‘Yes. And I suppose it helps us too. I mean, we all know there have been cases, but for the pigs to leave so little in the trough …’ I had to admit I was intrigued. I wanted to see what would be left of fifty kilos of meat fed to twenty moderately hungry pigs.

20

We pulled up in front of a modern brick farmhouse. An outside light cast a dull glow onto a lawn, which was fenced off from a concrete yard. To our right was a vast barn, and beyond that another one. Behind them were the woods, separated from the barns by an area of scorched grassland.

We left the car and walked up to the house. Moths buzzed around the light, and the smell of manure hung in the still air.

Kirsty pulled open the door. ‘Come out to the barn,’ she said. ‘It’s all ready.’ She reached behind her and lifted a plastic bag full of something solid and lumpy. She shoved it at me. ‘Give us a hand with this.’

I took the bag, shocked at its weight and the feel of it. It was room-temperature, possibly warmer, and part of me resisted – told me it should be chilled. Kirsty passed me another one, and then gave Fiona a couple of bags.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This must be hard for you.’

Kirsty gave a low laugh. ‘Yes, nicely done in the press conference. Not the best way to get the heads-up that one of your relatives might have been eaten by pigs. I shudder to think how her adopted parents felt.’

‘It was unfortunate.’

‘But for me, I never knew I had a niece so I haven’t exactly lost anything.’

‘That’s admirably logical,’ I said. And weird, I thought.

Kirsty added, ‘It’s very upsetting, obviously.’

‘This is the sheep?’ I said.

Kirsty pulled the door closed behind us with a sharp click. ‘Fifty kilo roughly butchered, with all the bones and skin, but no wool. Very fresh. It’s not been refrigerated.’ I could imagine her accidentally lopping off a little finger or popping out a baby or two while making the kids’ suppers.

We followed Kirsty across the yard to one of the barns. A gentle breeze drifted over the grassy area between the barn and the woods. We waited while she removed a combination lock and pushed the door open. ‘This is intensive pig farming. Some people don’t like it, but there’s a demand for cheap pork.’

We walked into the barn, and through an area stacked high with straw. As my eyes acclimatised, I saw that the rest of the barn was full of metal cages. Each housed about twenty young pigs, crammed in together, lying on slatted floors. They were slumped in piles, grunting softly.

‘They don’t have a lot of room,’ Fiona said.

‘It’s all perfectly standard,’ Kirsty said. ‘Red Tractor approved.’