‘Tim,’ she hissed.

‘Wha’ is it?’

‘It’s the rules again. The rules are wrong. Bystander, my arse.’

‘Huh?’

‘Someone has to change the rules.’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought you already did that?’

She switched the light on and he winced. ‘No, listen. These crop-spraying rules. Maybe that’s what Becky was trying to do. Expose the insanity of the “bystander” method. Let people know what was really happening. How ill people were getting.’ She sat up suddenly, proud. ‘My daughter. She wanted to tell everyone what was going on.’

‘She was amazing.’

‘She was. But she never got to tell her story. What if . . .’

‘Hmm?’

‘Well, Becky can’t tell her story anymore. What if someone did it for her?’ She paused. ‘Me.’

‘You?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘I’m not! I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

It was a ludicrous idea. She didn’t have the first clue about journalism. She slumped back down on the bed.

‘I didn’t even finish school. Let alone go and get a degree.’

‘So?’

‘So, I work in a DIY store. It’s not exactly high-flying stuff.’

‘Who cares.’

‘No one will take me seriously.’

‘Greg did.’

‘That was different.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I was personally involved.’

‘And you’re not this time?’

‘Not really . . .’

Tim held up a hand. ‘Just stop right there, young lady. Your brilliant daughter was taken away in her prime and didn’t get to finish one of the most important stories of her burgeoning career. Your daughter.’

‘But I can’t write!’

‘You’re pretty persuasive. Need I say it again? Greg. Can’t believe I’m quoting this man’s name so much and in my own bed,’ he added, grumbling.

‘But that was just me talking. Gobbing off.’

‘Write down what comes out of your gob. Simple pimple.’

Kate lay back on the pillows. Thought for a moment. ‘But what about spelling, grammar, sophisticated words? All that stuff?’

‘I do believe there is a magic button on the keyboard for all that guff.’

‘Sophisticated words?’

‘Maybe not that bit. But there’s a – what’s it called – thesaurus.’

Kate was quiet for a moment. ‘You really think . . .?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even with my crappy education?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though—’

‘Yes.’

She snuggled in next to him. ‘Well, I suppose I can give it a try.’

‘Good. Now, can we go to sleep? I’ve got to be up at five.’

She kissed him. ‘Yes. I love you.’

‘Elephant juice too. Now, lights out.’

She flicked the switch. Lay there. Still buzzing. Maybe . . . just maybe she could. She owed it to Becky to try. She was pretty sure no one else at Becky’s paper had picked up the story – if they had, Grace and the others would’ve been contacted, they’d have known about it. She heard Tim’s breathing soften as he fell back to sleep.

She’d have to regain Grace’s trust. Try and get her to talk, confide in her. The others, too. She’d have to do more research. There was science stuff to figure out as well. Chemicals. Reactions. She had been pretty good at science before she got pregnant. She’d taken chemistry and biology at GCSE, passed neither but the potential had been there. She might have to find experts to talk to, interview. This was going to take a while. Months maybe. She suddenly thought of Arnie and wondered how ill he was. Whether time was on his side. And Rob, working all hours as a cab driver for Abby and his wife, Helen.