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farming family with seven hundred acres of good arable land not far from Newbury. Nice hard-working people, reasonably prosperous, distinctly law-abiding. Like most farmers, they worked with large quantities of chemicals. But unlike most other families they had been unlucky or not careful enough, or both, and now things had gone wrong.
    But was a demonstration going to help? Daisy tried to imagine what sort of protest Alice Knowles might be planning. Handing out leaflets, setting up a stall? Not so bad. Banner waving, shouting, speech making? Not so good. In the minds of much of the press any sort of jumping up and down was still firmly associated with weirdos and political agitators, and while they might print a two-line protest story, they were unlikely to give the item the space it deserved. Alice would be written off as an isolated old woman with a grievance, and Daisy’s chances of getting a serious investigative piece would be that much reduced.
    But there might still be time to pre-empt things. Leafing through her address book, she found the number of Simon Calthrop, a Sunday Times journalist she’d just met. Simon was a committed environmental reporter, just as he’d been a committed consumer affairs correspondent two years before, and a dedicated investigative reporter the year before that.
    He sounded grumpy when he answered the phone. ‘Can’t do anything this week,’ he began unpromisingly.
    ‘As a human interest story then,’ Daisy suggested. ‘You know, how ordinary people are driven to desperate acts. It could make a good photo feature.’
    ‘Mmm.’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘So tell me about it.’
    Daisy told him about the family and how the medical tests had shown them to have high levels of pesticide residues in their bodies – the residue of several pesticides unfortunately, and not just one or two, so that it was impossible to know which particular chemical or cocktail of chemicals might have caused their troubles. But Daisy had her suspicions. For years the Knowleses had been using the pesticide Aldeb on their potato crop. She reminded Simon that Aldeb was under notice of withdrawal in the US because of fears that it was carcinogenic.
    ‘And in Britain?’ he asked.
    ‘Here?’ Daisy gave a derisive laugh. ‘You know how it is – everything takes a little longer. The ministry did their usual trick and rejected the US research on the grounds that it was inconclusive. Aldeb’s still heading the bestsellers’ list.’
    ‘Mmm.’ He wasn’t sounding enthralled by the story so far. ‘Aldeb’s who, remind me?’
    ‘Morton-Kreiger. They’ve just announced their results. Worldwide profits of three hundred million, give or take the odd million. Pounds, that is.’
    ‘And what’s their response been? You’ve contacted them, presumably.’
    Daisy was beginning to realize that, for all his erudite environmental articles, Simon still didn’t know everything about the workings of agrochemical companies. ‘What response?’ she replied caustically. ‘You must be joking. I’m always referred to their legal department.’
    He took the point, though she could sense that he didn’t appreciate it being made so forcefully. Tactlessness – and instant regret – were such a regular feature of her life that she automatically backtracked, adding quickly: ‘What I mean is, they’ve been less helpful than they could have been.’
    ‘Listen, this isn’t exactly straightforward,’ Simon said. ‘If there’s a story, it could take weeks to dig out. I really don’t think there’d be much point in covering this woman and her demonstration this afternoon, not at this stage – ’
    ‘Maybe not, but let me come over with the file,’ Daisy urged. ‘It’s impressive, I promise you. The story could be an important one. At least we think so. And if we’re right, then a lot of farmers could be at risk.’ He was silent, but Daisy could sense a flicker of interest. ‘Needless to say,’ she added,