accuse of torturing animals. Look, here’s Professor Ronald Maxwell of the Linnaeus Institute. He researches bird- song. He uses caged birds. Dr Christopher Nicholson has been sewing up the eyelids of kittens. Charles Patton runs the family fur company. And here we have Leo Mackenzie, Chairman of Mackenzie & Carlow.’
Baird seized the magazine.
‘What is… what was he meant to be guilty of?’
‘Experiments on animals, it says here.’
‘Bloody hell. Well done, Chris. Have you checked it out?’
‘Yes. At its Fulton laboratories, the company are working on a project, partly financed by the Department of Agriculture. It’s on stress in animal husbandry, they told me.’
‘What does it involve?’
Angeloglou smiled broadly.
‘This is the good bit,’ he said. ‘The research involves giving pigs electric shocks and lacerating them in various ways and testing their responses. Have you ever seen a pig being killed?’
‘No.’
‘They cut the throat. Blood all over the place. They make black pudding with it.’
‘I can’t stand black pudding,’ said Baird, turning several pages of the magazine over. ‘I don’t see a date. Do we know when this was published?’
‘You don’t get
‘Was Mackenzie warned about this?’
‘He’d been told about it,’ said Angeloglou. ‘But it was nothing new. From what they say at his head office, he was used to things like this.’
Baird frowned with concentration.
‘What we need now are some names. Who was it who headed the animal operation? Mitchell, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but he’s arse-deep in the West Midlands at the moment. I’ve been on the phone to Phil Carrier who was his DI. He’s spent the last couple of months wandering around burnt barns and wrecked lorries. He’s going to come up with some names.’
‘Good,’ said Baird. ‘Let’s move quickly on that. What’s the latest with the Mackenzie girl?’
‘She’s conscious. Not critical.’
‘Any chance of a statement?’
Angeloglou shook his head.
‘Not at the moment. The doctors say she’s in deep shock. Hasn’t said anything yet. Anyway, she was hooded, remember. I wouldn’t hold my breath for anything there.’
As recently as 1990, Melissa Hollingdale had been a biology teacher in a comprehensive school without even an unpaid parking ticket on her record. Now she was an habituee of police interrogation rooms with a file that scrolled up the screen for page after page. Looking through the one-way mirror, Chris Angeloglou sat and stared at this impassive woman in her mid thirties. Her long thick dark hair was tied up behind, no make-up. Her skin was pale, smooth, clean. She dressed for speed. A flecked turtleneck, jeans, trainers. Her hands, laid palm down and steady on the table in front of her, were surprisingly dainty and white. She waited with no sign of impatience.
‘We’ll start with Melissa, then?’
Angeloglou turned. It was Baird.
‘Where’s Carrier?’
‘He’s out. There’s a report of a bomb sent to a turkey farm.’
‘Christ.’
‘Inside a Christmas card.’
‘Christ. Bit late, isn’t it?’
‘He’ll be over later.’
A constable appeared carrying a tray with three cups of tea. Angeloglou took it. The two detectives nodded at each other and went in.
‘Thank you for coming to see us. Cup of tea?’
‘I don’t drink tea.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Do you have the file, Chris? What are Miss Hollingdale’s qualifications for being here?’
‘She’s a coordinator for the Vivisection and Export Alliance. VEAL.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Hollingdale evenly.
Angeloglou looked down at his file.
‘How long have you been out now? Two months, is it? No, three. Malicious damage, assaulting a policeman, affray.’
Hollingdale allowed herself a resigned smile.
‘I sat down in front of a lorry at Dovercourt. Now what is all this about?’
‘What is your current occupation?’
‘I’m having difficulty finding an occupation. I appear to be on various blacklists.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
She said nothing.
‘Three days ago a businessman called Leo Mackenzie and his wife were murdered in their home in the Castletown suburb of Stamford. Their daughter is critically ill in hospital.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you ever read a magazine called
‘No.’
‘It’s an underground magazine produced by a terrorist animal-rights group. The most recent issue published the name and address of Mr Mackenzie. Six weeks later he, his wife and his daughter had their throats cut. What do you have to say about that?’
Hollingdale shrugged.
‘What do you feel about activism of this kind?’ Baird asked.
‘Have you brought me in here for a discussion about animal rights?’ Hollingdale asked with a sarcastic smile. ‘I’m against any creature having its throat cut. Is that what you want me to say?’
‘Would you condemn such acts?’
‘I’m not interested in making gestures.’
‘Where were you on the night between the seventeenth and the eighteenth of January?’
Hollingdale was silent for a long time.
‘I suppose I was in bed, like everybody else.’
‘Not everybody. Do you have any witnesses?’
‘I can probably find one or two people.’
‘I bet you can. By the way, Miss Hollingdale,’ added Baird. ‘How are your children?’
She started, as if in pain, and her expression hardened.
‘Nobody will tell me. Will
‘Mark Featherstone, or should we call you by your adopted name of Loki?’
Loki was dressed in extravagantly varied fabrics, sewed together into a shapeless tunic over baggy white cotton trousers. His red hair was knotted into dreadlocks which hung down over his back at stiff angles, like giant pipe cleaners. He smelled of patchouli oil and cigarettes.
‘Does that rhyme with “hockey” or with “chokey”? I suppose “chokey” would be more appropriate.’ Angeloglou consulted his file. ‘Breaking and entering. Burglary. Assault. I thought you were against violence?’
Loki said nothing.
‘You’re a clever man, Loki. Chemical engineering. A Ph.D. Useful training for manufacturing explosives, I suppose.’
