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“Well, sir,” Annie went on, “at the moment we’re trying to establish just how the tractor was stolen, and it would seem to me that being able to start it is a major issue. I mean, you could hardly push it into a waiting lorry, could you?”
    “How could I know something like this was going to happen?” Beddoes had reddened and started waving his arms around. “We were running late. Pat . . . The bloody taxi was waiting. I just didn’t think. The garage was securely locked when we left, for crying out loud.”
    “John,” said his wife. “Calm down. Your blood pressure.”
    Beddoes smoothed his hand over his hair. “Right. Sorry.” He turned to Annie again. “In retrospect I know it looks stupid, and I didn’t want the insurers to know, but I . . . I mean, mostly we’re around, so it’s not a problem. I often just leave the tractor in the yard with the key in the ignition. When you get on a tractor, you want to just start it and get going, not search around for bloody keys. In this case, the garage was well locked, I had someone keeping an eye on the place. What more was I supposed to do?”
    “I’ve no idea,” said Annie. “Who took care of the place for you while you were away?”
    “Frank Lane from over the dale said he’d feed the pigs and chickens and keep an eye on everything for us. Not that we blame Frank for what happened, of course. He can’t stand on twenty-four-hour vigil any more than I can. Besides, he’s got his own farm to take care of, and it’s far bigger than ours.” He laughed. “Frank’s a real farmer, as he never ceases to inform us. And he’s got that tearaway son of his to worry about. We’re just grateful he was able to help at all.”
    “What makes you call his son a tearaway?” Annie asked.
    “Oh, he’s always been a handful, ever since he was a nipper. Mischievous imp. He got into some trouble with the police a while back.”
    “What sort of trouble?”
    “Frank wasn’t specific about it, but I think it was something to do with a stolen car. Joyriding. Got probation, community service, something like that. I didn’t like to say anything to Frank, but to be honest, the lad always seemed a bit of a shiftless and mischievous sort to me, if truth be told. He doesn’t live at the farm anymore, but he turns up now and again to see his father.”
    “Capable of stealing a tractor?”
    “I’m not saying that. I don’t think he’s basically dishonest.” Beddoes took a deep breath. “Just misguided. Frank calls me a hobby farmer. Laughs at me behind my back, like they all do. It’s true, I suppose. But I was born on a farm and grew up on one, dammit, until I was twelve.”
    “I see,” said Annie. “Is there any bitterness between you and the other local farmers?”
    “I wouldn’t really call it bitterness. More envy. They tease me, make fun of me, exclude me from their little cliques, but that’s just their way. You know Yorkshire folk. God knows how many years before they finally accept you, if they ever do.”
    “Any recent disputes, arguments?”
    “None that I can think of.”
    “Nor me,” Patricia said.
    Annie made a note to have a chat with Frank Lane and his “tearaway son” later. Intelligence had it that those responsible for the recent surge in rural thefts used “scouts,” usually local delivery drivers, or itinerant laborers, who built trust by helping out the farmers with maintenance, crop picking or vermin control, as the seasons demanded. A tearaway son could easily get involved in such a racket if the price was right. Or if drugs were involved. There were plenty of cannabis farms around the region. Not that Annie saw any harm in having a few tokes now and then. After all, she had grown up surrounded by the stuff in the artists’ colony outside St. Ives, where she had lived with her father and a constantly shifting cast of bohemian types and plain ne’er-do-wells, maybe even a minor drug dealer or two. But this wasn’t just a