Then it was my turn.

My hands were shaking as I sat down at the table in front of the MPs. I opened my first blue box.

“I'm not very good at speeches,” I said. “So I'll just read you what I wrote down.”

I opened my notebook.

“March the fourteenth, two years ago. Eleven-fifteen a.m. Phone call with Martin Kerr. He asked for fifteen per cent off. He said, ‘If you can't do it, we'll look at other suppliers.'”

I turned the page.

“November the second. Two-forty p.m. Martin Kerr asked for twenty per cent off. When I said no, he said, ‘Use cheaper beef. Lose some staff.'”

I read for twenty minutes. Every date. Every time. Every word.

Then I took out the letter Greenfields had signed before I handed over the recipe.

The recipe will be used for food safety checks only. Signed, Martin Kerr.

And last of all, I asked if I could play one short recording.

The chair said yes.

Martin's voice filled the old wooden room.

“You're a small business. We're Greenfields. If you start telling stories about us, no supermarket in Britain will ever touch you again. I'll make sure of it. And our lawyers will bury you.”

The room was silent.

In the row behind me, I heard Martin Kerr shift in his chair.