“I don’t suppose you have any idea exactly when the tractor went missing?” Annie asked. Doug Wilson pushed his glasses up again and bent over his notebook.

Beddoes shook his head. “We were only gone a week. We’re not that big an operation, really, and it’s mostly arable. Some cereals, vegetables, potatoes. Rapeseed’s our biggest crop by far. We supply a specialist high-­end oil maker. As you probably noticed, we also have a few pigs and chickens to keep the local quality restaurants supplied. Free-­range chickens, of course, when it’s possible. And the pigs are British Landrace. Excellent meat. So there really wasn’t much to do last week.”

“I’ve heard that certain breeds of pig can be valuable,” Annie said. “Are yours?”

“Quite, I suppose.”

“I wonder why they weren’t taken, too?”

“I should think these ­people specialize, wouldn’t you? There’s a lot of difference between getting rid of a tractor and a pig. Also, you’ve got to know how to handle pigs. They can be nasty when they want to be.”

“I suppose so,” said Annie, though she knew absolutely nothing about pigs except they smelled and squealed and she didn’t eat them. “Now the thieves know that the pigs are here, though, perhaps you should think about improving your security?”

“How am I supposed to do that, apart from standing outside the sty all night with a shotgun in my hands?”

“I’d forget about the shotgun, if I were you, sir. They only get ­people into trouble. There must be special fences, alarms, Country Watch, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Where was the key?”

Beddoes looked away. “What key?”

“To the tractor. I imagine if it’s modern and expensive it has various security features.”

“Yes.”

“So where did you keep the key?”

“Hanging on a hook in the garage.”

“And the car keys? The Beemer and the Range Rover.”

Beddoes patted his trouser pocket. “They’re on my key ring. I carry them with me.”

“But you didn’t take the tractor key with you while you were away?”

“Are you here to interrogate me or to help me recover my stolen tractor?”

Annie and Wilson exchanged glances. “Well, sir,” Annie went on, “at the moment we’re trying to establish just how the tractor was stolen, and it would seem to me that being able to start it is a major issue. I mean, you could hardly push it into a waiting lorry, could you?”

“How could I know something like this was going to happen?” Beddoes had reddened and started waving his arms around. “We were running late. Pat . . . The bloody taxi was waiting. I just didn’t think. The garage was securely locked when we left, for crying out loud.”

“John,” said his wife. “Calm down. Your blood pressure.”

Beddoes smoothed his hand over his hair. “Right. Sorry.” He turned to Annie again. “In retrospect I know it looks stupid, and I didn’t want the insurers to know, but I . . . I mean, mostly we’re around, so it’s not a problem. I often just leave the tractor in the yard with the key in the ignition. When you get on a tractor, you want to just start it and get going, not search around for bloody keys. In this case, the garage was well locked, I had someone keeping an eye on the place. What more was I supposed to do?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Annie. “Who took care of the place for you while you were away?”

“Frank Lane from over the dale said he’d feed the pigs and chickens and keep an eye on everything for us. Not that we blame Frank for what happened, of course. He can’t stand on twenty-­four-­hour vigil any more than I can. Besides, he’s got his own farm to take care of, and it’s far bigger than ours.” He laughed. “Frank’s a real farmer, as he never ceases to inform us. And he’s got that tearaway son of his to worry about. We’re just grateful he was able to help at all.”

“What makes you call his son a tearaway?” Annie asked.

“Oh, he’s always been a handful, ever since he was a nipper. Mischievous imp. He got into some trouble with the police a while back.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Frank wasn’t specific about it, but I think it was something to do with a stolen car. Joyriding. Got probation, community ser­vice, something like that. I didn’t like to say anything to Frank, but to be honest, the lad always seemed a bit of a shiftless and mischievous sort to me, if truth be told. He doesn’t live at the farm anymore, but he turns up now and again to see his father.”

“Capable of stealing a tractor?”

“I’m not saying that. I don’t think he’s basically dishonest.” Beddoes took a deep breath. “Just misguided. Frank calls me a hobby farmer. Laughs at me behind my back, like they all do. It’s true, I suppose. But I was born on a farm and grew up on one, dammit, until I was twelve.”

“I see,” said Annie. “Is there any bitterness between you and the other local farmers?”

“I wouldn’t really call it bitterness. More envy. They tease me, make fun of me, exclude me from their little cliques, but that’s just their way. You know Yorkshire folk. God knows how many years before they finally accept you, if they ever do.”

“Any recent disputes, arguments?”

“None that I can think of.”

“Nor me,” Patricia said.

Annie made a note to have a chat with Frank Lane and his “tearaway son” later. Intelligence had it that those responsible for the recent surge in rural thefts used “scouts,” usually local delivery drivers, or itinerant laborers, who built trust by helping out the farmers with maintenance, crop picking or vermin control, as the seasons demanded. A tearaway son could easily get involved in such a racket if the price was right. Or if drugs were involved. There were plenty of cannabis farms around the region. Not that Annie saw any harm in having a few tokes now and then. After all, she had grown up surrounded by the stuff in the artists’ colony outside St. Ives, where she had lived with her father and a constantly shifting cast of bohemian types and plain ne’er-­do-­wells, maybe even a minor drug dealer or two. But this wasn’t just a ­couple of spliffs that bothered the police; it was big business, big profit, and that was what drew the nastier type of international criminals and gangs. It was hard to turn a blind eye to them.

“Do you have any security alarms?” Annie asked.

Beddoes snorted. “What, up here? Waste of bloody money, like I told the constable earlier. Any self-­respecting criminal would be long gone before a patrol car got up here, even if one happened to be free when you needed it.”

He was probably right, Annie realized. Once she had as much detail as she could get from John Beddoes, there seemed little reason to stay. Annie stirred herself and gave Doug Wilson the nod. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we know anything,” she said. “We’ll just have a quick shufti around outside before we leave.”

“Right you are,” said Beddoes. “Please keep me informed.”

“We will.”

Patricia Beddoes lingered behind her husband, her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Beddoes,” said Doug Wilson, ever the polite young man.

“You’re welcome. Good-­bye.”

Once they had put their rain gear on again, Annie and Doug Wilson squelched over to the garage where John Beddoes had housed the tractor. PC Valentine had examined it earlier, of course, and they saw nothing he hadn’t mentioned in his report. It looked like a crowbar job, Annie thought. The entire metal housing had been prized from the wooden door, and the heavy padlock that lay in the mud was still intact. Annie took a photo of it in situ with her mobile phone, then dug a plastic bag out of her pocket and carefully picked up the lock using the end of a pencil and dropped it in the bag.

“A kid could have broken into that garage in five seconds,” Annie said in disgust. “Come on, Doug. We’ll send some CSIs to poke around in the mud when we get back to the station. There’s no hurry.”