The Burning Time

Book 0: William Carver Novels

by Peter Hanington

Genres: Crime Fiction; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

Old-school reporter William Carver returns in this deeply topical and dramatic international thriller.

'Smart and topical' Financial Times (An FT Best New Thriller 2023)

'A compelling, fast-paced thriller' Sun

Australian inventor and geoengineer Clive Winner is the genius who brought the Great Barrier Reef back from the brink, yet his ambition goes well beyond that. He wants to save the planet.

For the all-powerful fossil fuel industry, Winner is their 'get out of jail free card'. If he can engineer a solution to climate change, business can continue as usual.

When old-school journalist William Carver is tipped off by a trusted Whitehall source that climate scientists have begun to go missing in suspicious circumstances, his gut instinct tells him to follow the story. It rapidly becomes clear that scientists, green campaigners and well-intentioned politicians are in the firing line; William Carver and his colleagues must move fast to find out who is behind the disappearances. They know the journalist's job is to speak truth to power - but first you must uncover that truth and this time it's buried deeper than ever.

Racing between Sydney, New York, Seville and London, The Burning Time is an intelligent, timely and fast-paced thriller for the 21st century.

'A tribute to and a demonstration of the importance of traditional investigative journalism' Literary Review

'Deftly plotted . . . a propulsive read' Straits Times

'The Burning Time is terrific. [It] will be a classic of the genre' Peter Hennessey, author of A Duty of Care

'A wonderfully taut piece of plotting [. . .] endlessly inventive storytelling' Edward Stourton

(P)2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: July 6, 2023

Publisher: John Murray Press

Print pages: 384

Sample

A quick detour wouldn’t do any harm, screw the company if they thought otherwise. She was an hour ahead of schedule and so close to the sea that she could smell it – that briny Atlantic air swirling around the cockpit, mixed in with the more powerful stink of aviation fuel. Alma pushed the control stick left, taking the old crop-duster across a field of giant white wind turbines and west – towards the ocean and a slow-setting sun. The Costa de la Luz was fully deserving of its name this early September evening. The ocean catching and casting light, painting the whitewashed seaside town of La Barrosa a rose gold. At the stone-built Torre del Puerco, she turned a lazy loop, slowed the plane right down and headed north, with the sun on her left, tracing the coast. She slowed some more, not much above stalling speed and brought the yellow and white Air Tractor low enough that she could see the faces of the people on the playa. Her beach. Down on the broad white sands, brightly coloured kites were snapping and somersaulting in the wind, small children were running around pulling those crudely cut, white polystyrene planes that the beach-sellers sold for a euro a piece. Alma realised she was flying at the same speed, altitude, and distance from the shore that she used to back when she was doing her old job – her first gig as a qualified pilot and still her favourite – pulling advertising messages up and down the beach. Carlos used to help her attach the supermarket ads and birthday greetings to the back of the ‘flying fried egg’ as he called it and wave whenever she flew past the beachfront bar where he worked. She used to start work at noon, be finished by six and the rest of the evening and mornings were hers. All summer long. Maybe she’d go back to doing that?

The money she’d made working for the crazy Australian these last couple of years meant that the plane belonged to her; she could go back to doing beach work or crop-dusting. She’d had other offers too. She could do whatever she liked. The resignation letter she’d written, translated, and typed up so carefully was in the inside pocket of her denim jacket. She just needed to pluck up the courage to give it to her boss. Maybe she’d do it after this flight, at the debrief – if everything went well. And if he was there. Alma wanted to leave on good terms, but she needed to leave. Her relationship with the company had become too complicated. Her relationship with its owner, even more so. This latest mission was the loco Australiano’s silliest project yet and another good example of why it was time to quit. Alma’s instructions were to fly the crop-duster over a four-hectare area of Spanish military land, going back and forth half-a-dozen times, dumping not fertiliser, or insecticide – but four kilos of diamond dust.

‘Loco.’

William Carver gazed skywards. He was trying to think of a worse place than this to meet a contact … he couldn’t. There wasn’t one. Who in their right mind would arrange to have a confidential conversation inside a glass pod at the top of the flaming London Eye? Suspended several thousand feet above London? The queue shuffled forward, and Carver read the information board underneath the ticket office window.

‘A trip of a lifetime! Soar through the air at a height of 440 feet above London …’ Okay, not thousands of feet then but still too high and much too public for Carver’s liking. Plus, it felt like the wind was beginning to blow. He checked his phone, half-hoping that the man he was due to meet might have messaged him to postpone or cancel. No such luck. Carver was busy and generally speaking that was good. With this much work on, he had little time left over to think of anything else and he liked it that way. But right now he had more leads and potential stories on the go than he knew what to do with. He was a victim of his own success – his last investigation had made waves, generated headlines and, as his long-suffering editor had put it, made Carver ‘flavour of the month’.

If the message asking whether he might have time for ‘a chat and a catch-up’ had come from anyone other than Leonard Allen, then he would have made his excuses. But the senior civil servant had been useful in the past – never the source of a story, but on several occasions he had confirmed a fact or detail that Carver needed confirming. Off the record of course. Always off the record. It wasn’t exactly that he owed Allen a favour – more a matter of honouring a relationship. This was why he’d agreed to meet, but he’d said yes before knowing that the man’s preferred meeting place was up the top of a four-hundred-foot Ferris wheel.

Carver sighed. The young woman on the other side of the Plexiglas had long, bright, emerald-green hair. She was taking an inordinately long time to do something as straightforward as selling a few tickets; engaging every customer she dealt with in lengthy conversation. Eventually Carver arrived at the front of the queue. He saw that as well as a book of tickets and a can of Diet Coke, the girl had a hairdressing magazine open in front of her. She gave him a friendly smile.

‘Hello, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’

‘Right. I’ve been here nearly half an hour.’

Her smile slipped.

‘How can I help you then, sir? A single ticket, is it?’

Carver ran a thick finger down the laminated price list. He’d looked in vain for an idea of how much this folly might cost him while he was waiting in line and seen nothing. Now he saw why. The font size was tiny, the prices were not.

‘Twenty-six quid. They’ve got to be kidding?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

He sighed.

‘Is that twenty-six pounds per … rotation?’

‘Per ride, yeah.’

‘What if I need to go around several times?’

‘If you need to? Well then, I suppose it’ll be several times twenty-six pounds.’

‘Bollocks to that.’

The woman studied Carver more closely. She’d had him down as another ill-mannered, old office worker – a tax inspector or paper shuffler of some sort. Now she wasn’t so sure. The game was to guess the punter’s job and then work out what you’d do with them if you found them sitting in front of you at the hairdresser’s. This was how she stayed sane, while at the same time as doing some prep for her City and Guilds in cutting and styling. This bloke was old, but not ancient and reasonably respectable-looking, albeit in a rather creased way. He was thinning slightly on top and heavy in the middle. His spectacles needed a clean.

‘You want to go round a few times then, do you?’

‘I don’t want to …’ He hesitated. ‘… but there’s a chance I might have to.’ Carver wasn’t sure when the civil servant would turn up, nor how long this meeting would last.

‘I could sell you the all-day ticket if you like? That’s sixty quid. People get it so they can go round once, go away, do a bus tour or something and then come back for sunset but there’s no reason why you couldn’t just keep going round and round with that ticket if you like.’

‘Sixty?’

The girl nodded. ‘Most people who buy it end up never even coming back for a second go. It’s like with the bottomless prosecco …’ She waved a finger at that option on the laminated card, under extras. ‘No one ever manages to drink more than a couple of bottles. People think they can, but they can’t.’

‘I see.’

‘Smart marketing, I guess.’

‘I guess so.’ Carver took his wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer and opened it. Inside was a thick wodge of notes, including a range of currencies – American and Hong Kong dollars, euros, roubles, and rand. He removed two fifty-pound notes and slid them through the letterbox-sized gap at the bottom of the Plexiglas.

‘I’ll have the … all-day ticket then. Please.’

‘Right you are.’

He glanced up again at the slate-grey London sky. The glass pods were swaying in an increasingly blustery wind. Carver took another tenner from the wallet.

‘And the bottomless prosecco.’

Alma checked her watch. One more quick run back up the beach and then she’d need to take the plane inland and head for the drop point. This was her favourite time of the day. On the long paved promenade, running parallel to the sea and just a few steps up from the sand, the early evening paseo was underway. Locals and tourists, young and old, taking advantage of the cooler temperatures to walk the strip. To see and be seen. Alma noticed a gaggle of older ladies in their best dresses and embroidered shawls gathering close to the children’s playground that marked the start of the promenade. She strained her eyes to see if her mother was among them. Maybe that figure at the back? In the blue? Setting up his easel nearby she saw the leather-skinned old man in the tatty black beret – Picasso de la Playa, Carlos called him and what he lacked in artistic ability he made up for in commitment. He laid out his materials in the same spot every evening – selling the gaudy yellow and gold pictures of sunsets to holiday-happy tourists or swapping them for beer in the local bars.

Further along the strip Alma saw the familiar green- and white-striped canopy belonging to the Che bar, where Carlos worked. A crowd of teenage boys in skinny jeans and ironed T-shirts were hanging around outside, kicking a tennis ball about and play-fighting while they waited for their female equivalents to arrive on the scene. A few seconds and another two hundred yards later Alma spotted the girls that these boys were doubtless waiting for. They were walking arm in arm, some also wearing jeans and T-shirts but others – those with mothers like Alma’s – in brightly coloured polka-dot dresses and with flowers in their hair. What a spectacle. She wished she was down there with them, and she would be soon. A job like this usually only took an hour or so. Two hours tops – unless the debrief dragged on.

When she’d first started flying for this company, the Australian boss had been at every demonstration and led every debrief. He had tried to make these meetings as short as possible and for the first few months showed no interest in hearing from Alma. That suited her, her English was okay but far from perfect and certainly nowhere near the level required to take part in a technical, scientific debate about whether sulphur dioxide particles had been more effective at reflecting sunlight than the saltwater spray. Or how about the powdered aluminium? Or the titanium? She found the discussions increasingly tiresome and repetitive and on one occasion made the mistake of letting that show – stifling a yawn while the Australian was mid-sentence.

‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m boring ya?’

‘No.’

‘No? Good, because I’m also fucken’ paying ya.’ He stared at Alma, checking her out and spoke again, friendlier now. ‘You get a bird’s-eye view of this work we’re doing. Which of the payloads you’ve been dropping do you reckon’s best at thickening the cloud cover and reflecting sunlight?’

Alma shrugged.

‘I drop what you ask me to drop, where you ask me to drop it. These discussions are not for me, they are for …’ She’d waved a hand in the direction of the dozen or more lab-coat-wearing men and women in the room. ‘… your cerebritos.’ Her boss had turned to his translator for an explanation.

‘Cerebritos? It means … you might say “boffins”.’

This had tickled the Australian and after that he regularly referred to his team as los cerebritos. A collective noun they disliked and which they blamed Alma for saddling them with. This exchange had somewhat soured her relationship with the rest of the team. The next day the Australian texted Alma asking her for a drink. She’d messaged him back with a polite no thank you. She was busy that week. The Australian had persisted, asking if there was a date further down the line that she could do? There was this seafood place he’d heard about. A Spanish chef who’d won all kinds of awards and Michelin stars. Maybe Alma had heard of the place? Alma had. It was a restaurant that everyone in town knew of but that almost no one had been to. For one reason you had to reserve a table about six months in advance; more significantly dinner for two would cost the best part of four hundred euros and that was before you’d even had a sip of wine.

Alma had shown her best friend Loli the message.

‘What’s the problem? It’s dinner. That’s all. Tell Carlos it’s a work thing.’ In fact, she told Carlos nothing. Not about the first dinner, nor about the other drinks and dinners that followed, and her lovable, if somewhat gullible, boyfriend had noticed no change in her. Alma lost her bearings for a while. The Australian had an ego the size of a planet – but it was an interesting planet. She had to admit that it was flattering too, a famous person like this being interested in her and her opinions. Also it was fun. Until it wasn’t. Until it became … complicated.

She’d give the Australian the letter this evening and if he wasn’t there then she’d leave it with one of his several assistants. Just then Alma saw something. A physical representation of her employer’s vanity and pride.

‘Mierda.’

The clunky-looking camera drone was hovering off to her right, waiting for her. As she flew past it wobbled in the air a moment then followed. There was already one camera attached to the underside of the Air Tractor but clearly that wasn’t enough. They wanted this evening’s demo filmed as professionally as possible and from several different angles. This had happened a few times back at the beginning of the project, when the Australian wanted to show the world what he was up to and raise some more cash. Once that had been achieved, he focussed solely on the science, but now the drone was back. The diamond dust experiment was obviously a big deal. As she looped back around the stone tower for the second time, Alma noticed that there were more birdwatchers out than usual; binoculars slung around their necks and long-lensed cameras attached to tripods. She guessed there must be another big flock of spoonbills heading this way. The drone was alongside her now and accelerating to overtake.

Carver was halfway round on his first rotation and two thirds of the way through his first bottle of prosecco when he saw Leonard Allen waiting at the foot of the London Eye, dressed for the weather in a fawn-coloured mackintosh with a black umbrella. It took another fifteen minutes for Carver’s pod to wobble its way down to terra firma. When it did, he greeted the civil servant with a handshake and a quick hello before negotiating with the attendant to exchange his now empty bottle for a fresh one and a second glass. As soon as the pod doors slid shut, he filled both glasses and handed one to Allen who gave a little bow of thanks.

‘I suppose it’s five o’clock somewhere.’

‘It’s almost five o’clock here.’ Carver looked at his watch. ‘Or four anyway. I’m not a big fan of heights, I thought a drink might help.’

‘I’m sure it will.’ The civil servant shrugged himself free from his coat and folded it carefully, placing it on the egg-shaped bench in the middle of the pod next to his umbrella. He was wearing a dark suit with a faint chalk stripe to it, a white shirt and knitted navy-blue tie. ‘I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have suggested we meet here if I’d known you were … it’s acrophobic, isn’t it? Sounds a bit like the spider one but isn’t. We could press that …’ He pointed at a big red emergency button next to the sliding glass door. ‘… and ask them to let us off.’

Carver shook his head.

‘We’re here now.’

‘True. I thought this would make a nice change from those dingy little pubs and hotel bars where we’ve met in the past.’

‘I see.’

‘Plus, there’s that hiding in plain sight thing, isn’t there? What could be less suspicious than two fellows taking a ride on the London Eye?’

Carver could think of many things, but he let it go.

‘What’s this about then, Leonard? I haven’t heard from you for a while.’

‘No, well you haven’t asked me to … clarify anything for you …’ He took a tiny sip of his prosecco. ‘… and I haven’t had anything interesting to say to you.’

‘Until now.’

‘Yes, until now.’ He paused. ‘Well, that sounds a little arrogant. I’ll let you be the judge of whether what I have to say is interesting or not. I hope that it might be.’ Allen smiled. He had old manners. It was one of the things that Carver liked about him. ‘I’m aware, however, that you’re a man in high demand right now and my timing is probably not ideal.’ Carver shrugged. ‘After that last scoop of yours, I imagine your phone is ringing off the hook. Figuratively.’

‘I am busy.’

‘And those bosses of yours must be pleased.’

‘For now. I’ve been around long enough to know that you go in and out of fashion. Either they want to sack you, or they want to start calling you a special correspondent, make you do a podcast and that sort of thing.’

‘But you’re holding out?’

‘So far. Being a reporter is good enough for me.’

‘The only un-special correspondent?’

‘Something like that. Enough about me, Leonard … why are we here?’

‘Good question. Enough prevarication.’ Carver watched and waited. It was clear that Allen was teetering on the brink of something unfamiliar. He’d been useful before, cooperative – but he’d never initiated anything. Never come anywhere near blowing a whistle or spilling a full plate of beans or whatever it was he was getting ready to do now. ‘This concerns my political masters.’

‘Of course.’

‘I think they might be about to make a mistake … a consequential mistake.’ Carver gave him what he hoped was an encouraging nod. ‘What do you know about Clive Winner?’

Carver searched his memory.

‘Winner? Is he that inventor come green businessman bloke? Australian. A bit of an oddball.’

‘Oddball’s an understatement.’

Carver shrugged.

‘Wasn’t it Winner who did that rescue job on the Great Barrier Reef a few years back?’

The civil servant grimaced.

‘Yes. Mr Winner and his people span that story extremely well. His team temporarily revived a small section of the reef.’

‘That’s not such a good news headline.’

‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, you know the fellow.’

‘I’m aware he exists.’

‘Take a look at this.’ Allen reached into his inside pocket and produced a cream-coloured business card with the government crest on it. He passed it over with a rather theatrical flourish.

Mr. Clive Winner

Senior Adviser Prime Ministers Office

The civil servant watched as Carver read.

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Shouldn’t there be an apostrophe in “Prime Minister’s office”?’

‘Probably. Good grammar has gone the same way as the ministerial code – all the way down the toilet and halfway round the U-bend.’ He pointed at the card. ‘You notice the email address?’

Carver had noticed it. He’d memorised it too, as it seemed unlikely that Leonard Allen would allow him to keep the card.

‘[email protected] … that’s a legitimate Downing Street email, isn’t it?’

‘It is. The landline’s legitimate too. It connects to an answerphone message, a very efficient-sounding American lady telling you how much Clive is looking forward to talking to you.’

‘It’s unusual, I’ll give you that.’

‘Access like this? A job title like that? It’s more than unusual. It’s unprecedented. We’re used to all the management consultants and corporate restructuring experts that this generation of politicians seem to like to bring in …’ Carver nodded. He’d had run-ins of his own with management consultants brought in to shake up or restructure various bits of the BBC. He didn’t like them. ‘… but Clive Winner is something different. Giving a private businessman a senior adviser title and a seat at the table, it’s … well it’s outrageous.’

Carver smiled.

‘Outrageous? You’re sure this isn’t a case of a few career civil servants getting their knickers in a twist because someone else has got better access to the prime minister than they have?’

Allen made a harrumphing sound.

‘I’m absolutely sure. This isn’t a question of petty professional jealousy. Far from it. Winner is a snake-oil salesman, allowing him this sort of access to the PM risks national humiliation. Or worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Clive Winner is looking for friends and funding in some rather odd places these days.’ Allen detected a flicker of interest in Carver. ‘My colleagues at the Foreign Office tell me that he’s talking to people who don’t have the same fondness that we do for the rule of law, human rights – old-fashioned stuff like that. They say he’s playing footsie with at least one Moscow-linked hedge fund. No doubt he’s chasing Chinese money too.’ The veteran civil servant took a gulp of his drink. His face was red. ‘I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t get too agitated.’

‘Don’t worry, I understand.’

‘If it was just Downing Street’s reputation on the line, then maybe I’d leave them to it. Sit back and watch the uppance come.’ Carver nodded. ‘But it isn’t. You and I both know it’ll be the poor bloody civil service that will get it in the neck when this goes south. As it almost certainly will.’

Carver drained his glass, then refilled it. If even a little of that was true, this was a good story.

‘I’m sure you know several well-connected people inside Downing Street, what do they say?’

‘They advise me to let sleeping dogs lie. Look the other way.’ He paused. ‘I’m not willing to do that, but I’m not sure what else I can do. I’ve written a memorandum …’

Carver smiled. He remembered Leonard telling him once that the real purpose of a civil service memorandum was never to inform the reader, but rather to protect the writer.

‘A memorandum, I see. But you feel the need for even more protection?’

‘Not protection – action. A proper investigation. Believe me, Clive Winner is what we used to refer to as a bad egg.’

If it had been her call then Alma would have been flying inland now, back over the long sand dunes and pine forests towards the Spanish army base where the drop was due to take place in … how long? Alma checked her mobile phone which she kept visible and accessible inside a clear ziplocked bag on a cord around her neck. The demo was supposed to begin in twenty minutes. She’d be late even if she turned the plane around right now. She had her instructions. For as long as the drone was positioned out in front of the plane, she had to follow it at a steady speed, allowing the audio-visual people back at base to get some good clear shots of her and the Air Tractor in action. Once they’d got what they needed the drone would drop back and follow her.

The drone was taking her west again, back out to sea. She could understand why, the sun was sitting on the water now, a blindingly bright, golden coin balancing on its side above a blue-green sea. The sunset was going to be good, even by Costa de la Luz standards and the flying fried egg would look great against a backdrop like that. She kept her speed and altitude steady so the drone could get the pictures it needed as quickly as possible. Another minute passed. Two. Three. The thing was taking her further and further away from where she needed to be. This was ridiculous, they must have the shots they needed by now. She lifted her headset back into place and radioed to base.

‘Flight One to home. You copy?’

There was a crackle of static and then a reedy, Spanish-accented English-speaking voice.

‘Home to Flight One. We copy.’

‘I’m tailing the drone, north north-west. If it takes me much further, then I’m going to miss the drop time. When will you have the pictures you need?’

There was a pause at the other end.

‘Repeat please.’

Alma repeated her message. More silence, then: ‘No one here knows anything about a drone or any film, Flight One.’

‘What?’

‘The drone you’re following is nothing to do with us. Turn around.’

‘Puta.’

Alma started to turn the plane. Then changed her mind. The drone was so close. Squinting through the screen she thought she could see some words, and perhaps a serial number stamped in white on the black metal? If she could get a little closer, then she could take a photograph with her phone and they could find the idiot responsible for this. She accelerated. As she drew closer, she saw that the drone wasn’t a particularly dextrous-looking device, it was bigger than the other camera drones she’d seen, and its movements were jerky. She got her phone out from inside the plastic Ziploc bag but before she could select the camera function and frame the photo the drone picked up some speed and accelerated away. She followed. Anyone watching would have seen a crop-duster engaged in an odd-looking aerial display with some kind of flying suitcase. But there was no one watching, she was too far out now. Alma moved closer again. She lifted her phone, selected the camera function and waited while the lens found its focus. There it was – she could see the larger of the words clearly now – Vapor – and beneath that some smaller text and a serial number. Suddenly, the drone veered off to the left. It appeared to stop in mid-air before rotating 180 degrees and steadying itself.

‘Mierda.’ Alma saw what it was she’d been chasing now, but too late.

There was a burst of automatic gunfire. Alma watched her windscreen crack and splinter and heard a deafening, ear-hurting noise. She grabbed the control stick and pulled up, trying to take the plane out of the drone’s line of fire. She felt her ears pop and watched as the broken windscreen began to peel away from the metal frame holding it in place. Alma slid down into her seat and watched as the last few rivets snapped and the shattered windscreen went spinning off into the blue. Using both hands, and with enormous difficulty due to the force of the onrushing wind, she pushed herself upright again, just high enough so she might get a glimpse of where the drone was now. There was no sign. Alma realised she was panting – hyperventilating – and tried to regulate her breathing. She levelled the plane and pushed the control stick right, steering the old Air Tractor back in the direction of land. She was halfway round – the nose of the plane pointing in the direction of the watch tower at the northernmost tip of the beach – when even louder than the sound of the wind and the plane’s struggling engine, Alma heard a second burst of automatic gunfire coming from behind her crippled plane.

There was no more than a dribble left in the second bottle. Carver offered it to Leonard Allen who, much to his relief, refused.

‘Why are you bringing this Winner thing to me, Leonard? There are any number of other journalists you could take this to.’

‘I don’t know too many journalists. I mean I’ve met a few of course and I suppose I could email one of the better-known names but you and I …’ He paused. ‘… I know we’re not exactly friends but … you’ve been to my house. You’ve met Henrietta and the boys.’ This was true. It was going back a few years, but he remembered accepting the invitation to Christmas drinks and taking the train to Haslemere. There had been a work-related reason for the trip, that he couldn’t immediately recall. He did remember the civil servant’s wife and Allen’s three, or maybe it was four, sons – variously sized carbon copies of their father. Carver remembered the trouble Henrietta Allen had taken to make him feel welcome at a gathering of the sort of people that he’d usually go out of his way to avoid. The guests were an odd mix of Leonard’s civil service colleagues, elderly relatives and the great and the good of Haslemere. Carver had been cornered by the local schoolmaster, a ruddy-faced man with mutton chops who’d been responsible for educating several generations of Allen men and was in charge of the current crop too. He wanted Carver to do something about BBC bias. Henrietta had rescued him.

Leonard Allen took another tiny sip of the prosecco before putting his glass down on the bench in the centre of the pod. ‘The reason I came to you is that I trust you … I’m sure I’ve bent your ear before about the “good chap” theory of government.’ Carver nodded. Allen had. ‘Well, I know you’re not “in government” but you are, I believe, a good chap.’ Carver shrugged. ‘And, William, if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m hoping that once you start sniffing around …’

‘If I do.’

‘Of course … if you do. Then that alone might. . .