Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [29]
The assembly finished and the lessons began. For Alex that meant history followed by math and then social studies, a cheerful assortment for the first morning of the first day of classes. After lunch, the first lesson of the afternoon was biology with John Gilbert, a young teacher who had only arrived the summer before. He was curly haired with glasses and specialized in brightly colored ties. He hadn’t been teaching long enough to lose his enthusiasm, and it had been he who had given the class the project on genetic engineering that Alex had described in Scotland.
“I hope you’ve all begun to think about this very serious 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