The living room smelled musty and stale, no scented air freshener. No offer of tea, either. Everything in the living area demonstrated the same quality of neglect and plain utility as the farmyard itself.

Frank Lane moved some newspapers aside and bade them sit on the worn sofa while he settled himself into what was no doubt his usual armchair by the fireplace. There were cigarette burns on the armrest beside an overflowing glass ashtray.

When everyone had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and Doug Wilson had taken out his pen and notebook, Lane looked at Annie as if to tell her to get on with it.

“We’re here about your neighbor’s tractor, Mr. Lane. I understand Mr. Beddoes asked you to keep an eye on his place while he and his wife were on holiday in Mexico?”

“Aye,” said Lane, lighting a cigarette. “Bloody Mexico. I ask you. But you can’t keep your eye on a place unless you’re living there, can you, and I’ve more than enough to do here. I did my best.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Annie. “Nobody’s saying it was your fault. But how did you manage it? What did your duties consist of?”

“I drove over there every day, fed the pigs and chickens, checked that everything was still under lock and key. He never told me to keep a particular eye on his tractor. I saw nowt amiss.”

“That’s very neighborly of you.”

Lane gave a harsh laugh. “Neighborliness has nothing to do with it. Beddoes paid me well enough.”

“Ah, I see.”

“A man deserves to be paid for his labor. And it’s not as if he can’t afford it.”

“When was the last time you checked on the place?”

“Saturday. Day before they got back.”

“You didn’t go over on Sunday?”

“No. They were supposed to be back by early morning. How was I to know they’d have problems with their flights? Nobody phoned me or anything.”

“And everything was in order on Saturday?”

“It was. Or I’d have said something then, wouldn’t I?”

Annie sighed internally. Here we go again. She was used to this type of cantankerous and patronizing Yorkshireman, but she still didn’t have to like it. “What time was this?”

“Late afternoon. Around five.”

“So the tractor was probably stolen sometime after dark on Saturday night?”

“It were still locked up at five when I left. Make sense to steal it after dark, wouldn’t it?”

“Were you at home on Saturday night?”

“I’m always at home, unless I’m out in the fields. You might not have noticed, young lady, but it’s lambing season, and with no help that means long days and even longer nights. Those young ’uns don’t always know the most convenient time to be born.”

“Did you notice anything wrong at all while you were over at the Beddoes place during the week? Hear anything? See anything?”

“No. But that’s not surprising. If you’ve been up there, you’ll know there’s a fair bit of distance between us. Two miles, at least, as the crow flies.”

“Yes, but I think you’d probably hear a tractor starting up, for example, wouldn’t you?”

Lane’s face cracked into a mocking smile. “You don’t think they just got on it and drove it out of there, do you? They’d have needed summat to take it away, a flatbed lorry or summat.”

“There would have been some noise,” said Annie, blushing at her mistake. “A lorry, van, flatbed, whatever.”

“Aye, but you hear lorries and cars from time to time. Even tractors. Nothing unusual about that in the countryside.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“When your days are as busy as mine, you sleep like a log. I wouldn’t have heard the bloody Angel of Doom blowing his trumpet. I said I didn’t hear owt unusual, and I didn’t. I’d have reported it if I had, wouldn’t I?”

“What were you doing here on Saturday night?”

“Watching telly, when I finally got the chance. Not that it’s any of your business. Then sleeping.”

“Might Mrs. Lane have heard something?”

Lane snorted. “Not unless she’s developed superhuman powers. She’s stopping with her mother out Whitby way.”

“Oh. Is her mother ill?”

“No. More’s the pity. Old bag’s as fit as a fiddle and twice as squeaky.”

“So your wife’s on holiday?”

“I suppose you could call it that.” Lane snorted. “Extended leave.”

Annie sighed. “Mr. Lane,” she said, “I’m just trying to get some basic information here.”

“Well, the basic information, if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, is that she’s gone. Left. Bolted. Buggered off. And good riddance. Been gone two years now, and she still hasn’t got out of the old bag’s clutches. Serves her bloody well right, is what I say.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lane.”

“Don’t be,” Lane snapped, his face darkening. “I’m not. Though what it’s got to do with Beddoes’s tractor I don’t know.”

“We just try to gather as much background information as we can, sir,” Doug Wilson chimed in. “It’s perfectly routine.”

Lane gave Wilson a withering glance. “Has anyone ever told you you look just like that bloke who plays Harry Potter?”

Wilson reddened.

“Watch them with your son, did you, Mr. Lane?” Annie said. “The Harry Potter films?”

“Leave my son out of it.”

“Is he here? Can we have a word with him? Maybe he heard something.”

Lane stubbed his cigarette out viciously in the ashtray. Sparks flew onto the upholstery. It was a wonder he hadn’t burned the place down years ago, Annie thought.

“He doesn’t live here anymore. He says there’s nowt for a young lad in this life, around this place. Nowt to do, nowt worth doing. Nowt but hard graft. I just about reckon he might be right.”

“So what does he do?” Annie persisted.

“Don’t ask me. He lives in town. Wanted his own ‘space.’ I can’t help it if he’s drinking himself silly, like they do, or smoking Ecstasy.”

Annie stopped herself from telling him that ­people don’t usually smoke Ecstasy. It would only antagonize him further. “Is your son involved with drugs, Mr. Lane?”

“I’ve no idea. He doesn’t confide in me.”

“But you brought it up.”

“It was just something you say. I didn’t mean owt by it. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Can’t say as I care one way or another.”

Annie didn’t believe that. She sensed that under Lane’s brittle anger and truculence were sadness, regret and guilt. Perhaps even love. But the anger and self-­pity went deep, she felt. She knew from experience that ­people don’t always have the patience, or the skill, to cut through someone’s layers of aggression and unpleasantness to whatever kindness and vulnerability might lie below. Sometimes they might try for a while, then they realize life is too short, so they cut their losses and leave, move on to someone else, maybe, someone more open, someone easier to be with. Perhaps that was what both his wife and his son had done.

“What’s his name?” Annie asked.

“We christened him Michael, but he goes by Mick. Why?”

“I understand he was in a bit of trouble some time ago. Something to do with a stolen car?”

“Silly bugger. It were nowt, really. Storm in a teacup.”

“Even so, he got probation.”

“They give kids probation as soon as look at them these days. It doesn’t mean owt. Used to be ASBOs. Now it’s something else. And community ser­vice.”

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen.”

“Where is he living in Eastvale?”

“I don’t know the number, but it’s one of them tower blocks. That rough estate. As if he didn’t have a good home of his own. He’s living with some tart, apparently.”

Annie knew where Lane meant. The East Side Estate was the oldest and roughest housing estate in town. She ought to be able to find Mick Lane there easily enough. “He’s living with a woman?”

“So he said.”

“Who?”

“Dunno. He hasn’t exactly brought her home for tea. But if she’s living in a council flat, it stands to reason she’s a slapper, doesn’t it?”

Annie knew the East Side Estate and some of its denizens, but that didn’t mean she agreed with Lane’s opinion. “Do you still see Mick at all?”