“It’s fine with me,” said Alex. “Now?”

“Later will do. We have a few more questions first. Does Michael have a steady job at the moment, or has he managed to get into a photography course?”

“He’s doing his A levels at night school, so he has a better chance of getting in college next year, if he does well, but he’s still unemployed. And it gets him down sometimes. He does odd jobs to help make ends meet.”

“What sort of odd jobs?”

“Farming stuff, mostly. That’s all he knows, apart from drawing and photography. But there’s plenty of it about, depending on the time of year. A lot of it’s unskilled, of course. Casual manual labor. Harvesting and such like. But he’s got a real knack for sheep shearing, and that makes good money sometimes. But it’s all so seasonal. Why are you asking me all these questions? Has something happened to him? Has he had an accident? Or done something stupid?”

“Why would you think that?”

Alex studied the backs of her hands. Annie noticed how long and tapered her fingers were, how nicely manicured and clean the nails. “He can be a bit hotheaded sometimes, that’s all. When he gets frustrated. I don’t mean with me or Ian. He’d never lay a finger on us, and I’d never stand for it. Not after Lenny. So what is this all about?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, really,” said Annie. “His father’s neighbor’s farm was broken into on Saturday night. A valuable tractor was stolen.”

“Beddoes?”

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

“I’ve never met him, but Michael mentioned him sometimes.”

“In what way?”

“He said Mr. Beddoes never liked him. Used to chase him off his land. Called him a layabout and a retard. Michael said Beddoes seems all right on the surface, but he can be a nasty piece of work when he’s got a mind to be.”

“Like?”

“He told me Beddoes hit him once.”

“John Beddoes hit Michael?”

“That’s right. Clipped him around the ear, was how Michael described it. Said it didn’t hurt. He didn’t even bother telling his dad. And once Beddoes thought Michael had been upsetting his precious pigs, chucking stones at them or something. Beddoes threatened to drop him in the sty and said they’d eat him. Michael was just thirteen or fourteen. He was terrified.”

“I see,” said Annie. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Not to them, I don’t think. Long memories. They bear grudges.” Her eyes widened. “Maybe he’s done something to Michael? Beddoes. Maybe he blamed him for stealing his tractor?”

“It’s unlikely,” Annie said. “Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes didn’t get back from holiday until late last night. The first thing they did when they noticed the tractor missing was call the police.”

“Well, maybe you should talk to them again? Search the premises, or whatever you do.”

“Don’t worry,” said Annie, “we’ll be thorough. Has Michael ever threatened Beddoes? You said John Beddoes terrified him when he was younger. Do you think he might have wanted revenge?”

“You think—­”

Annie held her hand up. “I don’t think anything yet, Alex. I’m only asking. Michael’s father was tending to the farm while the owners were away. I talked to John Beddoes, and he mentioned a ‘tearaway’ son. His words, not mine. Frank Lane didn’t speak so highly of his own son, either. Or of you. He said he’d never met you, that Michael had never brought you home for tea to meet him.”

“Ha!” said Alex. “As if we were ever invited. He knows nothing about me. To him I’m just the scarlet woman. A tart.”

Annie let a few seconds go by. “I just want to talk to Michael,” she said. “That’s all.”

Alex gave Annie a disappointed glance, and for some reason, it hurt. “You’re all the same, you lot. Just because someone’s made a mistake once, you think they can never put things right, don’t you? Well, me and Michael are doing just fine. OK? And he was here with me on Saturday night, all evening and all night, but I don’t suppose you believe that, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” said Annie. “You say you last saw him on Sunday morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you think he might have another girlfriend, and that’s where he is?”

Alex reddened, and her lower lip trembled. “No,” she said, squeezing her fists together and putting them to her temples. “What are you saying? Why are you saying horrible things like that? What are you trying to do to me? I’m already going out of my mind with worry. Stop this.”

“I’m sorry,” said Annie, “but we have to know what’s going on.”

“Why don’t you just do your job and go out and find Michael? He might be lying hurt somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Just somewhere.”

“OK, I’m sorry. Calm down, Alex. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re more interested in a missing tractor than in what’s happened to my Michael. Admit it.”

“That’s not true.”

Alex leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Then help me,” she said. “Please help me find Michael.”

THE FRONT gates stood wide open and a young uniformed constable waved down Banks and Gerry Masterson as they approached the airfield. Gerry came to a halt, and the officer asked for their identification. Banks didn’t blame him. The young PC wasn’t from Eastvale HQ, and there was no reason he should know who they were. The officer noted their names down carefully on his clipboard and waved them through. Three patrol cars and Winsome’s Polo were parked willy-­nilly on the cracked concrete outside the hangar, five officers leaning against them chatting, two of the men smoking. When Banks and Gerry flashed their warrant cards, the officers all straightened up, and the smokers trod out their cigarettes. Banks glanced down at the smudges on the wet concrete, then back at the culprits, who looked at him sheepishly.

“Sorry, sir,” one of them mumbled.

“That’s all right, son,” said Banks. “You can explain the contamination of the scene to the CSIs when they get here.”

The officer turned beet red.

“In the meantime,” Banks went on, “don’t you think you could be doing something useful, like organizing a house-­to-­house of the immediate area?”

“What for, sir?” asked one of the female officers.

“What for? To find out if anybody heard or saw anything. What do you think?”

“But we don’t know what happened yet,” said one of the others.

“That’s right, sir,” the woman said. “It’s probably just a dead dog or a badger or something.”

Banks sighed. “Well, how do you think you’ll find out? Standing around the car smoking, contaminating the scene?”

“Besides,” added the female officer, clearly a bit miffed at being bossed about, “I can’t see any houses around here. How are we supposed to organize a house-­to—­”

“Just bloody get cracking and find some,” snapped Banks, then he and Gerry turned away toward the hangar. Banks shook his head slowly. “Where do they get them from these days, Gerry?”

Gerry smiled. “Don’t forget, sir, you were young once.”

Banks flashed her a surprised glance, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. She was coming along nicely, he thought; she wouldn’t have dared talk to him like that six months ago.

They found Winsome inside the hangar, to their right, taking photos with her mobile. The crime scene photographer, if one were to be required, would cover every inch of the place soon, but many detectives liked to take their own set of pictures before the experts arrived, to capture the scene as freshly as they could. The photos sometimes came in useful. Banks took in the vast hangar, sniffing the air. Nothing specific registered with him. The wind sounded like a bassoon.

Winsome turned at their arrival, and her eyes widened when she saw Banks. “Sir?”

“I know, I know, I’m supposed to be on holiday. I just couldn’t resist the lure of a bloody crime scene. Tell me all about it.”