Alex could hear hip-­hop coming from one of the flats on the floor above as she walked along the balcony toward the lifts. She had never been able to understand hip-­hop, though several friends and neighbors had tried to explain its virtues to her. She’d been to raves when she was a teenager, danced all night to pulsating, repetitive electropop, even popped Ecstasy on one or two occasions; she was open-­minded, but she had never taken to hip-­hop, even when it wasn’t grime, or using ugly words to describe women and the things men should do to them. Still, she knew the kids up there, and they were OK. It was probably just a matter of taste. She liked Beyoncé and Rihanna; they liked Tinie Tempah and Dizzee Rascal.

The lift was working, thank God, though the smell of piss was as bad as ever. It was just as likely down to the incontinent old geezer on the tenth floor as it was to kids. He’d been told often enough but he said he couldn’t help himself. It was quiet out on the street, the lamps giving out that eerie late twilight glow, just a few ­people walking about, heads down, the smell of someone’s cigarette drifting on the damp night air, mingling with the hot grease and acrid hint of vinegar from the fish-­and-­chips shop. She glanced around but could see no signs of her police watchers. They were being very discreet. She stuck her hands deep in her jacket pockets, bag slung over her shoulder bumping against her hip. She could see the lights of the supermarket about fifty yards ahead, just across the street, could see ­people coming and going. She passed a woman who lived on the same floor as her, and they said hello. The night was still and cold. Cold enough to freeze the puddles, Alex thought, with a shiver.

The automatic doors slid open and she was bathed in the warmth and bright fluorescent lights of the supermarket. She picked up a basket and started wandering the aisles. There were a few other customers in, a mother trying to control two unruly children, a young ­couple loading up on beer and crisps, an old man in a woolly cardigan and a flat hat browsing the magazines.

Alex had just turned at the end of the aisle, opposite the frozen-­goods section, when a hand came from behind, covered her mouth and pulled her back around the corner.

BANKS DROVE out to see Beddoes as soon as he got back to Swainsdale. The farmyard was frozen and rutted, and he wished he’d taken a car from the pool instead of the Porsche, though it managed the bumps well enough.

Inside the farmhouse was as neat and nicely appointed as before: only the best furniture and antique porcelain on shelves on the wall. The Bang & Olufsen was silent, and Beddoes himself was relaxing in an armchair drinking coffee and reading a book about economics, a subject Banks had never understood, as Patricia Beddoes led him in. He hadn’t seen her before and noted that she was an attractive woman, a good decade or more younger than her husband, with a few sharp angles and a slightly hard, businesslike manner. It was hard to imagine her and AC Gervaise discussing Jonathan Franzen or Kiran Desai over a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers.

“DCI Banks,” said Beddoes, putting down his book and coffee and standing up to shake hands. “Nice to see you again. I hope you come bearing good news.”

“We’ve found your tractor, if that’s what you mean.”

Beddoes’s jaw dropped. His wife grabbed his arm. “John! That’s wonderful news.”

“You have?” said Beddoes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You might like to ask where we found it.”

“I would have imagined it in some Eastern European country by now.”

“Dover.”

“You mean it never left England?”

“Apparently not.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Very.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“We don’t know yet. Clearly something went wrong with their plans.”

“Lucky for me. I never thought I’d see the blessed thing again. When can I have it back?”

“Not for a while yet,” said Banks. “There’s a lot of tests we have to do.”

“You mean fingerprints and stuff like that?”

“Yes. Stuff like that. On first inspection, however, it appears to have been wiped clean.”

“Oh? Well, wouldn’t you expect that, if the thieves had to abandon it and scarper. They wouldn’t want to risk leaving their fingerprints behind.”

“They can’t have been in much of a hurry then, can they?”

“I suppose not. It’s a real puzzle.”

“Yes, but I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it. Our fingerprints experts are very good.”

“Do have any idea when I might get it back, how long your tests will take?”

“Do you need it now?”

“I am a farmer. If this damn weather clears up there’ll be a lot of field work to do.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot.” Banks leaned forward. “Could be a while. You see, the problem is that technically it’s evidence in a murder investigation, perhaps two murder investigations, and we’re also examining it in conjunction with the lorry it was transported in and the motorcycle that accompanied it. Morgan Spencer’s lorry and motorcycle, as it happens. And Morgan Spencer was murdered last Sunday morning near Drewick, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes . . . I . . . I didn’t know there was any connection. I already told you I don’t know this Spencer person. Do you think he could be the one who stole it?”

“We think he might have been part of the gang that took it, but that’s as far as it goes. There’s still an awful lot to sort out.”

“Yes, I suppose there is. Well . . . Pat, darling, do you think you might fetch a cup of coffee for DCI Banks. I think there’s some left. It ought to be fresh.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Beddoes went into the kitchen and brought back a tray with coffee, milk and sugar. Banks took his black, so he simply picked up the cup and thanked her. It was good coffee. Rich but not bitter, strong but not nerve-­jangling. Probably cost an arm and a leg, he thought.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” said Beddoes.

“Perhaps. Do you know a man called Montague Havers?”

“I can’t say as I do, no.”

Surely Havers had rung up Beddoes as soon as Banks had left the London office? Probably told him to admit to knowing him but to play their relationship down. “You might have known him as Malcolm Hackett.”

“Yes, of course. Malcolm. We worked together in the City years ago. Why has he changed his name?”

“He thought Montague Havers sounded a bit more upmarket for the kind of work he does.”

“That’s typical Malcolm. Always was a bit of a snob. What’s he up to these days?”

“Haven’t you spoken with him recently?”

“We haven’t been in touch in years. Not since the late eighties.”

“I see. He’s in investment banking. Specializing in international investment. That’s his profession, at any rate. Personally, he’s also interested in property development.”

“But what has Malcolm got to do with my tractor?”

Banks leaned forward in his chair. “I was coming to that,” he went on. “Leaving the various thefts, threats and murderers aside for the time being, I found out an interesting thing about Mr. Havers.”

“You have my attention.”

“Havers has invested in the abandoned airfield near Drewick, where Morgan Spencer was murdered. You may have heard it’s slated for redevelopment as a shopping center. Should be quite lucrative, I’d think, in the long run.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, we think—­I’d say we’re pretty much convinced, thanks to the forensics buffs—­that the hangar was used as an exchange point for stolen farm equipment on its way from North Yorkshire, and perhaps points north, to Eastern Europe.”

“I see. Including my tractor?”

“We think so.”

“That is quite a coincidence.”

“Yes, it is. And this Montague Havers—­Malcolm Hackett, as was—­claims that he and you were best buddies in the eighties. You worked for the same firm of stockbrokers, drank in the same pubs, maybe even shared the same women, for all I know. They were heady times, and you were young lads on the way up fast.”