“More dated, I’d say. Was there anything specific that caused your falling-­out?”

“We didn’t fall out, per se. We were never close to begin with. No, the boy was a pest, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean I’m hoping something’s happened to him. I know Frank loves his son, despite their differences. He’s just a man who finds it hard to talk about his feelings.”

“Like most men, according to most of the women I know. Are you sure it wasn’t just youthful high spirits with Michael Lane?”

“Perhaps it was. He was mouthy, mischievous. I don’t suppose that makes him a criminal. Come to think of it, I was probably a bit that way, myself.”

“Did he ever steal from you, commit any acts of vandalism?”

“No, nothing like that. You’ve heard about the joyriding, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you think that makes him a suspect in the theft of your tractor?”

“Michael Lane?”

“Why not?”

“I never really considered that. I don’t think he’d be capable of the level of organization needed to pull off such a job. There must have been more than one of them, wouldn’t you think?”

“Possibly. Though I heard the key was readily available.”

Beddoes reddened. “Yes, well, I’ve learned my lesson from that.”

Something about bolting stable doors came into Banks’s mind, but he didn’t give voice to it. “Could Lane have known you were going to be away?”

“I suppose so. His father knew, naturally.”

“Did you know that Lane’s girlfriend works in the GoThereNow in the Swainsdale Centre?”

Beddoes frowned. “No, I didn’t. I know nothing about his private life.”

“Isn’t that where you booked your trip?”

“Yes. Are you suggesting that she told Lane, and that he and some pals made off with the tractor?”

“It’s just a possibility, that’s all. I can’t say it’s one I take very seriously, though. As you say, there’s a level of organization to all this. Of course Lane might be a cog in a much larger wheel. But it wasn’t just something a mischievous kid does on the spur of the moment. Steal an expensive tractor. How would he get rid of it, for a start, assuming he could have made away with it?”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“Do you know a friend of Lane’s called Morgan Spencer?”

“I can’t say as I do.”

“The two of them do odd jobs on farms around the dale.”

“Not here they don’t. I wouldn’t trust Lane anywhere near my property. Do you think this Spencer character was involved?”

“I don’t know anything yet,” said Banks. “Only that there are too many loose ends and too many coincidences.” He slapped his thighs. “No doubt it’ll all become clear before long. I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Thanks for the music, Mr. Beddoes.”

“John, please,” said Beddoes, holding out his hand to shake when they reached the door. “My pleasure.”

“John, then,” said Banks. “And don’t worry, we’ll do our best to find your tractor.”

He headed back to the Range Rover, where the three uniformed officers were waiting for him. The looks on their faces told him they had found nothing of interest.

AFTER A hearty lunch of fish and chips and mushy peas in the Magpie, Annie and Wilson made their way to Tesco and found Denise Lane working at one of the checkout counters. Annie persuaded her to take an early break and accompany them to the little coffee shop near the supermarket entrance. They found an empty table by the plate-­glass window that looked out on the car park and the inner harbor beyond. Wilson went to fetch a latte for Denise. Neither Annie nor Wilson wanted anything after their lunch. Besides, Annie thought, there was something obscene about drinking latte straight after fish and chips. A ­couple of unruly children were running around unattended, but other than that the coffee shop was quiet, and their table was far enough away from the others for privacy. Annie glanced out of the window and saw flocks of seagulls circling above an old wooden sailing ship moored in the harbor. It was something historic, she thought, something she should know about but didn’t. Hornblower, Nelson or Captain Cook or someone.

Denise Lane had a heart-­shaped face under a tidy cap of streaked blond hair, a smooth complexion and attractive features, all in the right proportions. She was also long-­legged and looked slim and shapely under her uniform. Mrs. Prince had been right about the fitness center. Denise Lane would hardly be forty, Annie reminded herself, not much more than ten years older than Alex Preston, and maybe five or six years younger than her ex-­husband. If those hard years on the farm had taken their toll on her, she had certainly worked at regaining her good looks and youthful glow. Perhaps her weakest feature, Annie noticed, was her fingers, which were short and stubby, with bitten and broken nails.

“What’s wrong?” she asked Annie, before Doug Wilson had even returned with the coffee. “Has something happened to Michael?”

“Why would you think that?”

“It’s not every day I get a visit from the police. I haven’t done anything wrong, so I assume it must be bad news.”

“Just routine inquiries,” said Annie, kicking herself immediately for coming out with the most obvious police cliché. “I mean, we’re just here to ask you a few questions, that’s all. As far as I know, nobody’s come to any harm, and nobody’s done anything wrong.”

“You must have some reason for seeking me out.”

Wilson came back, handed her the latte and took out his notebook.

“When did you last see Michael?” Annie asked.

“Not for a while.”

“How long ago?”

“A few months.”

“You’re not close?”

“I suppose not. At least, not since . . .”

“The separation?”

“Yes. It’s been difficult for everyone. I mean, Michael stayed at the farm with his dad. What could he do, really? He was only seventeen. Oh, he used to come and see me at Mum and Dad’s sometimes, at first, but we argued. I think he blamed me for what happened. And Mum can be so . . . judgmental. I suppose I felt betrayed, abandoned. Then when I met Ollie things changed. I saw less and less of Michael. He and Ollie didn’t get on at all. Maybe in time . . . ? I don’t know.”

“So you don’t know much about his recent life, what he’s doing, how he’s living?”

“I know he moved out about a year ago and he has a girlfriend who’s older than him, but that’s about all.”

“Your mother calls her the ‘floozie.’ Doesn’t that bother you?”

“What? That Mum calls her a floozie? That she’s older than him? Why should it? Men take up with younger women all the time. As long as they’re happy, I don’t care. Look, I wish you’d get to the point. My break’s not long enough to waste on idle chat about Michael.”

Annie wished she knew what the point was. “We’re trying to find him, that’s all,” she said. “A neighbor’s tractor was stolen while he was away on holiday, and Michael’s father was supposed to be looking after the man’s farm. Mr. Beddoes mentioned Michael, that’s all.”

“And you think he did it? On John Beddoes’s say-­so?”

“We don’t think that at all, but we do want to talk to him. It seems there was some bad blood between your son and Mr. Beddoes, and Michael does have a conviction to his name.”

“You never let go, you lot, do you? Oh, I know all about the stolen car. The joyride. One silly mistake and he’s in your sights forever.”

“It’s not like that,” Annie protested, though perhaps without too much conviction. “Michael’s disappeared. Alex is worried about him. We want to find him, that’s all.”

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not a disappearance. That’s so melodramatic. Is that what this floozie told you? Alex. That he’d disappeared?”

“Do you know a friend of his called Morgan Spencer?”

Denise looked toward the harbor through the window. “Morgan? Why do you mention Morgan?”

“Your mother said you don’t think very highly of him. He’s made himself scarce, too.”