The office of Bell Commercial Pest Services sat on the corner of Foundry Lane in Harrowby, tucked between a grain merchant’s brick warehouse and an auto-spark repair shop. The room smelled of cedar wood shavings, packed pyrethrum powder, neat black rubber. The sharp, minty odor of dried eucalyptus bait blocks. Along the rear wall stood rows of metal shelving holding zinc-coated wire rat cages, light metal check ladders, and yellow plastic tubs of safety equipment.
Sal Bell sat behind the plywood dispatch desk, an open appointments diary spread before her, a telephone receiver tucked between her ear and her shoulder. She was checking off customer routes with a yellow grease pencil, her voice sharp and rapid. “Yes, Mr. Crowther. Three o’clock at the flour mill. Imran will bring the clockwork sticky boards for the flour moths. No poisons in the grain bins. We use non-toxic pheromone traps only. Yes, cash on completion.”
She clicked the telephone back onto its cradle, picked up a heavy silver coin from a clay pot saucer on the desk. Then she turned it over between her fingers. A faint streak of black dark oak-ink marked the edge of her thumb from copying out the morning delivery dockets.
