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Wilson pushed his glasses up on his nose. “One of the perks of being a lowly DC. Privilege of low rank. You get to hear all the good gossip.”
A
“I know. I can see it.” Wilson turned so sharply that the car almost skidded into the ditch. The ground was sodden and the mud churned to the consistency of porridge. They hung on as the car bounced and squelched down the quarter mile of rough track that led to the farm itself, giving its shock absorbers a workout they probably didn’t need. At least it was a car from the police motor pool, A
Wilson pulled into the farmyard, where the mud wasn’t any more welcoming, and parked beside a silver BMW. Beyond that stood a new-looking Range Rover. The layout was that of a typical courtyard farmstead: a two-story farmhouse, built of limestone with a flagstone roof, surrounded by farm buildings, including a barn, also of limestone with big wooden doors with flaking green paint, what looked like a garage built of corrugated steel, a pigsty, whose natives sounded happy to be rolling about in mud and worse, and a chicken coop so fortified that the local foxes had probably all slunk off with their tails between their legs.
The usual farm smells assailed A
A
There was an arched porch over the entrance, where they removed their outer clothing. When A
A tall, wiry man in his mid fifties, with a fine head of gray hair and a light tan, answered the door. He was wearing jeans and a red V-neck sweater over a pale blue shirt. Despite the casual clothing, A
“They’ll be fine,” A
“I’m John Beddoes. Please, come in.”
Most farms A
“I know you probably think this is a huge waste of your time,” said Beddoes. “Not to mention a waste of police resources, but it’s not the first such crime we’ve had around here this past year or so.”
“We’re aware of that, sir,” said A
Beddoes led them through to a cozy sitting room. First he bade them sit down on a three-piece suite that definitely hadn’t come from DFS, then he called to his wife. “Pat? The police are here, love.”
Patricia Beddoes walked in. Wearing figure-hugging designer jeans, trainers and an orange T-shirt, she was an attractive, elegant woman, with expensively coiffed dark hair, a good ten years or more younger than her husband. Even though she had been on holiday in the sun, her tan looked fake, from a can, like the kind that the young women all showed off on Coronation Street. She still looked a little chilly and severe to A
“Miserable weather, isn’t it?” said John Beddoes. “And they say there’s more to come.”
Everyone was saying it had been the wettest March since records began, and A
“Yes. Mexico. You might think it an odd time for us to go away—if there ever is a good time for a farmer—but we don’t have any sheep or cattle, you see, so we have no need to worry about lambing or calving.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “And Patricia needed a break.”
“Very nice.” A
“Late last night. About half past eleven. We were supposed to arrive early in the morning, but the flight to New York was delayed and we missed our co
A
“Yes. I noticed that the garage had been broken into right away and telephoned the police. I must say you lot are quick off the mark. Much quicker than you used to be. That uniformed chappie who came around last night seemed very sympathetic, too.”
“PC Valentine?” said A
“So what’s being done?” Beddoes asked.
“We’ve got a description of the tractor out, sir—a green Deutz-Fahr Agrotron, if I’m not mistaken—and we’ve got people looking for it, keeping an eye open at ports and so on. We’ve been in touch with Customs and Excise. They have the details, description, number plate, engine serial number. Of course, the criminals will most likely have altered those by now, but sometimes they’re lazy, or they slip up. It’s our experience that most stolen farm equipment is shipped out of the country pretty sharpish.”
John Beddoes sighed. “It’s probably in bloody Albania by now, then. It’s worth a hundred K at least.”
His wife came in with a tea tray and served everyone. A