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her. He’d enjoyed the wink.
     
    The old man grunted, mumbling his annoyance that this young man was the one he’d had his ear bent about for some time at home. Ben pretended to look at the posters with interest. “Don’t badgers spread some disease or something? That’s what we’ve been told. All the cows are gonna die?” He pulled out his notebook and flourished his scribbles. “See? My notes from today.” He found the part he wanted. “‘ The scientific evidence shows conclusively that badgers contribute significantly to bovine TB in cattle.’ I wrote that down—word for word. Can’t argue with that, can you?”  
     
    That was all it took. Within five minutes, he was sitting between Julie and Peace, being educated on the myths and lies surrounding badgers and bovine TB and plied with science, pseudo-science, and beer. Ben wasn’t making it too easy; he had an agenda, after all. He moved it forward by suddenly appearing doubtful. “Jesus, this is above my pay grade. I can’t believe we’re being told complete lies like this. I’d really like to hear a proper scientist on all this. Don’t they all support DEFRA and the cull? Culling’s been a hundred percent successful in Ireland, hasn’t it?”
     
    They all began to shout at him at once. “No! Jesus! It’s not at all! Someone ring Sean, get him over here. Sean will tell you all about Ireland.”
     
    Ben was pretty sure he would and wondered for a moment if he and the Maffertys had met in a previous life—over a bomb or rifle barrel, perhaps. “Sean a scientist, is he?”
     
    “Nah, hey, give Tim a bell, too, see if he’s free tonight. Tim’s our spokesman on the telly. He knows all this stuff. He’ll set you right.”
     
    Bingo. Ben had another beer then said he had to go. The trick was letting them think they had to work to reel him in, while the truth was he was working to reel them in. Now they were desperate for him to stay. He made his sincerest apologies, said he couldn’t afford to be late for his second day on the course, bought them all another round, and left. He’d ridden his Ducati to the pub and pulled it over in a copse of trees to check it for a tracker before returning to his hotel. He was insanely disappointed not to find Nikolas waiting for him again.
     
    He wondered, not for the first time, what Nikolas was doing. Was he in bed with his wife? Did they actually have a sexual relationship? Ben was fairly sure they didn’t and never had. Perhaps he was being pathetically hopeful. Damn, but he wished he had a way to contact Nikolas outside his official department numbers. His phone buzzed. It was one a.m. He heaved it out of his pocket and saw a text had been received from an unrecognised number. Anyone can pretend 2 love someone, the real trick is 2 pretend not 2 love when u do.
     
    Nikolas’s texting was as weird and unreliable as his spoken English, but Ben didn’t care. He went to bed, grinning, with warmth in his groin that he didn’t attempt to alleviate, and for the first time in weeks he didn’t fall asleep to dark thoughts of fire and death.
     
    §§§
     
    The second day of the course saw them learning how to use the various pieces of equipment they would need: rifles, shotguns, cages, bait, and night-vision goggles. Some badgers were to be shot directly and some caged then shot in the cages. Ben was almost enjoying his day in the countryside until they were told they had visitors, and four Range Rovers pulled up to the small copse of trees they were working in. Two men, unmistakable as Met protection, scrambled out of the front of the first, and one of them opened the back door, allowing a portly, red-faced man to get out. A young woman slid out after him, talking on a phone and making notes in a folder. Sir Monty Bancott and his PA came over to the training group, but no one was giving them much attention as another four protection officers emerged from the other vehicles, and then a figure