She took a punt. ‘I need all the details: when you moved here, how often the spraying took place, when you or your family members became ill. We’ll need to do medical reports, determine the costs of your future care needs. I’m sorry, it will be hard, but we need to be thorough. I’d like to visit each of you in turn, starting as soon as possible. I have my day job too, but I’m going to fit this case in around work and night school using every spare minute I have.’

Nobody objected. A smile bubbled up inside her. She was in. She was in!

The rest of the email, she’d keep to herself for now:

You will need more, though. More support, much more evidence. It is a huge battle and they will try to crush you like an ant.

You may have read my article, but did you bother to read the responses? The scathing counter-articles written by Senerix’s in-house ‘scientists’ questioning my training, my medical knowledge, even my motivation? They said my claims were ‘fake science’, made me seem like a deluded fool, a man out of touch.

The resistance from these companies is so strong. And yet it is like fog. Impossible to grasp, to move aside. Impossible to see a clear way through. This is how the chemical companies like it. They will do anything to keep it that way. They will lobby governments and fund their ‘research’ programmes. They will fight. And they will deny, deny, deny.

Yours,

Bernhard

That part, she would think about later.

THIRTY-ONE

Kate put every spare waking second into her campaign. She interviewed the villagers, family by family, learning how peoples’ windows were regularly covered with a thin film of chemicals after spraying, the same film that rested on children’s bike handles, garden-swing ropes, the clean washing on the line and the surface of ponds that pets would drink from.

The more she spoke to them, the angrier she got, but she had to contain it, to keep focused and calm. More than one family had had to leave their houses when spraying took place, although this was hard when they were woken at five in the morning by the fumes that came through their open bedroom windows. She also contacted doctors and research scientists around the world, asking for their professional support. She would work late into the night, typing away on her ancient computer, trying to organize her notes into a coherent case. She would anxiously back everything up – twice.

Kate had been nervous when she’d started interviewing the families in earnest. She was aware she was asking them to talk about some of the most painful events in their lives. But the person she was most nervous of was Rob, the taxi driver.

He was sitting opposite her now at a small table, tucked away in a corner of Ramsbourne’s local cafe. It was late afternoon in the middle of the week on an unseasonably cold day and several people were huddled over steaming coffees. A large glass of orange juice, which Kate had bought, was on the table in front of Rob. Kate watched as he drew patterns in the condensation on the glass, knowing he was uncomfortable, knowing she was too.