a load of rabbits.’ As an afterthought, he added by way of explanation: ‘Apparently they conduct tests on rabbits there.’
‘What sort of tests?’
Paul shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Cancer. Cosmetics. Anyway, it caused a major hoo-ha, alarms going off, the local residents worried.’ He grinned. ‘Apparently, one of the locals thought there might be some sort of biological weapon testing going on that had gone wrong. Luckily, we were able to reassure them it was just Animal Rights freeing rabbits. And that the rabbits were perfectly healthy and absolutely not contaminated with anything.’
‘How do we know it was Animal Rights campaigners?’ asked Jake.
‘Because they sent out a press release,’ said Paul, picking up a sheet of paper from his desk and handing it to Jake.
Jake read it. The heading said ‘MAAT’, and beneath it the words: Militants Against Animal Testing . The message was simple. We of MAAT oppose the inhumane use of animals for testing . Then followed some statistics about the use of rabbits for testing cosmetics: how rabbits were ideal for testing harmful chemicals in cosmetics because they didn’t have tear ducts to wash away the toxic substances; and how rabbits were kept tied up while new experimental brands of shampoo were poured into their eyes. The press release ended with the words: Stop this Cruelty Now!
Paul shook his head.
‘Mad people,’ he sighed.
No, clever people, thought Jake. There had been no freeing of rabbits from Hadley Park last night. Someone had worked very quickly to come up with this story and the press release from this so-called mythical ‘MAAT’, to calm the worried residents of Stone.
Just then the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.
‘Jake Wells, press office,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’
He frowned, puzzled.
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘Penny Johnson. We met at the site . . .’
The reporter! thought Jake. ‘Yes, I remember,’ he said.
‘I wonder if we can meet and talk?’ asked Johnson.
Jake hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to stir things up and arouse Gareth’s suspicions. Right now, it was best that he kept a low profile. ‘Well . . .’ he began, reluctantly.
‘Oh, don’t put me off!’ begged Johnson. ‘Look, you’re a press officer. I’m a journalist. We have to talk to one another, it’s in our job descriptions.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Can you be free in ten minutes?’
Ten minutes? She was that close! My God, was this woman stalking him?
‘Well . . .’ he began again, awkwardly.
‘Stop saying “Well”,’ said Johnson. ‘Leave my name at your reception desk and I’ll see you there in ten minutes. If you need an official reason to see me, I’ve got a story I need to run past you, and you’re the only one who can verify it.’
‘OK,’ said Jake. ‘Ten minutes.’
He phoned down to the front desk and gave them Penny Johnson’s name and his extension. As he hung up he thought: what does she know? And why does she need to see me?
She was on time. Ten minutes later, Jake’s phone rang.
‘Your guest has arrived,’ said reception. ‘A Miss Penny Johnson.’
‘Tell her I’m on my way down,’ said Jake.
As he headed down to the ground floor, he wondered what story she wanted to see him about. It had to do with the dig, and whatever had been dug up. But the case had been dealt with, first by Algy, and then by Paul and others in the press office: it was a release of toxic gas, and the canister had been removed for safety to a research establishment, where it was being checked. So why had she gone to all the trouble of coming in to London from Bedfordshire, and to see him specifically?
Penny Johnson was standing by the reception desk, waiting for him.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You said you had a story?’
Johnson nodded.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ she asked.
Jake gave a rueful shrug.
‘If you want to talk privately,
‘What sort of tests?’
Paul shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Cancer. Cosmetics. Anyway, it caused a major hoo-ha, alarms going off, the local residents worried.’ He grinned. ‘Apparently, one of the locals thought there might be some sort of biological weapon testing going on that had gone wrong. Luckily, we were able to reassure them it was just Animal Rights freeing rabbits. And that the rabbits were perfectly healthy and absolutely not contaminated with anything.’
‘How do we know it was Animal Rights campaigners?’ asked Jake.
‘Because they sent out a press release,’ said Paul, picking up a sheet of paper from his desk and handing it to Jake.
Jake read it. The heading said ‘MAAT’, and beneath it the words: Militants Against Animal Testing . The message was simple. We of MAAT oppose the inhumane use of animals for testing . Then followed some statistics about the use of rabbits for testing cosmetics: how rabbits were ideal for testing harmful chemicals in cosmetics because they didn’t have tear ducts to wash away the toxic substances; and how rabbits were kept tied up while new experimental brands of shampoo were poured into their eyes. The press release ended with the words: Stop this Cruelty Now!
Paul shook his head.
‘Mad people,’ he sighed.
No, clever people, thought Jake. There had been no freeing of rabbits from Hadley Park last night. Someone had worked very quickly to come up with this story and the press release from this so-called mythical ‘MAAT’, to calm the worried residents of Stone.
Just then the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.
‘Jake Wells, press office,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’
He frowned, puzzled.
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘Penny Johnson. We met at the site . . .’
The reporter! thought Jake. ‘Yes, I remember,’ he said.
‘I wonder if we can meet and talk?’ asked Johnson.
Jake hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to stir things up and arouse Gareth’s suspicions. Right now, it was best that he kept a low profile. ‘Well . . .’ he began, reluctantly.
‘Oh, don’t put me off!’ begged Johnson. ‘Look, you’re a press officer. I’m a journalist. We have to talk to one another, it’s in our job descriptions.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Can you be free in ten minutes?’
Ten minutes? She was that close! My God, was this woman stalking him?
‘Well . . .’ he began again, awkwardly.
‘Stop saying “Well”,’ said Johnson. ‘Leave my name at your reception desk and I’ll see you there in ten minutes. If you need an official reason to see me, I’ve got a story I need to run past you, and you’re the only one who can verify it.’
‘OK,’ said Jake. ‘Ten minutes.’
He phoned down to the front desk and gave them Penny Johnson’s name and his extension. As he hung up he thought: what does she know? And why does she need to see me?
She was on time. Ten minutes later, Jake’s phone rang.
‘Your guest has arrived,’ said reception. ‘A Miss Penny Johnson.’
‘Tell her I’m on my way down,’ said Jake.
As he headed down to the ground floor, he wondered what story she wanted to see him about. It had to do with the dig, and whatever had been dug up. But the case had been dealt with, first by Algy, and then by Paul and others in the press office: it was a release of toxic gas, and the canister had been removed for safety to a research establishment, where it was being checked. So why had she gone to all the trouble of coming in to London from Bedfordshire, and to see him specifically?
Penny Johnson was standing by the reception desk, waiting for him.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You said you had a story?’
Johnson nodded.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ she asked.
Jake gave a rueful shrug.
‘If you want to talk privately,
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