Read Summer Rain: An Inspector Banks Short Story for Free Online

swimming trunks, slathered in coconut sunblock and pissed on weak beer had about as much appeal for her as a wet Sunday in Wales, or Yorkshire, for that matter. “I understand you only just got back,” she said.
    “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 connection. Well . . . you know what it’s like. Stuck in the airport lounge all day.”
    Annie had no idea, never having been in an airport lounge. “So that was when you found out?”
    “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 Annie. “Yes, sir, he’s a very sensitive young man.”
    “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. Annie could hear the radio in the kitchen. Ken Bruce playing golden oldies on Radio 2. “Runaway.” She knew the song but couldn’t remember who sang it.
    “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.