‘But surely you need proof? Or at least very strong evidence that shows that there’s a direct link between this Crixus and cancer?’ Ian’s wife, Hazel, had spoken. ‘You see, the thing is, a lot of us are aware of some of these incidents and events but there’s one thing that’s not been said here tonight. It’s all legal.’ She waved a hand towards the window. ‘That farmer out there is not breaking any laws.’

‘Yes, surely you need scientific evidence,’ said Sunita. ‘Professional statements, academic papers. Have you got anything like that?’

Kate kept the optimistic smile on her face. ‘Not yet . . .’

‘And what are the chances of us winning, if we even get this to court?’ asked Ian.

‘Well, it’s hard to know for sure. But that’s not a reason not to bother, is it?’

The taxi driver, Rob, had remained silent until now. When Kate had gone to his house, she’d kept her eyes from the weed-entangled garden, the piles of washing stacked in the kitchen. His wife, Helen, who had ME, had been in bed and his daughter, Abby, had had soft-tissue sarcoma but was now in remission. Kate knew he was responsible for the care of them both, plus he paid all the bills. ‘Just because we’re ill and we live next to this farm . . . it doesn’t actually prove anything,’ he said.

‘I’m working hard to—’

‘You’re wasting your time. They’re never going to pay up. Even if you do manage to pull together some sort of case, you’re going to be locked into a legal battle like this American fella that will be delayed for years. Not everyone here has that sort of time.’

Kate refused to buckle. She gave a hopeful smile as she looked around the room.

‘It’s very nice of you,’ said Sunita kindly, ‘to think of us like this, but in all honesty, for a lot of us it’s too much effort when it’s so likely to fail. We’ve got enough on our plates just dealing with the day to day.’

‘I’ll do all the work.’

‘Why?’ said Ian. ‘What’s in it for you?’

‘I don’t want a cut. If that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Kate quickly. She paused; she’d never really considered this question fully before, but she knew the answer as if it were ingrained in her brain. ‘Like my daughter before me, I cannot stand an injustice. I’m helping because I’m sick of seeing the small guy, the ordinary person, get shafted, while the rich and the powerful continue to get richer and more powerful. We are not second-class citizens. They need to know we’re not going to put up with it,’ she insisted, ‘and they need to change. And the only way they’ll do that is if we hit them where it hurts most – in their pockets.’ She looked around the room; everyone was listening, but it was impossible to tell if she was getting through. No one spoke. Kate took a deep breath. ‘I feel I need to do it to make sense of my daughter’s death.’