A Poisoned Mind Read online

  ‘I didn’t know you climbed.’

  ‘I don’t any more. There isn’t time to keep fit enough. But I did a bit of snow-and-ice stuff in the Alps with my father and brothers before I went up to Oxford. Taught me a lot about life. Now, back to work. Have you grasped the principle of the activated charcoal filters?’

  ‘I think so. The principle and the various risks. What I don’t understand is how enough oxygen could have got into the tanks at the Fortwells’ to feed the fire.’

  She pulled forward one of the drawings that showed the design of the tanks with all the safety features demanded by the regulations governing the Control of Major Accident Hazards, apparently known in the trade as COMAH.

  In the old days she might have expected a sneer about her lack of scientific education. Not this morning. Robert merely put a clean, unsucked finger on the relevant bit of the drawing and gave a potted lecture about the way the storage tanks responded to the external temperature.

  ‘It’s as though they’re breathing, you see, Trish; breathing out as they warm up during the day and in again when they cool down at night. The exhalations are smelly and loaded with toxic particles that are known to increase the risk of leukaemia, so something has to be done about them.’

  ‘The activated charcoal,’ she said, to prove she had been listening properly and had understood the drawings laid out in front of her.

  ‘Exactly. The emissions are drawn across the activated charcoal, and that adsorbs … you will get that right in court, won’t you, Trish? It’s adsorbs, not absorbs.’

  ‘I’ve got that.’ She smiled, working as hard as he was to bury their old rivalry.

  ‘Good. Now, because activated charcoal gets hot, and has even been known to ignite as a system like this breathes in at night, these particular tanks were fitted with a special venting system so they could inhale through quite separate valves, which wouldn’t allow fresh air – with all its dangerous oxygen – to be drawn over the carbon and turn it red hot. D’you understand so far?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘The valves had worked perfectly well for the three years the tanks had been there,’ Robert went on, ‘so there was clearly nothing wrong with the fundamental design or operation of the system.’

  ‘So what do you think did go wrong? Could the valve have been blocked?’

  ‘That’s the obvious thing,’ he said, with the approving nod of a teacher relieved at the first sign of a dim student’s intelligence. ‘The one real danger in fact, because however well designed a protective cage around the air inlet might be, there’s always the risk of, say, a glue-like pad of wet leaves being blown against it and getting stuck and blocking the inflow.’

  ‘Which is why CWWM paid John Fortwell this regular salary to make visual checks?’

  ‘Precisely. If not leaves, there could, I suppose, have been a kamikaze bird that dive-bombed the cage and somehow got stuck. You’ll see the list of possible hazards from the expert-witness statement. Not that anything removes CWWM’s strict liability.’

  ‘No,’ Trish said, making herself smile. ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Robert’s smile was as forced as hers. ‘It’s hard sometimes to get out of the habit of explaining things to pupils.’

  If this is the way you keep supporting the leader, she thought, maybe it’s a good thing you don’t go snow-and-ice climbing any more.

  ‘And there’s no evidence of whatever the blockage could have been,’ she said aloud, ‘because—?’

  ‘Because everything was devoured in the explosion and subsequent fireball. Along with all the fire-protection devices, sprinklers and so on.’

  ‘And we don’t know exactly where John Fortwell died, do we? If it was on the land CWWM leased from him and occupied, i.e. their land, not his own, my memory of Read v. Lyons suggests the strict liability of Rylands v. Fletcher wouldn’t apply to his death.’

  ‘Right.’ This time Robert looked surprised, as though he hadn’t expected her to remember any of the relevant cases. She didn’t tell him she’d spent the taxi journey from the hospital, looking them up on the Internet. Lots of people were reluctant to use wireless access because of security fears, but there were times when it was too useful to ignore. This had definitely been one of them.

  Rylands v. Fletcher was the name of a nineteenth-century case, which had established the rule that if you had a dangerous thing on your land and it escaped, you were liable for any damage it did, even if you hadn’t been negligent. The thing could be an animal, a gas, a chemical, even water. Read v. Lyons was a much later case, which clarified the rule a bit and meant that if someone came on to your land and was damaged by the dangerous thing there, you might get away with it.

  ‘Although,’ Robert added, ‘if CWWM had been negligent over the design or maintenance of the tanks, then they would be liable for that, too, wherever the victim was when he died.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Trish said, writing notes as a way of pinning the information into her brain. ‘I’m getting there. Angie Fortwell says CWWM have a strict liability for the escape of a dangerous thing, which killed her husband on his land – not theirs – and contaminated that land, making it impossible for her either to continue to farm it or to sell it, thus leaving her incapable of earning a living and prey to continuous anxiety about her own health.’

  ‘Very good, Trish.’

  ‘And we say he was on CWWM’s land when he died, the body merely being thrown in the explosion on to his own field, and that the balance of probabilities is that he failed to complete the checks for which he was paid, thus mitigating CWWM’s liability by contributory negligence. I can see why Antony didn’t think it’s winnable.’

  ‘So can I. Chemical waste is an emotive issue. Angie Fortwell’s going to be a touching advocate for her dead husband. And what were CWWM doing putting their tanks of filthy benzene on a working farm only just outside a national park anyway?’

  ‘They’ve got to go somewhere,’ Trish said, at last finding some much-needed indignation on behalf of her clients.

  ‘Tell that to FADE.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The environmental pressure group that’s behind Angie Fortwell. I doubt if she’d have known where to begin as a litigant in person without them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Bunch of whiny North London vegetarians,’ Robert said, at his most unpleasantly dismissive. ‘You know, the earnest sentimental sort, who feed sweet furry foxes in their gardens because they look like Basil Brush or something out of a baby’s ickle-wickle picture book.’

  Trish didn’t have the strength to tackle his prejudices and quickly reverted to the facts of the case.

  ‘CWWM must have had planning permission,’ she said. ‘Presumably an isolated chunk of countryside is thought to be safer than somewhere like an industrial estate. Imagine if this explosion had happened in the middle of a city.’

  He surprised her with another approving nod. ‘Precisely. And don’t forget, if the judge doesn’t accept our defence of mitigation and CWWM have to pay big damages, they may decide to shut down other smallish tank sites all over the country – and perhaps abroad as well – and then where will the chemical waste go? Less scrupulous companies may shunt it off to the third world, where there aren’t such strict laws, or bury it or dump it in quarries or out at sea. Wildlife will die. People will die. Children and the elderly especially.’

  ‘Pity we can’t use that argument in court,’ Trish said, noticing the way Robert was playing to her well-known sympathy for vulnerable victims.

  ‘True. But don’t forget: they briefed John Fortwell on what he was going to be storing for them and on all the dangers – their letters to that effect are in the bundle – and no one forced him to take their money.’

  ‘Just as no one forced Doctor Faustus to take the Devil’s deal,’ Trish said almost to herself. ‘OK. Thanks, Robert. I think I’m clear on the basics, so I can stop spoiling your weekend and get to work on m
y own now.’

  ‘Sure?’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’ll still make lunch if you really don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m happy. Leave me your mobile number, though, so that if I get stuck—’

  He pointed once more to the top sheet of his notes. She saw the numbers of his mobile and land line, as well as the number of his lunch hosts’ house.

  ‘Great. I hope I won’t have to bother you. See you in court on Monday morning.’

  ‘Good luck, Trish. Don’t forget to eat and sleep.’

  Greg turned on the television while they ate. The butternut squash and tomato stew was aromatic with spices and very filling. Angie admitted to herself that she had had a bellyful of mutton from the exhausted sheep she’d killed over the years.

  The international news was over and the weather forecast had begun. It was heaven not to have to listen to it. Here in Kentish Town it didn’t matter if there was rain or frost to come.

  A perfectly dressed and groomed young woman appeared on the screen to give the local London news. Now this did matter: if there were to be a tube or bus strike on Monday, they’d have to borrow bicycles to get to court, and it would be hard to get the documents there without some kind of trailer. Could they afford a taxi?

  Angie tried to stop worrying. Greg and Fran knew their way about London as well as the courts and the legal system. They would take the lead. All she had to concentrate on was asking the right questions with enough confidence to stand up to Antony Shelley.

  ‘Antony Shelley, a senior barrister, was run over by a motorcycle on a pedestrian crossing outside the Royal Courts of Justice yesterday afternoon,’ said the news reader in icily distinct syllables no one could ignore. ‘His condition is said to be serious but stable.’

  The three of them looked at each other. After so many weeks of hating the very idea her adversary, Angie thought this sounded as though the Fates must be on her side at last. Not that she’d wanted him to be hurt, of course. Or not much. But it was hard not to take it as a sign.

  ‘Does it mean the case will be postponed?’ she asked, trying not to let herself feel hopeful. She’d waited for this for so long it seemed mad not to want to get on with it. But as the day came closer, she was getting more and more afraid.

  Greg shrugged. ‘Adjourned, not postponed, Ange. You must get the terminology right. Probably. We’ll have to find out. I’ve got all CWWM’s solicitor’s phone numbers. He must be answering one of them, even on a Saturday.’

  He pushed himself up from the table, a trail of bright orange squash caught in his beard.

  ‘Whiskers, Greg,’ Fran said, twinkling at Angie as she added: ‘It’s always happening and I’ve sworn I’ll always tell him. Too awful to go out looking like that.’

  He picked the fibres out of his beard and washed them down the sink. As he slopped out of the kitchen in his ill-fitting sandals, Angie said:

  ‘If it’s not adjourned, d’you really think we’ve got a chance?’

  Fran took Angie’s disfigured hand and held it firmly. The head of the long blue-and-green snake tattoo that spiralled up Fran’s right arm showed beneath the raggy cuff of her yellow sweater.

  ‘I do,’ she said, meeting Angie’s twitchy gaze with steady confidence. ‘Honestly. Greg and I wouldn’t have gone this far with you if we didn’t.’

  ‘Because they could take the farm,’ Angie said, ‘couldn’t they? If we lose and they get awarded costs.’

  ‘In the very worst case, yes: you could lose it, love. It’s true. I’ve never hidden that from you, have I?’

  Angie shook her head. ‘Somehow you don’t see things so clearly at the start. Not when you’re on fire with rage. Now—’

  She clamped her lips together, staring at the chipped worktop, which still held the curling bright-orange peel from the squash. It wouldn’t be fair to Fran to collapse on her, but Angie had to explain.

  ‘We worked so hard for so long to keep the land in good heart, the thought of throwing it away on fees for CWWM’s sodding lawyers is—’

  ‘I know.’ Fran slid her hand up under Angie’s sleeve and held her forearm in a strong grip. ‘It’s why we have to fight. They killed John. And they polluted your place, maybe for decades. You’ve a right to damages. Lots of damages.’

  ‘But if we don’t win and I have to give up the farm, I risk living on charity for the rest of my life.’

  ‘It’s benefit, Angie.’ The warmth in Fran’s face had gone and she removed her hand. Her expression was scarily hostile. ‘Not charity.’

  Angie could just imagine John’s harsh voice telling her that was a matter of opinion. She buried the thought and said: ‘I know. Of course I do. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve always paid my way. I don’t mean—’

  ‘You get used to it,’ Fran said, still not smiling but looking a bit less warlike. ‘And it means you can do useful stuff like we do fighting with FADE. You could join us full time, if you wanted. We’d love to have you.’

  Angie put her hand across her mouth, holding in everything she couldn’t – didn’t want to – say and tried to make her eyes offer the gratitude that was becoming harder to feel as her fears sharpened their teeth.

  David was walking behind George and Jay because the pavement was so narrow here. And they were all laden with clumsy carrier bags from Borough Market. The two back views made him laugh. George, more than six feet tall, had big broad shoulders inside his Hackett’s jacket and was a bit like a giant redwood, while Jay was barely five feet three and looked extremely weedy in his tight white T-shirt and jeans. He was shivering with cold, too, which was his own fault because he’d insisted on leaving his hoodie behind when George said he couldn’t wear it up.

  ‘Why d’you bovver with all this crap,’ he said suddenly, ‘when you could just get a burger and chips already hot?’

  David winced. Food was George’s most important thing, almost like a fetish. Criticising it was like the worst insult.

  For once George laughed, shifting two of his bags from one hand to the other. He had the heaviest of all.

  ‘Because burgers taste vile compared with the best well-hung fillet steak,’ he said. ‘Besides I like cooking. It’s so different from my work it makes me relax.’

  Jay looked over his shoulder at David with an expression on his round face that said: ‘Mad or what?’

  David tried not to laugh.

  ‘You mean,’ said Jay in a voice that suggested he was making a huge effort to understand someone from outer space, ‘like a kind of hobby?’

  ‘That’s right,’ George said, pausing at the crossing while a lorry thundered past, then leading the way to the opposite pavement. ‘And there’s no need to sound so snotty. It’s a much more useful hobby than nicking things.’

  David clenched his hands so tightly around the thin plastic of his carriers that they felt like knives digging into his fingers. If George was hard to tease safely, Jay was impossible. There was a scary silence. Jay lagged so he was nearly as far behind George as David himself. Then he speeded up again.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you wasn’t so old and clumsy. You’d be out lickin’ the belly with the best of us if you could. I see you looking at them lobsters and wanting to stuff one up your shirt when the bloke told you how much they was.’

  ‘Ouch,’ George said with a laugh. ‘What a horrible boy you are.’

  ‘You did, though, didn’ you?’ This time when Jay looked over his shoulder at David, his face was full of glee. ‘Admit it. Go on.’

  ‘I admit I did have an extraordinary moment of idiotic temptation, which I had absolutely no difficulty whatsoever in resisting because I am an honest bloke with a will of steel.’

  ‘Yeah, and a mouth like a fucking dictionary.’

  ‘Don’t swear. And speed up or we’ll be late for tea.’

  David followed them feeling really happy. No one else saw the things in George that Jay could see, or talked about them like this. It made life at home more interesting than
usual. And a lot less lonely.

  By nine o’clock that evening, Trish knew she’d read as much as she could absorb without a real break.

  ‘Adsorb,’ she said aloud in Robert’s languid patrician accent. ‘Not absorb, Trish.’

  She realised she was light-headed with overconcentration and lack of fresh air. Only one other member of chambers was still at work, so she looked into his room to warn him she was off and would leave him to lock up.

  ‘How’s it going? You’re taking over Antony’s stinks case, aren’t you?’

  ‘Going OK, I think, although I could’ve done with a bit longer to get my head round the welding of tank seams, fire protection systems, the dangers of reformulated benzene and so on.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘We’re all rooting for you, you know.’

  Touched, she waved her thanks and stumped downstairs, feeling the hardness of the stone steps through her boots, and painfully aware of tight muscles she’d been clenching all day as she hung over her desk and twisted her legs around the central pillar of her chair. For once she looked forward to the lavish dinner she knew George would have cooked to welcome her back.

  In the murk at the foot of the stairs a pale rectangle lay on the front-door mat. Bending down, she saw it was an envelope with her name and address typed under a heavily underlined ‘Strictly private and confidential’.

  Worried, she ripped it open as she left the building and set off towards Blackfriars Bridge and home. She’d walked the route so often she didn’t need to look where she was going, and there was just enough light from the streetlamps to read the handwritten letter from David’s head teacher.