Unti Peter Robinson #22 Read Online Free Page A

very real hardship of it. He had hinted at so much himself. These considerations might matter down the line, she told herself.
    She and DC Wilson got out of the car and tried to avoid the worst of the mud, which seemed even squelchier than that at the Beddoes farm. At least the rain had abated to a steady drizzle over the short drive, and there were now a few patches of blue sky visible through the cloud cover. Not enough “to make baby a new bonnet,” as her father used to say, but a small handkerchief, perhaps.
    Annie knocked on the door, which was opened by a broad-­shouldered man in his mid forties. Wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt, he had a whiskered, weather-­beaten face that conformed more closely to Annie’s idea of a farmer. Satisfied by their credentials, he invited them in. There was a weariness and heaviness about his movements that told Annie he had perhaps been overdoing it for years, maybe for lack of help, or that the stress of survival was eating away at him. Farming was a hard physical job and often involved long hours of backbreaking work with little or no relief, though it was also seasonal and subject to the vagaries of the weather. But whereas Beddoes had seemed fit and fluent in his movements, Lane seemed hunched over and cramped up.
    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.
    â€œWe’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?”
    â€œAye,” 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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThat’s very neighborly of you.”
    Lane gave a harsh laugh. “Neighborliness has nothing to do with it. Beddoes paid me well enough.”
    â€œAh, I see.”
    â€œA man deserves to be paid for his labor. And it’s not as if he can’t afford it.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you checked on the place?”
    â€œSaturday. Day before they got back.”
    â€œYou didn’t go over on Sunday?”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œAnd everything was in order on Saturday?”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œLate afternoon. Around five.”
    â€œSo the tractor was probably stolen sometime after dark on Saturday night?”
    â€œIt were still locked up at five when I left. Make sense to steal it after dark, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œWere you at home on Saturday night?”
    â€œI’m always at home, unless I’m out in the fields. You might not have