The memo was dated January 2016 and was marked highly confidential. It was written by Roger Harris – the same man whom Kate had spoken to at the conference – and it was addressed to the Director of Marketing.

Naomi,

In response to your query on Crixus and its safety record, and historical test results, I realize the authorities in Spain need assurances so they can license the product but you cannot categorically say that Crixus is not a carcinogen. We have undertaken testing on the product in the 2015 mouse study #2 (mid- and high-dose males and females), spraying the insides of cages and runs over a period of twelve months, which threw up concerning/negative results, with 67 per cent of mice contracting cancers (full test report and results below, including indications of tumours where present). As it is critical that we have our product accepted in the upcoming meeting, I would advise that you avoid any direct claims and frame your statement to imply that there is no reason to believe that Crixus can cause cancers. Dr Andrew Faber from this department is currently reviewing the mice test tumours and will present his evaluation to support exactly this statement – that they are not related to Crixus. (I will have this report available by next week, should it be required, but hopefully it won’t.)

Can talk more at the drinks tonight if it helps,

Roger

Stunned, Kate looked up from the documents. They knew. They bloody knew all along and had done for years. They’d also deliberately covered it up with lies and fake science.

She pulled her cardigan closer, suddenly feeling cold. The families at Ramsbourne had been regularly exposed to this stuff – she’d seen the bottles of Crixus stacked up in the farm’s container. Each and every one of them was at risk and the manufacturing company knew about it. This was it. This was her smoking gun.

Hands shaking, she went to dial Adam’s number. Then stopped. Did she want her records to show she’d been calling him? She stuffed the document back in her bag and hurried to the high street where she knew there was a public phone box, praying it hadn’t been vandalized as had so often happened in the past. To her relief, although covered in graffiti and littered with empty beer cans, it was working. She tried Adam on both the number he’d called her from that morning and the old number she had for him, but there was no answer on either. She didn’t dare leave a message.

Back home, she went through Becky’s things, looking for a diary, an address book, scraps of paper, anything that might give her a clue as to where he lived. She recalled Becky had been to his flat – they’d had a date and she’d waited for a cab there. And then she remembered. Becky had told her he lived in Clapham opposite somewhere. What was it, the Picture Palace? No, the Picturehouse. She found it easily enough on Google.