Crocodile Tears

subject,” he began. “I’m going to want to see your written work completed by midterm. And I’ve got some good news.” He picked up a letter and showed it to the class. “At the end of last term, I wrote to the Greenfields Bio Center in Wiltshire. I’m sure you know who they are … they’re always in the news. Greenfields is a private organization, one of the world leaders in plant science and microbiology. They’ve been doing more than anyone else to develop new techniques in genetic engineering, and they’ve got a huge facility on the edge of Salisbury Plain. I asked if we could visit, look at their work, and maybe talk to some of their professors—and rather to my surprise, they’ve agreed. To be honest with you, I didn’t think they’d allow school visits because so much of their work is secretive. But we’ll be heading down there in a couple of weeks. I’ll need to get permission from your parents, and I’ll hand out forms at the end of the period. Don’t forget to get them signed!”

    He put the letter down and went over to the blackboard.
    “ Now, I want to find out how you’re coming along with your projects. But first of all, I asked you to come up with some of the good things and the bad things about GM crops. Can anyone give me an example of how this science has helped society?”
    GM crops.
    Alex couldn’t help himself. He remembered the moment he had told Edward Pleasure about his work just as Desmond McCain had come down the stairs, and suddenly he was back at Kilmore Castle, half an hour before New Year’s. McCain had appeared alarmed about something. But what could it have been, and could it really have led to the gunshot and the near death in Loch Arkaig?
    There had been no gunshot. Alex tried to force the idea out of his head. The car had blown a tire, that was all. And yet, he still remembered McCain, the gleaming, bald head, the silver cross, the strange line where the two halves of his head failed to meet.
    No. This was crazy. McCain ran a charity. He had made a mistake in his life, but he had paid for it. He wasn’t a killer.
    “ Rider?”
    Alex heard his name, realized it had been called out twice, and forced himself to focus back on the class. Just as he had feared, Mr. Gilbert had asked him something and he hadn’t even heard the question. He’d been miles away.
    “ I’m sorry, sir?” he said.

    Mr. Gilbert sighed. “You don’t turn up to school very often, Rider. But it would be nice if you actually listened when you did. Hale?”
    James Hale was another of Alex’s friends, a neat-looking boy with brown hair and blue eyes, sitting at the next desk. He glanced apologetically at Alex and then answered. “GM science can make crops grow extra vitamins,” he said. “And there was a special sort of rice that was changed so that it could grow underwater for a few days without dying.”
    “ Very good. It was called golden rice, and obviously it was very useful in countries with too much rainfall. Anyone else?”
    Alex made sure he concentrated until the end of the lesson. The first day of the term was far too early to get into trouble. Somehow he made it to 3:45 without further incident, and then he was part of the crowd, pouring out of the school gates with his backpack over his shoulder. For once, he hadn’t brought his bike with him. Alex owned a Condor Junior Roadracer that had been built for him as a twelfth birthday present. But he’d noticed recently that it wasn’t giving him a comfortable ride. The truth was that he was growing out of it, and the seat wouldn’t adjust any more. He would be sorry to see it go. It belonged to his old life, before his uncle had died, and there was precious little of that left.

    Perhaps it was thinking of his uncle that drove Alex to take a shortcut across Brompton Cemetery. This was where Ian Rider had been buried after the so-called car accident, the one that began with gunshots being fired into his uncle’s car. It was at the funeral that Alex had first begun to learn the truth about his uncle, that he had never actually worked in a bank. He had instead lived and died as a spy. Alex often walked past the gravestone, but today, acting on impulse, he left the main path and went over to it. He looked at the name, carved in a square slab of gray marble, with the dates below it and a single line: A GOOD MAN TAKEN BEFORE HIS TIME. Well, that was one way to put it. Somebody had left flowers, quite recently. Roses. The