“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?”
“He drops by from time to time.”
“Does he own a car?”
“A used Peugeot. Falling to bits.”
“When was the last time he came here?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Does he have a job?” Annie asked.
“Hasn’t mentioned one.”
“Any particular skills?”
“Well, he weren’t much use around the farm, that’s for sure. Oh, he was all right with the manual labor, and he was good with the sheep, shearing and all. But he hasn’t it in him to be a real farmer. Too lazy. He can draw and paint, I’ll give him that, for all the use it is.”
Annie was just about getting to the end of her tether with Frank Lane. Her father, Ray, was an artist, and drawing and painting had been a lot of use to him. Annie sketched and painted, herself, though only as a hobby, like Beddoes farmed. “How do you manage without your wife and son, up here all alone?”
“I get by. I don’t mind being alone. I get plenty of peace and quiet. But I have to pay for help when I need it, don’t I? Cuts into the savings, what’s left of them. This isn’t a one-man job, you know, especially when you get to harvesttime, or planting, or sheep shearing. Or lambing.”
“It sounds like a hard life.”
Lane grunted and lit another cigarette.
Annie coughed. He didn’t react. “How do you get on with John Beddoes?” she asked.
For the first time, Lane seemed to think for some time before answering. “Beddoes is all right, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “For an amateur, that is. He’s a bit full of himself, but there’s nowt I can really fault him on. Or that wife of his. Patricia. Been good to me, they have, since Katie left. Not their fault they had more advantages in life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Incomers, aren’t they? City folk. Only been here seven years.” He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Gentleman farmer. Hobbyist. Got a chip on his shoulder about it, too. Thinks we look down on him. Mebbe we do. I were raised to it. This farm was my father’s, and his father’s before him. Goes back as long as you like. John Beddoes bought his farm off Ned Fairbairn when it got too much for him to manage by himsen. Nowt wrong in that. Things change. And it meant a bit of extra land for me at a good price when I needed it. But it helps when you’ve got money behind you, doesn’t it?”
“What money?”
“Beddoes were something big in t’City. Banking or stockbroking or whatever they do down there. Big finance. All a bunch of thieves, if you ask me. He paid me well enough for taking care of his farm, and I can use the money. I’m sorry about his tractor, but there really was nowt I could do short of stand guard over his yard all week. A fancy Kraut tractor and all. Asking for trouble around here, that is. God knows what he thinks he needs it for.” He pointed a fat finger at Annie. “It’s you lot should be paying more attention to crime around these parts. How often do we get a patrol car up here?”
“We do our best, Mr. Lane,” said Annie. “But it’s a bit like farming—good help’s thin on the ground these days, and there’s a lot of territory to cover.”
“Aye, well . . . summat ought to be done.”
“Do the Beddoeses have any children?” Annie asked.
“Not as they’ve ever mentioned.”
There didn’t seem much more to say. Wilson put away his notebook and they walked to the door. Lane remained motionless in his armchair, smoking and staring into space. He didn’t say good-bye.
“Well, that was fun,” said Annie as the car lurched back down the track to the road. Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen on the way in: what looked like several rows of dead mice nailed to the wooden fence. At second glance, they seemed too large to be mice, she thought, and she gave a little shudder. Rats, perhaps?
“What the hell are those?” she asked Wilson, a well-known expert on all things Yorkshire.
“Moles,” he said, turning to grin at her. “The mole catcher nails them there.”
“Good Lord. Why?”
“To show he’s doing his job,” said Wilson. “And as a warning, of course.”
“A warning to who?”
“Other moles.”
TERRY GILCHRIST lived in an old farm laborer’s cottage about a hundred yards west of the village of Drewick, from which he was separated by a patchwork field of allotments dotted with greenhouses and potting sheds. Gilchrist had his own garden, which Winsome could see through the window was well tended, even though everything was drooping under the weight of the rain, or bent by the wind. Beyond the allotments, apart from the square-towered Norman church and a couple of limestone and millstone manor houses, Drewick was almost entirely a postwar village with a few shops, a community hall and a pub, about halfway between Northallerton and Thirsk. Most of the houses were redbrick, with red pantile roofs, and consisted generally of bungalows and semis, with a few short terraces running off at right angles from the high street. The house was only a mile or so from the hangar, and she had thought it best to take him back home for a quick chat rather than stand out in the wind and rain. She had detailed the patrol car officers to guard the scene until Gerry and Jasminder arrived.
Gilchrist took her coat and offered her a cup of tea, which Winsome gratefully accepted. She could see him grimace with pain as he stood, and she offered to help. “Can I do it?”
“No. I’m used to it, thank you. Back in a jiffy.”
Winsome took out her notebook and prepared some questions while he was away. He soon came back with the teapot and mugs, and as he poured, Winsome studied him more closely. She realized that he was much younger than his injury made him seem. War had aged him. The Blair Folly started in 2003 with the invasion of Iraq, and the Afghanistan fiasco had been going on even longer. If Gilchrist had been a young lad when he started out in, say, 2000, he could easily be somewhere between thirty and forty now. It was impossible to tell. He had a fine head of fair hair, a strong jaw and clear blue eyes. He was even taller than Winsome, and he had a soldier’s bearing, but he also had a slight stoop, and the limp, of course. Though he seemed a little shy, there was something solid and dependable about his presence and Winsome felt safe in his company. Not that she normally felt unsafe, but it was a definite feeling, and one she wasn’t used to. She found herself wondering whether the wound embarrassed him, if that was what made him appear awkward and shy. After a sip of Earl Grey, she got down to business. “Have you ever noticed anything odd about the hangar before?”
Gilchrist patted his dog. “I didn’t even notice anything this time. Peaches was off the leash and wouldn’t come back. That seemed unusual, so I went to get her.”
“That’s never happened before?”
“No.”
“How long have you lived here?”
Gilchrist gazed around the room. “I grew up here. This house belonged to my parents. They died while I was overseas. Car crash. Ironic, isn’t it? There am I dodging bullets and they get killed by a drunk driver who walks away without a scratch.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m an only child. The mortgage was paid off. I inherited.”
There seemed both anger and resignation in Gilchrist’s sense of irony. Winsome had known one or two soldiers whose experience of combat had isolated them from their fellow man, but Gilchrist didn’t seem like that—just wounded and angry. She picked up the threads of the conversation. “How long have you been back from . . .”
“Afghanistan. Helmand Province. It’s OK to say it. Little over a year.”
“How often do you take Peaches walking there, by the airfield?”