Abattoir Blues (2 page)

There was an arched porch over the entrance, where they removed their outer clothing. When Annie took off the rain hat, her chestnut hair tumbled around her shoulders. The blonde was all gone now; she had let her hair grow out and return to its natural colour. She could certainly testify that she had not had more fun as a blonde.

A tall, wiry man in his mid-fifties, with a fine head of grey 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, Annie thought he looked more like a business executive than a farmer. There was an aura of wealth and power about him that she had never associated with farmers before. ‘You must be the police,’ he said, before they could pull out their warrant cards. He held the door open and stood aside. ‘Are your coats wet? If so, please don’t hesitate to bring them indoors. We’ll soon dry them out.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Annie said, rubbing her hands together, then reaching for her warrant card. ‘DI Cabbot and DC Wilson.’

‘I’m John Beddoes. Please, come in.’

Most farms Annie had visited – admittedly not very many – smelled of mouth-watering baking, of pastry, marzipan, cinnamon and cloves, but Beddoes’ place smelled of nothing but lemon-scented air-freshener.

‘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 Annie. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

Beddoes led them through to a cosy 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 Annie, too many sharp angles, but her welcoming smile was genuine enough, her handshake firm, and she immediately offered them tea. Annie and Wilson said yes. Neither had eaten breakfast yet. Outside, the rain poured down and the wind blew it hard against the windowpanes and on the parked cars and tin garage. It sounded like someone chucking handfuls of gravel.

‘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 Annie wasn’t about to argue with that. Apart from a few days earlier in the month, it hadn’t been all that warm, either. There was even snow forecast. And all this coming on the heels of a miserable winter, a particularly tough one for farmers, who had lost so many sheep in snowdrifts out on the moors. ‘I understand you were away on holiday?’ she said.

‘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 towards the kitchen. ‘And Patricia needed a break.’

‘Very nice.’ Annie didn’t think most farmers could afford to go to Mexico, not given the way they always seemed to be complaining about low prices of dairy produce, prohibitive EU tariffs and whatnot, but then with all the cheap flights and bargain all-inclusive holidays, it probably wasn’t all that expensive these days. Not that Annie fancied the idea: a bunch of yobs in leopard-print 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 & 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 specialise, 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. ‘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 any more, 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 his 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 labourers, 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 it wasn’t just a couple of spliffs that bothered the police; it was big business, big profit, and that was what drew the nastier type of international criminals and gangs. It was hard to turn a blind eye to them.

‘Do you have any security alarms?’ Annie asked.

Beddoes snorted. ‘What, up here? Waste of bloody money, like I told the constable earlier. Any self-respecting criminal would be long gone before a patrol car got up here, even if one happened to be free when you needed it.’

He was probably right, Annie realised. Once she had as much detail as she could get from John Beddoes, there seemed little reason to stay. Annie stirred herself and gave Doug Wilson the nod. ‘We’ll be in touch as soon as we know anything,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have a quick shufti around outside before we leave.’

‘Right you are,’ said Beddoes. ‘Please keep me informed.’

‘We will.’

Patricia Beddoes lingered behind her husband, her hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Beddoes,’ said Doug Wilson, ever the polite young man.

‘You’re welcome. Goodbye.’

Once they had put their rain gear on again, they squelched over to the garage where John Beddoes had housed the tractor. PC Valentine had examined it earlier, of course, and they saw nothing he hadn’t mentioned in his report. It looked like a crowbar job, Annie thought. The entire metal housing had been prised from the wooden door, and the heavy padlock that lay in the mud was still intact. Annie took a photo of it in situ with her mobile phone, then dug a plastic bag out of her pocket and carefully picked up the lock using the end of a pencil and dropped it in the bag.

‘A kid could have broken into that garage in five seconds,’ Annie said in disgust. ‘Come on, Doug. We’ll send some CSIs to poke around in the mud when we get back to the station. There’s no hurry.’

‘Poor Beddoes,’ said Wilson, as the windscreen wipers slid into action and the police Volvo shuddered to life.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. That BMW over there looks new to me. And as you said, it’s an expensive tractor.’

Annie made herself as comfortable as possible in the passenger seat, rubbing at the steamed-up window beside her. Unlike Banks, whom she felt always needed to be in control, she didn’t care who was driving. In fact, all the better if it wasn’t her. She didn’t like driving, especially in this weather. And there were too many arseholes on the roads these days, no matter what the weather. This week wasn’t starting out well, she thought. It was only mid-morning on Monday, but already her back was aching, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and have a long hot bath with a pile of trashy gossip magazines.

When DS Winsome Jackman arrived at the abandoned airfield, there was already a patrol car parked at the gate and two uniformed officers, one of them enjoying a cigarette, were talking to a man through the chain-link fence. The man was tall and slim, wearing a camouflage jacket, waterproof trousers, sturdy walking boots and a baseball hat, black with a stylised white ‘A’ on the front. He was taller than Winsome, but stooped a little and leaned on a walking stick. Whether it was a rambler’s prop or a genuine need, she couldn’t tell. It was also hard to tell how old he was under the baseball cap, but he seemed too young to be needing a walking stick unless he’d had an accident. A beagle sat quietly by his side, nose twitching as Winsome appeared.