaigner said good night and left.

Anya wondered if Alison realised what she was up against. Many of the farms had been in these families for generations. Some farmers had sent children to study agriculture at university so they could return and improve the quality and quantity of their yield. The problem they now had was dividing land
amongst surviving children. With each generation, the land pool
diminished significantly. Making a living off the land had never been more difficult. Companies investing in the state were seen as saviours, not enemies.

Before Grace and Samir left, Anya asked them a question that had been bothering her.

‘How much spinach would Livelonger have distributed in, say, the last two weeks, up until today?’ She was worried about the incubation period and the potential scale of E. coli infections they may expect. Not everyone would see the recall warnings.

Samir looked to his wife. ‘Grace does the books and invoices.’

She was quick to answer. ‘This time of year we average eighty kilograms of baby spinach a month. We pack it into quantities of two hundred grams.’

Anya did the maths. Around forty kilograms distributed per fortnight meant two hundred bags were available for sale. Multiply that by the number of serves in a bag – four – and they were looking at a major epidemic. It was miraculous there hadn’t been more cases by now.

‘Thanks. Have a good night’s sleep,’ she said to the couple. Jocelyn was engaged in a private conversation with Len in the lounge room. There was no more hint of low blood pressure or any more faints. Anya needed to address what was going on with her mother’s health. Clearly, something wasn’t right. But getting her to admit it was a battle that could wait until morning.

Anya occupied herself washing the crockery. She was glad Jocelyn had a good friend, but was also concerned about what would happen to the farm, with the E. coli investigation and fallout. Len was odd, impulsive and could be overly aggressive, yet was like a gentle bear around her mother.

After finishing the washing up, Anya took the opportunity to quietly phone Steve Schiller. If Jenny and Mia Quaid were alive, another night outside wouldn’t be easy, especially for the toddler.

A woman answered and handed over the phone.

‘Sorry. I thought you might still be at work.’

‘Ducked home for a late dinner. It’s going to be a long one.’ Schiller sounded fatigued.

Anya instantly regretted dialling. He may not be impressed with her reason for calling.

‘What’s up?’

‘Is there any news on Jenny or Mia? Did Dylan Heyes have an explanation for why Jenny was on the phone to him?’

‘No word yet. Dylan Heyes says he can’t remember Jenny calling. He’s such a busy man healing the sick, performing miracles, like he does.’

Anya was curious why he would lie. He didn’t have a motive for hurting Mia or her mother, that they knew of. So why deny a phone conversation unless he was hiding something?

‘Did you press him?’

‘Refuses to say anything else or answer any more questions. His lawyer friend made that pretty clear. If you ask me, he’s guilty of something involving those two, we just don’t know what. He’s under surveillance and probably knows it. That’s the best we can do until we get something solid to go on.’

‘Any new reports of food poisonings?’

‘Touch wood, not that we know of.’

At least that was something positive. Anya thought carefully about her next comment.

‘I’m not sure how this is going to sound, but there are some people who think Livelonger Organics could have been set up. That the infection was deliberately introduced to the farm’s spinach.’

There was a long pause. ‘What possible reason would anyone have?’

‘The farm land is prime real estate. There are buyers waiting for the company to fail. An environmental group called POWER were so quick to contact Len Dengate as well. A representative was here within hours.’

Another long pause. ‘From what I’ve heard, POWER jumps on bandwagons for a living. Organic farmer versus big bad corporations is right up their alley so it isn’t that far-fetched. My guess is, they’re concerned about the reputation of organic farming.’ Schiller hesitated then asked, ‘What do you think?’

Anya was tired and knew how ridiculous the set-up plot sounded. She remembered that Schiller’s background was in environmental science. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I’m staying for a couple more days to see what I can find out.’

‘Keep me informed, would you?’ He sounded concerned.

‘Likewise.’

Anya checked her messages. Bob had just texted. Evelyn was responding to haemodialysis. She was still on life support, but doctors were optimistic she would survive. Anya breathed out with relief.

She offered to drive her mother home. For once, there was no argument. Without hesitation, Jocelyn handed over the keys before hugging Len. She promised to check on him tomorrow.

Without streetlights, the roads were pitch dark. Visibility was limited to what the headlights illuminated. Jocelyn closed her eyes and Anya concentrated on the drive. On the intersection to the road to Jocelyn’s house, she noticed a white car stopped on the verge, headlights on and driver’s door open. It looked like Alison Blainey’s hire car.

She tapped her mother, who gave a short snort and opened her eyes.

They parked a few metres behind. Both climbed out. Anya’s gut contracted. There was no sign of Alison. The keys were still in the ignition. The airbag hadn’t engaged. Papers were blowing out onto the road.

‘Alison!’ Jocelyn called. No response. ‘Can you hear me?’ she shouted louder.

A soft moan came from somewhere in the grass. Anya moved quickly towards the sound and saw movement. It was Alison, lying on her side, legs curled up.

‘She’s here.’

Jocelyn rushed over.

Where she was positioned, it was difficult to see more than an outline. Anya pulled out her phone and used its light as a torch. Alison’s face was battered and blood streamed from her nose. ‘I’ll get my bag.’ Jocelyn ran back to her car. Anya knelt on the ground to better assess the injuries, careful not to move anything.

‘What happened?’ she asked gently. Alison’s dress was tattered but still tied at the waist, as it had been at the house.

‘A woman. She waved and said she was out of petrol. She had a child in the car.’ She spat out blood. ‘I got out to help.’

Anya instantly wondered if it had been Jenny and Mia.

Jocelyn skidded to her knees, doctor’s bag in hand. She pulled out a torch, which Anya held. The extent of Alison’s facial injuries became apparent.

‘Where does it hurt?’ Jocelyn began to examine her. Eyes first, swinging a pen torch from her examination tools. ‘Pupils equal and reactive.’

She held up four fingers. ‘How many can you see?’

‘Four.’ Alison coughed and winced, clutching her ribs. She tried to sit up.

‘We’ll get you up in a minute.’ Jocelyn eased her back down.

She listened to both lungs with her stethoscope. ‘Air entry equal both sides.’

So far, even if she had fractured ribs, they hadn’t punctured a lung.

‘That’s good,’ Jocelyn said, feeling the wrists and arms.

Alison flinched on palpation of her left forearm.

‘That could be broken.’

Anya looked around in case whoever had done this returned. ‘Did the woman beat you?’

‘I don’t think so. I was talking to her. Something hit me from behind. I fell forward on the ground. Someone started kicking me, again and again. I could tell from his voice it was a man. I curled up and begged him to stop. All I could think of was protecting my head with my hands.’ She took short, shallow breaths.

Anya noticed that her stockings were torn at the knees, but still in place.

‘What happened then?’

‘I don’t know. He called me a whore and stopped. Then I heard the car drive off. I was so scared they’d come back.’ She squeezed Anya’s hand tightly.

‘Any pain in your stomach or back?’ Jocelyn asked.

‘My side.’ She clutched her ribs.

‘We’re going to try to get you up and take you to the hospital.’

‘No. I don’t need–’

‘I’m going to be the judge of that,’ Jocelyn asserted.

They slowly helped Alison to her feet and into the Mazda. In the light from the interior, her swollen cheek and eyes became more obvious. Anya helped her with the seatbelt.

‘I’ll take her to Launceston. They can do X-rays and a CT.’

Alison had significant head injuries and needed further assessment. Her fractured arm looked displaced as well.

Anya dialled the police. A patrol car arrived within minutes.

The officer who had been at Len Dengate’s property, Constable Hammond, stepped out, accompanied by a burly uniformed sergeant.

‘Where’s the victim?’ The older man surveyed the car and its position.

‘My mother’s about to take her to hospital.’ Anya pointed at the Mazda.

He looked Anya up and down. ‘And who would you be?’

‘Jocelyn Reynolds’ daughter Dr Anya Crichton. She’s in the car with the woman who was assaulted.’

Hammond bent down to see inside the driver’s side window and spoke to Jocelyn before standing up. ‘

‘Dr Crichton, this is Senior Sergeant McGinley.’

Anya relayed what Alison had said, and mentioned her concern that the woman and child might have been Jenny and Mia Quaid. Hammond had a large torch, which he shone from shoulder height. They could make out scuff marks on the dirt and drag marks.

‘Are we looking at sexual assault? Better breath test her.’

‘What does her blood alcohol level have to do with anything? She was stopped and assaulted. You should be looking for whoever did this. Alcohol has nothing to do with sexual assault.’

She was tired of men like McGinley suggesting that if a
woman drank, she was asking to be raped. The same people
believed that the rapist was somehow less responsible if the woman was drunk and not even culpable if he had been drinking.

The sergeant hitched up his belt. ‘You might think you’re pretty important but you have no authority here. I want the woman breathalysed. If she’s over the limit, we need to take her in.’

Hammond stood, head down. ‘Are we looking at sexual assault?’

Anya preferred to deal with the more junior officer. ‘I don’t think so.’ Victims were often loath to admit they had been raped. ‘With her broken arm, it wouldn’t have been easy for her to get her stockings back on.’ Anya added, ‘Do you have a photo of Jenny Quaid?’

‘We were all issued with them,’ Hammond said, and retrieved it from his patrol car.

Anya immediately showed the photo with Jenny’s round face and cropped hair to Alison with the interior light illuminating it. ‘Is this the woman you spoke to?’

Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The woman I saw had long dark hair. I guess it could have been a wig.’

Anya thought of Beatrice waiting for any news. ‘Did you see the child?’

‘Not well enough to describe them. I’m not even sure if it was a girl or a boy. I’m sorry, it all happened so fast.’

Anya moved back to Hammond.

McGinley took notes. ‘So Len Dengate recruits the Greenies to save his place. This one leaves his place, gets ambushed, then bashed. And you say a dark sedan was watching the property,’ he said. ‘If you buy into this, you’re as crazy as Dengate himself.’

Anya heard Hammond mutter, ‘What the hell has Len started now?’

23

A
fter a restless night, Anya awoke. Jocelyn was already gone, presumably to her Longford surgery. Anya fed the chickens, collected the eggs and showered. There hadn’t been an opportunity to get groceries after Len’s farm had been shut down. She decided to get some things for dinner during the day.

First, she headed south to have a look at PT before the protesters turned up. It was a long shot, but if she could identify other locations of Clarkson Evergreen farms, there may be a correlation with outbreaks of E. coli infection in those areas. Before leaving, she also checked the internet. Information provided by the company was vague at best.

On the way, a roadside diner provided coffee, toast and news. The front pages of the
Hobart Sentinel
and
Launceston Herald
both showed photos of an angry Len Dengate with his arm raised in protest. She wondered where the photo had come from. The coverage of Livelonger Organics had relegated the search for Jenny and Mia to page two. At the time of print, there had been no new developments. Anya hoped that once Alison felt better and had recovered from her concussion, she might be better able to identify the car or woman who had stopped her last night. She flicked through both newspapers. So far, the count for confirmed cases of E. coli infection was fifteen. Anya wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for the relatively small number, although the survivors could be left with lifelong medical problems.

Around ten-thirty, she drove further south to Cressy, past paddocks of wheat and vegetables. Although Cressy had begun as a wheat belt, she hadn’t seen any growing as a child. This was all new, at least in the past decade. In Anya’s childhood, summer days were long, with hours spent shelling peas. Every chance she’d got, she would sneak away to read. To her special place: a secluded corner in the barn, which was occasionally shared with the odd chicken or rabbit. Damien, being more of an outdoors person, could never wait for summer holidays when he could be outside and run wild with his cousins. Riding on a tractor was his favourite. Her grandparents’ farm was somewhere Anya had felt safe, away from the gossip of people who barely knew her.

Her great-aunt thought girls should learn to cook and sew. ‘Books fill a girl’s head with fancy notions,’ she would say. ‘Won’t help an ounce in the real world.’ Great aunt Maisy had been a robust woman who cooked for the farm hands from sun-up to sundown. Somewhere in between kitchen duties, she also managed to clean clothes and sheets, tend to the animals and care for her own, demented sister. For many women of that generation, formal education was never an option.

Anya reflected on how many people in her mother’s family had been struck by dementia. Their experience wasn’t unique. Some claimed pesticides were responsible but the most likely cause was vascular, the same risks for heart disease and stroke. They lived on a diet comprising mostly dairy and meat. Freshly made damper, fried eggs, bacon, baked beans and potatoes were the essential breakfast. Morning tea constituted three types of cakes like lamingtons, cream sponges and tea cakes. Lunch was a roast, lamb or beef, with at least six vegetables, most of which were smothered in butter, cheese or hollandaise sauce. Then came afternoon tea, pavlova with seasonal fruit, custard, or a slice. Dinner was made of leftovers cooked in lard, and often encased in pastry. She couldn’t believe she had eaten so much animal fat growing up, and how much that increased the risk of vascular dementia. Dementia was always in the back of her own mind, as was the question of whether or not it was inevitable that she would develop it too.

She thought of her mother, who had been fairly quiet at last night’s meeting, and the fainting episode. Jocelyn’s pulse rate had been over two hundred as she fainted. Jocelyn denied taking the thyroid replacement, and the bottle hadn’t been opened the day Anya arrived. She wanted to see the results for the blood tests her mother had had. Her mother had self-diagnosed, which was dangerous. She just had to broach the topic tactfully tonight.

Before too long, a series of signs announced she had now entered Emerald Vale, the home of
Pure Tasmania.
A montage of dairy cows on green pastures, corn, potatoes and green vegetables looked like a utopia. There was no mention of the land being owned by Chinese interests, or Clarkson Evergreen.

Anya followed some signposts promoting an information centre. Majestic pencil pines lined the road. They gave the impression of a path to a first-class, exclusive resort.

Before a boom gate, a sandstone cottage invited visitors to learn about Pure Tasmania. Anya parked in the designated area and followed a family of six into the centre. ‘Welcome,’ greeted a woman in her early twenties wearing a long white skirt, linen shirt and apron. On her head was a white cotton cap with a frill around the face. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of
Little House on the Prairie
, or a convict settlement.
SALLIE
was printed on her Tasmania-shaped badge. ‘You’re all in luck. The audiovisual presentation is about to start.’

The children, aged in their early teens, dragged themselves into the theatrette, complaining about having to be there. Anya wasn’t in a hurry and her hesitation had the friendly staffer at a loss.

‘How did you hear about us?’ She smiled as if her lips refused to close.

‘I saw some of your products recently in Sydney. Can friends and family get them at other places as well?’

Sallie pressed a button outside the cinema room, presumably to begin the presentation. ‘Well, we do get a lot of wonderful feedback about our products but most of them go overseas. We’re one of the biggest exporters in the state. We do post anywhere in the world. If you let me know specific suburbs, I can also look up distributors for you.’

‘I travel a lot, and was just enquiring.’

‘I’ll just check.’ Painted nails tapped on a computer next to an old-fashioned cash register.

On the wall behind were a number of plaques presented to the company for community support of local schools and clubs. Certificates announcing first place accompanied blue ribbons from the state’s regional shows. Pumpkins, zucchinis, strawberries and dairy products featured.

Anya glanced around. Blue and white gingham curtains were held with silky tie-backs, giving the place a country, heritage look. Merchandise on glass shelves included jams and sauces presented with frilly matching gingham on the lids, bags of flavoured popcorn wrapped in cellophane and ribbon, all giving the impression they’d been hand-made. Anya selected a bag and looked at the ingredients. Corn syrup was mentioned, but there was no listing of anything genetically modified. Not surprisingly, she didn’t see her mother’s brand of powdered iced tea. A number of other varieties were available.

‘Do you have different labels depending on where you sell your products?’

‘You must be in marketing.’ Sallie lifted a folder from under the desk and opened it for Anya to browse through. ‘A lot of research goes into things like packaging and labels. I love ours, they’re so old-fashioned. People really like the country feel of them.’

Anya flicked through the labels pressed in plastic sleeves. None mentioned Clarkson Evergreen and each seemed to promote a cottage industry feel, as opposed to a Chinese mega-company. She recognised one as a tin her mother had in the kitchen. She bet Jocelyn had no idea she was buying a PT product. It wasn’t listed anywhere on the label, instead being described as Tasmanian made and owned with a trademarked title. Their products were pervasive and difficult for consumers to trace.

Sallie was back at the keyboard.

‘We have branches at Ipswich in Queensland, and Elizabeth in South Australia for now, and of course, Blacktown in Sydney.’

The distribution was based in poorer areas, presumably where land was cheaper.

‘Would you like to sample some of our special treats?’ Sallie moved towards a table with baskets containing different types of popcorn. ‘I thoroughly recommend the salted caramel, but the pumpkin pistachio is to die for.’ The latter was surprisingly edible.

‘Thanks very much, you’ve been a great help.’

‘Come back again,’ Sallie said, with the same smile. ‘Don’t forget to tell all your friends and have a great day.’

‘You too,’ Anya replied out of courtesy.

On a revolving stand near the door, postcards and brochures were on display, with the word
Complimentary
printed above them. She collected a couple on the history of the company and its range of products.

Outside, the sound of hydraulic brakes hissed. As Anya exited, a tourist coach opened its doors and a group of senior citizens filed out. The bus driver had already stepped down and handed out coupons to the willing passengers. He warned them to stock up but not fill up because next stop was lunch. Some of the women tittered in groups.

It seemed PT was doing everything it could to gain favour with visitors. No doubt kickbacks went to the coach companies.

Anya walked around and took photos with her camera. In a distant paddock, cattle roamed freely. PT bred animals as well as producing fruit and vegetables. She checked her watch: 11.15 am.

A white Commodore drove into the car park, followed by a van emblazoned with the name of the local television station. A familiar figure in a charcoal suit climbed out of the back of the first car, pointed to the front of the cottage and seemed to be giving instructions to the TV crew as they unpacked. It was Ryan Chapman, Christian Moss’s chief of staff.

The camera set up with what looked like a view of the PT logo. A sound operator held a fluffy boom microphone. A young male reporter in a suit bared his teeth at a hand mirror. Within minutes, the car park had filled with people carrying recording equipment marked with the names of radio stations. Anya asked the sound man what was happening.

‘Minister’s about to make some big announcement.’ He shrugged. ‘We just got the memo to turn up.’

Nearby, the TV reporter glanced down the road and made a circle with his index finger to the cameraman.

Ryan Chapman noticed Anya and came across to say hello.

‘We just keep running into each other,’ he said, smiling. The man was definitely charismatic and enthusiastic.

Before Anya could respond, a female reporter with a phone held out to Chapman approached. ‘I heard there was going to be an announcement by your minister,’ she said. ‘Any hints as to what that’s going to be? I could make it worth your while.’

Ryan deftly deflected the question. ‘Don’t think my boss would approve of me selling favours. I can promise you it will be big and a major boon for the area.’ He turned back to Anya. ‘Nice seeing you again, doctor.’

She stepped back to watch what would happen next. Were the media aware a protest had been planned? It would have been unlike Alison Blainey not to notify them and miss a publicity opportunity. The real question was whether the minister and his team were aware of what was planned?

A series of coaches rolled along and stopped in the distant end of the car park. A large group formed at that end, comprising both older and younger people, some with babies and toddlers. The luggage doors opened and people collected placards and posters.

The cameraman rushed over after a reporter. Anya moved closer to listen, but kept far enough away to be out of it.

‘Who are you representing today?’

A woman in her twenties held up her hand. ‘We represent all Australians: the battlers, the taxpayers, the mothers who want the best for our children. We want a world they can inherit, that will still be here for their grandchildren.’

They began an interview as three minivans approached. Groups of men wearing soiled jeans, work boots and akubras joined seniors to disembark. The locals had rallied support, and Anya suspected it wasn’t for the protesters.

‘Go back to the mainland, you bloody Greenies,’ an elderly woman from the first van shouted. ‘You don’t care about us, our jobs or our families.’

‘We don’t want you here. Piss off where you came from,’ a male voice chimed in. ‘We can’t eat trees, we need to earn a living.’

The two groups exchanged insults, initially from a distance.

The protesters had a megaphone. ‘You’ve sold your souls to the devil. Pure Tasmania belongs to one of the most evil companies on the planet,’ shouted a man with dreadlocks who was holding a sign painted with the skull and crossbones beneath the words ‘POISON PEDDLERS’. Another sign read ‘FRANKENFOODS’.

Anya had seen protesters carrying similar signs outside the conference in Hobart. So far, there was no sign of Alison Blainey. She could still be recovering from the assault overnight.

‘PT put us on the world map!’ a local shouted.

‘Yeah,’ another shouted. ‘PT saved our town.’

‘They rape our country and take the profits offshore.’

‘Get a job, you bloody dole bludgers.’

The two groups moved closer. Anya worried that with tempers and emotions rising, physical confrontation was likely.

From behind the boom gate, a number of security staff hurried towards them. A couple of minutes later, two police cars arrived.

Constable Hammond climbed out of the first car and put his cap on. He straightened his shoulders, pushed down his belt and took in everyone who was there. His first action was to meet the security crew. After a short discussion, PT’s reinforcements retreated towards the boom gate.

Radio reporters scurried amongst the crowd, shoving microphones in people’s faces for comments.

Anya stepped well back to observe the melee. A placard with a giant colour photo of a three-legged frog was unmissable.

A few moments later, another white Commodore pulled in. The minister had arrived. The protesters tried to block the car as it approached the boom gate, but the police and security team managed to keep them at bay. The car was allowed through, as were members of the press. A barricade was formed against anyone else passing.

‘We want to give the minister a petition,’ a young woman shouted over the din. ‘We have ten thousand signatures!’