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    In the Dark Places: An Inspector Banks Novel
    In the Dark Places: An Inspector Banks Novel
    In the Dark Places: An Inspector Banks Novel
    Ebook437 pages7 hours

    In the Dark Places: An Inspector Banks Novel

    By Peter Robinson

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    • Police Investigation

    • Missing Person

    • Farm Life

    • Rural Life

    • Gratitude

    • Police Procedural

    • Amateur Detective

    • Family Drama

    • Small Town Secrets

    • Hard-Boiled Detective

    • Family Secrets

    • Damsel in Distress

    • Murder Mystery

    • Ticking Clock

    • Mystery

    • Theft

    • Copyright

    • Writing

    • Tractor Theft

    • Relationships

    About this ebook

    Published in the United Kingdom and Canada as Abattoir Blues

    Louise Penny calls In the Dark Places "brilliant." Tess Gerritsen says it's "thrilling." And Michael Connelly describes Peter Robinson as "amazing." One of the world's greatest suspense writers returns with this sensational new novel featuring Inspector Alan Banks, hailed by Michael Connelly as "a man for all seasons."

    It's a double mystery: Two young men have vanished, and the investigation leads to two troubling clues in two different locations.

    As Banks and his team scramble for answers, the inquiry takes an even darker turn when a truck careens off an icy road in a freak hailstorm. In the wreckage, rescuers find the driver, who was killed on impact, as well as another body—a body that was dead well before the crash.

    Snow falls. The body count rises. And Banks, perceptive and curious as ever, feels himself being drawn deeper into a web of crime, and at its center something—or someone—dark and dangerous lying in wait.

    Vibrating with tension, ingeniously plotted, and filled with soul and poignancy, In the Dark Places is a remarkable achievement from this masterful talent.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateAug 11, 2015
    ISBN9780062240583
    Author

    Peter Robinson

    One of the world’s most popular and acclaimed writers, Peter Robinson was the bestselling, award-winning author of the DCI Banks series. He also wrote two short-story collections and three stand-alone novels, which combined have sold more than ten million copies around the world. Among his many honors and prizes were the Edgar Award, the CWA (UK) Dagger in the Library Award, and the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Martin Beck Award.

    Read more from Peter Robinson

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    Reviews for In the Dark Places

    4/5

    213 ratings27 reviews

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    • 4/5
      A great addition to the series. Suspense at its best, although there were several hints that Banks is feeling his age and the passage of time. Could retirement be in the near future?
    • 5/5
      Banks and co investigate what seems to be a straight-forward case of tractor theft but turns out to have a much darker side to it involving illegal abattoirs. Complex, well-written plot with interesting characters.
    • 4/5
      Book Description:It's a double mystery: Two young men have vanished, and the investigation leads to two troubling clues in two different locations.As Banks and his team scramble for answers, the inquiry takes an even darker turn when a truck careens off an icy road in a freak hailstorm. In the wreckage, rescuers find the driver, who was killed on impact, as well as another body—a body that was dead well before the crash.Snow falls. The body count rises. And Banks, perceptive and curious as ever, feels himself being drawn deeper into a web of crime, and at its center something—or someone—dark and dangerous lying in wait.My Review:Peter Robinson is an excellent storyteller and I found this one to be well-written. It is smartly plotted with lots of interesting characters. Winston is featured in this book along with her new boyfriend Terry. Annie is recovering from her gunshot wound and is coming along nicely. Banks seems to be thinking about retirement but is still masterful at solving this dark and dangerous crime. I find it's a good idea to read this series in order as the storylines build one upon the other. I look forward to the next installment and would highly recommend this series to those who love mystery thrillers and police procedurals.
    • 5/5
      It's lovely to see that Peter Robinson is back on track. This is a wonderful book for mystery fans. Inspector Banks seems to finally be showing his age, but he has his old energy and snap back, and he treats his staff more like an extended family than a group of seasoned detectives. One sees the amount of work--interviews, searching for witnesses and evidence, forensics, intuition, using data bases--is required to slowly and incrementally understand the nature of the crime(s) that has been committed. Then, again glacially, the dots are connected and progress begins to be made, until finally resolution comes. In a strange way, books like these show why anarchy remains a fever dream; there are too many flat-out evil and greedy people who are the predators that inhabit society. Without a robust police presence, we would soon be back in the caves. The lesson from Lord of the Flies must be learned and relearned, and that's why Inspector Banks is at your service.
    • 4/5
      This is the first Inspector Banks mystery I have read so I have nothing to compare it to like other reviewers. It isn’t necessary to read any of the others to get involved in this book. Great characters, interesting plots and a satisfying end make for good reading.
    • 5/5
      This was my first Peter Robinson book. I feel lucky because this was the 21st or 22nd Inspector Banks mystery so I have a lot to look forward to reading. Maybe I should start with the first one! A great fast moving read.
    • 5/5
      This is number twenty-something in the series of DCI Banks, a police procedural set in England. It is the first one I've read. It feels more to me like a cozy mystery, but I think that is more due to the length of the series and not the subject. It still has lots of crime and procedures, but the relationships between the members of the constabulary feel more important than the various crimes they are out to solve. I do have other books in the series that I will most likely read in the next few years.
    • 5/5
      Highly recommended. This is a fine example of what a police procedural crime fiction story needs to have: an engaging story-line, good pacing, some surprise plot twists and an exciting conclusion. One trait of Robinson's Banks stories is that the spotlight is shared among members of his team so that there's more than just Banks working the case. I noticed that Banks is withdrawing more, maybe retirement is in the cards soon. I also learned more than I wanted to know about abattoirs and bolt guns -- scary stuff!
    • 4/5
      This was a good solid Inspector Banks crime mystery with maybe just not enough of Banks himself personally on the case. Instead the focus is more on the investigations of Annie Cabbot and Winsome Jackson with the pieces all coming into place eventually. Joanna Passero from "Watching the Dark" (my favourite Banks because of its Estonian connection and Banks going through an Arvo Pärt and Erkki-Sven Tüür listening phase) makes a cameo appearance and there seemed to be a hint of yet another future possible romance for Banks down the road.
    • 2/5
      Set in the Yorkshire Dales of England DCI Banks and his team investigate a stolen tractor, blood found in a warehouse and a missing young man. Are any of these connected?
    • 5/5
      Peter Robinson's Inspector Alan Banks series is a total winner. This is number 22, and the series has not gone stale one little bit. In fact, this is one of the most impactful books so far. The tension never lets up and there is enough blood and death and scary people to fill two books. Banks and his crew are on the trail of a very elusive protagonist as two missing young men come to their attention. The more they investigate, the more they all realize that these are not regular missing persons enquiries. It takes Annie and Winsome on tours of local abattoirs and farms deep into the Yorkshire dales and onto little known country tracks and places them in incredible danger. The scenery of the Yorkshire hills and dales is described so vividly, and even on these particularly cold March days during the timeframe of the book, it sounds breathtaking, This book absolutely vibrates with tension and fear. This book is a white-knuckle read from beginning to end. Love this series! Love Peter Robinson.
    • 3/5
      Not the best of his books by long way. The characters are getting very stale, time for some new blood.
    • 2/5
      I have read all the Inspector Banks novels and some fall short of a reader's expectations, and this falls in that category. Descriptive and graphic violence dominate the book, and that little hope in humanity barely seeps through the cracks. Of course, not every book can live up to a reader's criteria. Inspector Banks falls to the sidelines as his team races to find a devious killer. Alan spends much of the time thinking of past events and his relatives, and wondering about his new romance with a much younger woman. The story seems off balance and never hits a balance.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 5/5
      Lovely and competent romp with inspector Alan Banks. Utter perfection. As mysteries go, these are one of my very favourites - characters are so well drawn, the mysteries are complex and yet believable, the landscape always plays a key role, and I always feel like getting a pint at a pub afterwards.
    • 4/5
      How many exciting mystery novels begin with a stolen tractor? Perhaps just one, Peter Robinson’s “In the Dark Places” (2015).

      The team of detectives led by Inspector Banks usually gets assigned to murder investigations, but it being a slow season for murder in mostly rural Eastvale, Annie Cabot is dispatched to investigate, as she puts it, “a bloody stolen tractor.”

      But at about the same time, a wounded British army veteran discovers what appears to be a substantial amount of blood in an abandoned building. The two incidents turn out to be related: the man who stole the tractor is the murder victim, his body discovered in a most grisly fashion. That’s one of the “dark places” Robinson takes us. Another is more literal: deep into a cavern, where the novel reaches its climax.

      This is another exceptional entry in this series of novels featuring Banks, a music-loving police officer still attempting to cope with his broken marriage. As usual in these stories, the lives of Banks and the members of his team prove to be as interesting as the mystery they attempt to solve. This time a prominent role goes to Winsome, the Jamaican-born young officer who begins a love affair and later enters that cavern with the villain at her heels.

      Don’t miss this one.
    • 3/5
      I have read all of Peter Robinson's books. I have enjoyed Alan Banks and I look forward every year to the new addition to this series. For the last few years I have been disappointed. The series is not what it was. The plots are lame, the action pushed into the last quarter of the book. The other characters definitely more interesting then Banks. In this book Banks seems aimless and so does the story itself.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 5/5
      A cracking story which had me guessing to the end: because Peter Robinson has not been scared to kill off, or seriously wound, major characters, one never knows how the action will conclude.

      At the same time, he is clever enough to know that he doesn't need to top the level of carnage in each book. Sometimes everyone gets through, other times, a favourite won't make it. I shall not spoil the tension by revealing which scenario triumphed in this tale.

      These tales get better and more smoothly written with each outing and, when you consider the high standard of the early works, that's quite an accomplishment. I can't wait to read the next instalment; so I won't!
    • 4/5
      Abattoir Blues is the 22nd book in the DCI Allan Banks series of police procedurals. This is a solid entry in the series and the author certainly makes good use of the North Yorkshire setting. DCI Banks and his team are investigating a series of rural robberies which involves expensive farm equipment and some animals disappearing. The working theory is that the stolen goods are being shipped to Eastern Europe to be sold on the black market. When two young men are reported as missing, and the dismembered remains of one of them shows up mixed in with animal carcasses, the case is elevated to a murder investigation.

      Although this particular book doesn’t focus much attention on DCI Bank’s private life, it is fairly apparent that his current relationship is on the wane and he will soon be at loose ends in the romance department, but this looks to be a matter for another book. Both team member Annie Cabot and Winsome Jackson are featured in this book and one of them embarks on a new and interesting relationship.

      With Abattoir Blues I found the plot both satisfying and believable. The story was clever with just enough twists to keep the reader engaged. The Eastvale team, with it’s mix of genders and ethnicity strike the right note and although I get a sense that this series is winding down, the author is still producing some very good work.
    • 5/5
      Peter Robinson’s Inspector Banks series never fails to please and In the Dark Places is no exception. Two events form the basis for this exciting, past paced novel. Financial wiz-kid turned ‘weekend farmer’ John Beddoes has just come home from a Mexico vacation to find his expensive tractor stolen. There seems to have been a rash of robberies in the area; farm equipment, farm animals, etc. Simultaneous to this, injured war veteran Terry Gilchrist is out walking his dog Peaches by an abandoned airfield when she scoots under the chain link fence and bounds into the hangar. No amount of whistling and calling will bring her back so Gilchrist is forced to find the hole in the fence, crawl through and search for Peaches. What he finds in addition is something that looks like blood. So he calls the police. Two days later when a lorry carrying stillborn sheep destined for incineration drives over a cliff and human remains are found in the cargo, there is no doubt that the crimes are related.

      Banks, returning from a vacation of his own in Umbria with the lovely Oriana, and crew get involved in both crimes. When it turns out to be human blood in the hangar, now it’s murder. In the Dark Places probes the meat slaughtering industry, especially the unlicensed abattoirs that might sell to local restaurants. It will clearly stop your digestive juices from flowing and possibly make you consider becoming a vegetarian.

      The Banks team are all familiar characters and it’s almost as if you can visualize them…maybe you can if you watch the BBC series on Mystery. They have have distinct personalities. There is a little love interest with Winsome and there’s always the push and pull between Annie Cabbot and Banks, which is much different than in the TV series. There’s not much going on with Banks’ family, his son and daughter, only honorable mention, so to speak, although other books have concentrated more on them. And there are no cold cases in this story, while there have been in the past. Music always plays a role in an Inspector Banks book and true to form, it does in this as well.

      In the Dark Places is an all around good read. A fine continuation of a fine series.
    • 4/5
      Another series that I have read since the beginning, though that really isn't necessary because this book would be fine if read alone. I did, however, find out that I missed one which I now must go back and read. Don't quite know how that happened. Anyway in this installment three different incidences, with three different teams investigating all come together by books end. A stolen, very expensive tractor, blood in an unused warehouse and a missing young man send the team scrambling for answers.

      Love the character of Inspector Banks, he is so interesting, his children though he doesn't see them often enough, loves classical music and relished his solitude though he is at present dating a woman younger than himself. In this case he is not front and center, it is more Annie's and Winsome's case, the women take the lead. Good case, the last 10% of the book the most exciting, had me holding my breath at times. One warning: after this book if you are not already, you might just becomae a vegetarian. Think abattoir.

      ARC from publisher.
    • 4/5
      This is the 22nd novel in the “Inspector Banks” series, featuring Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks and his staff in Yorkshire, Great Britain. (The book was published in Britain with the title Abattoir Blues.)

      This installment begins with DI Annie Cabbot and DC Dougal Wilson (a Harry Potter lookalike, it seems), heading out to the countryside to investigate the theft of a tractor. Simultaneously, DS Winsome Jackman is looking into the discovery of possibly human remains at an abandoned airfield. The blood and body bits were found when a local veteran and war hero, Terry Gilchrist, was walking his dog. Soon enough, the threads of the stories interconnect, and focus on a likely suspect, Michael Lane, who is now missing. His occasional job partner, Morgan Spencer, also cannot be found. It begins to appear that a crime ring specializing in stolen farm equipment is in operation, but something went wrong and a gruesome murder was committed. And then, in an edge-of-your-seat riveting dénouement, one of the team’s investigators gets a little to close to discovering the truth and to meeting the same fate.

      Evalution: This book offers lots of suspense, with breaks from the tension with aptly selected humor and forays into the teams’ personal lives, and an overall good story that - by the way - ought to encourage meat-eating readers to consider vegetarianism.

      This was my first book in the series, but I didn’t feel lost at all. I could tell, however, that I missed a great deal of backstory, such as the dissolution of Banks’ marriage. But the writing is good enough that I fully intend to go back to the beginning with this series and find out all the ins and outs of everyone’s lives prior to the time of this latest book. Books in the series have garnered a number of awards, including the Arthur Ellis Award, the Anthony Award, and the Edgar Award.
    • 5/5
      Peter Robinson's latest police procedural is just what one expects in a summer beach read. Familiar characters, a well plotted mystery with an engaging supporting cast and story that will keep you turning the pages.

      Returning from vacation a day early DCI Alan Banks is met with not one but two seemingly unrelated cases, both low on the list of what might be considered a high-profile case. An expensive tractor is called in missing from a local ranch, and a bit further away in an abandoned hangar, is found what appears to be a pool of blood on the floor.

      Robinson juggles the two cases deftly while immersing the reader further into the lives of his characters and their numerous interactions, leading us through the machinations of an investigation.

      Highly recommended read, but don't forget the sunscreen as you won't want to put this one down until after the final page.
    • 4/5
      A stolen tractor, blood in an abandoned hanger, and now dead bodies and missing suspects.

      Th​is particular investigation went from looking for a stolen tractor to murder and covert activities.

      IN THE DARK PLACES was quite a good mystery with terrific characters. ​ I enjoyed the camaraderie among the investigators. The victims and their families were likable​, and the storyline made me not want to put the book down.

      The tangled series of events made for ​an excellent, gripping read with clues that turned the investigation into other directions and into more than what the investigators first started out with.

      IN THE DARK PLACES kept me guessing until the end. Mr. Robinson knows how to create drama that takes the reader to a different level and then wraps it all up with an ah ha at the end.

      This is my first book by Mr. Robinson, and I thoroughly enjoyed IN THE DARK PLACES.

      I would recommend IN THE DARK PLACES to any reader who likes to figure out the mystery but rarely does. :) 4/5

      This book was given to me free of charge and without compensation by the publisher in return for an honest review.
    • 5/5
      For me, Peter Robinson is one of authors that can't write a bad book. I've enjoyed the few stand alones that he's written, but the Inspector Banks series is my favourite. Abattoir Blues is the newly released 22nd entry.

      The new Commissioner has made rural crime a priority, so Banks's team is investigating, although the crimes seem a bit pedestrian for them - a stolen tractor and a break in at a seemingly abandoned airplane hangar. But when human blood stains are found on the hangar floor, the case takes a more serious turn. And when ties between the stolen tractor and the hangar are found......

      Although Banks is on the case, he takes a bit of a backseat in this outing, with team member DS Winsome Jackman taking the lead. Winsome is a character I've always enjoyed and it was great to have her take a bigger investigative role, as well as getting to know her a bit better personally. DS Annie Cabbot also has a louder voice in this book. I'm very glad she's still around, even though the relationship between her and Banks has ended. I enjoy her prickly observations of life.

      We still get a look at Banks's personal life - I have to say that I don't see his latest relationship lasting. He seems to be pondering his future in this book - wondering what it holds for him. I always enjoy Banks's musical choices and have often gone and looked them up to listen myself.

      This is what I enjoy so much about Robinson's books - the characters change and develop with every book. I've feel I've come to know them and sitting down with the latest is like catching up with old friends.

      Old friends with some rather disturbing stories. In addition to the great personal development of his characters, Robinson always crafts a great mystery. I wondered how these two diverse cases were going to be woven together. Gentle readers may be disturbed by the descriptions of what happens in an abattoir (slaughterhouse). But it provided a suitably gruesome setting for this latest crime outing.

      Abattoir Blues was another great read for me - can't wait for the next in the series!
    • 5/5
      Inspector Alan Banks and his team has to deal with two mysteries. Two men have disappeared and the investigation leads to two clues in two different locations. A scorched van and a peculiar bloodstain in an abandoned airplane hanger.
      As the team looks for answers another mystery is discovered. A truck careens off an icy road and the rescuers find that the driver was killed on impact. They also find another body that was dead well before the accident.
      Once again Peter Robinson has written a riveting mystery that keeps you hooked from the first page.
    • 4/5
      When Homicide and Major Crimes is called out to investigate a stolen tractor, they’re not exactly thrilled. But the new police commissioner considers rural crime a priority so they just have to suck it up. However, when it is linked to a possible murder in a vacant hangar at an abandoned WWII airfield, the disappearance of two local lads, and a gruesome discovery at the scene of a crashed lorry, the case becomes a lot more interesting for DCI Banks and his team.

      In the Dark Places is the 22nd Inspector Banks novel by author Peter Robinson and he still knows how to write a compelling and intelligent police procedural. The thing I like about Robinson – he’s never flashy, there are no wild car chases through major thoroughfares, his characters, though well-rounded, aren’t extraordinarily beautiful, witty, or able to solve crimes with little more than a random throw-away line apropos seemingly of nothing and the use of their little grey cells. They investigate crime scenes and follow the clues and put hard work into solving the case. There is, to be sure, some graphic and rather disturbing violence here especially as much of the story is set in abattoirs but this violence fits into the story and never feels gratuitous. Like the other books in the series, this entry is grounded in real possibility. There are lots of twists and the occasional dumb but human mistake by a character but it never stretches the credulity of the reader.

      Banks himself is missing for part of the story and, this time, it is the lasses who get to have most of the fun especially DS Winsome Jackman who may have found a possible love interest. When Banks is present, his signature music obsession is also in evidence and, to be honest, I kind of prefer the Canadian and British title Abattoir Blues. It seems more fitting because it references not only the setting but the song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (great song) which links it nicely to the last DCI Banks novel (and my favourite T-Rex song), Children of the Revolution. But, regardless of title, this is a well-written, intelligent, and satisfying mystery and I recommend it highly.
    • 5/5
      The blurb (above) promoting this novel, tells you almost as much as the reader needs to be told. The setting is North Yorkshire and Terry Gilchrist, recently discharged from the army is walking his dog. Peaches disappears inside an old hanger and Gilchrist recognises what Peaches has found as blood. Meanwhile Annie Cabot is investigating the theft of a tractor and Alan Banks is returning from holidays.

      Crime scene investigators affirm that what Peaches found is human blood and Banks takes over the investigation.

      I think what I enjoyed most about this novel was the exploration of the roles played by the various members of Banks' team, and particularly the part played by DS Winsome Jackman. And I enjoyed watching from the sidelines as the various plot threads converged.

    Book preview

    In the Dark Places - Peter Robinson

    1

    TERRY GILCHRIST CAME OUT OF THE WOODS OPPOSITE the large hangar, which loomed ahead of him like some storage area for crashed alien spaceships in New Mexico. Only he wasn’t in New Mexico; he was in North Yorkshire.

    It stood at the center of a large area of cracked and weed-­covered concrete, its perimeter surrounded by a seven-­foot chain-­link fence topped with barbed wire. A large sign on the padlocked double gates read: pRIVATE—­KEEP OUT. About a quarter of a mile beyond the hangar, a passenger train sped by on the East Coast line, heading for King’s Cross.

    As he usually did at this point on the walk, Gilchrist let Peaches off her leash. The space was open far enough that he could easily keep an eye on her, and she always came back when he whistled or called her name.

    Peaches sniffed around the edges of the fence, and before long she had found a way in, probably the same hole the kids used when they went there to play cricket or smoke joints and try to feel up the local girls. This time, instead of continuing to sniff around the concrete and weeds, Peaches headed for the dark opening of the hangar and disappeared inside.

    While he waited for her to finish her business, Gilchrist leaned his stick against a tree, stretched his arms out to prop himself up against the trunk and started doing a series of simple leg exercises the army medics had given him. They were already pleased with his progress: out walking, albeit with a stick, after only four months, when they had at first thought the leg was as good as gone. But Gilchrist wanted rid of the stick now, and the only way to do that was to build up the damaged muscle tissue little by little. His leg might never look the same, but he was determined that it would function as well as it ever had.

    When he had done, Peaches had still not reappeared, so he whistled and called her name. All he got in reply was a bark followed by a whining sound. He called again, adding a bit more authority to his tone, and the whining went on for longer, but Peaches didn’t reappear. She wasn’t coming back. What the hell was wrong with her?

    Irritated, Gilchrist grasped his stick again and made his way along the side of the fence, searching for the gap Peaches had found. When he saw it, his heart sank. He could get in, of that he was certain, but it would be a difficult, and probably painful, business. And messy. He called again. Peaches continued barking and whining, as if she were calling him.

    To get through the hole, Gilchrist had to lie flat on the wet ground and edge slowly forward, sticking his arms through first and pushing back against the fencing to propel himself forward. There was an immediate familiarity in lying on his belly that flooded his mind with fear, more a cellular or muscular memory than anything else, and he almost froze. Then he heard Peaches barking through the haze and carried on. Standing up was another awkward maneuver, as he could hardly bend his leg without causing extreme pain, but he made it, hanging on the links of the fence and using them as climbing grips. Finally, he stood panting and leaned back against the fence, clothes damp and muddy; then he grabbed his stick and made toward the hangar.

    It was dim inside, but enough light came through the large opening to make it possible to see once his eyes had adjusted. Peaches was standing about thirty yards to his right, near the wall; she was barking and her tail was wagging. Gilchrist made his way over, wondering what on earth was making her behave in such a willful and excited manner. Irritation slowly gave way to curiosity.

    The floor of the hangar was concreted over like the surrounding area, and it was just as cracked in places, weeds growing through despite the lack of light. He could hear rain tapping on the steel roofing and the wind moaning around the high dark spaces. He felt himself give an involuntary shudder as he approached Peaches.

    Even in the dim light, it was easy to see that she was sniffing around a dark patch on the concrete, but it took the light from Gilchrist’s mobile phone to see that what interested her was a large bloodstain dotted with chips of bone and chunks of gray matter. Immediately, an image of blood on the sand flashed into his mind and he felt the panic rise like the bile in his throat.

    Get a grip, he told himself, then took several deep breaths and bent to peer more closely in the light of the mobile. He didn’t have Peaches’s acute sense of smell, but close up, he picked up that rank and coppery smell of blood. It was a smell he remembered well.

    The thought came into his mind unbidden: Someone has died here.

    A BLOODY stolen tractor, complained Annie Cabbot. Would you merit it? I ask you, Doug. Is this why I put in all those years to make DI? Risked life and limb? Is this Homicide and Major Crimes? A stolen tractor? Is that why I was put on this earth?

    It’s rural crime, said DC Dougal Wilson, taking his eyes from the road for a moment to flash Annie a quick grin. And rural crime is major crime. At least according to the new police commissioner.

    Christ, anyone would think it was election time again already.

    Well, said Wilson, "it’s not as if it’s the first piece of farm equipment gone missing over the past while, not to mention the occasional cow and sheep. And it is an expensive tractor."

    Even so . . . Is this farmer we’re going to see a personal friend of the Commissioner’s?

    No, but I do believe his wife is a friend of Area Commander Gervaise. Book club, or something.

    Hmm. Didn’t know Madame Gervaise was a reader. Hidden depths. She and Alan must have a lot in common. And where is DCI Banks when you need him? I’ll tell you where. He’s off in Cumbria for a dirty weekend with his girlfriend, that’s where he is.

    I think you’ll find it’s Umbria, guv, muttered Wilson.

    Umbria? That’s even worse. It’ll be sunny there. Annie paused as Wilson negotiated a narrow humped stone bridge. Annie had always been nervous about such bridges. There was no way you could see whether someone was coming from the other side. The best you could do was close your eyes and put your foot down. She closed her eyes. Wilson put his foot down. They made it. What is it about these Italians? she went on. First it was Joanna Passero, the one he went to Estonia with.

    She’s not Italian. She’s Scottish. Now she’s got divorced, she’s gone back to her maiden name. She’s just plain old Joanna MacDonald. Wilson blushed. Well, not exactly plain, perhaps, but you know what I mean. Works at County HQ in Criminal Intelligence. Quite the rising star.

    I’ve always thought there was something criminal about the intelligence at County HQ, said Annie. She shot Wilson a suspicious glance. Anyway, how do you know all this?

    Wilson pushed his glasses up on his nose. One of the perks of being a lowly DC. Privilege of low rank. You get to hear all the good gossip.

    Annie smiled. I remember. Vaguely. Still, a bloody stolen tractor. I ask you. She squinted at a road sign between the fast-­beating windscreen wipers. I think we’re here, Doug. Beddoes Farm. Here’s the track.

    I know. I can see it. Wilson turned so sharply that the car almost skidded into the ditch. The ground was sodden and the mud churned to the consistency of porridge. They hung on as the car bounced and squelched down the quarter mile of rough track that led to the farm itself, giving its shock absorbers a workout they probably didn’t need. At least it was a car from the police motor pool, Annie thought, not her new red Astra.

    Wilson pulled into the farmyard, where the mud wasn’t any more welcoming, and parked beside a silver BMW. Beyond that stood a new-­looking Range Rover. The layout was that of a typical courtyard farmstead: a two-­story farmhouse, built of limestone with a flagstone roof, surrounded by farm buildings, including a barn, also of limestone with big wooden doors with flaking green paint, what looked like a garage built of corrugated steel, a pigsty, whose natives sounded happy to be rolling about in mud and worse, and a chicken coop so fortified that the local foxes had probably all slunk off with their tails between their legs.

    The usual farm smells assailed Annie’s nostrils when she got out of the car. No doubt the pigs contributed a great deal to it, she thought. And to the mud. You never knew what you were squelching through when you walked across a farmyard. The rolling fields of rapeseed, which would blossom a glorious bright yellow in May, now looked brooding and threatening under a lowering gunmetal sky. Very Wuthering Heights, Annie thought, though she knew that was miles away. Dark clouds lumbered overhead, unleashing shower after shower of rain, some heavy, some more like drizzle, and the wind whistled in the emptiness.

    Annie had come prepared for a cold wet day in the country—­it was only March, after all—­her jeans tucked into a pair of red wellies, flower-­patterned plastic rain hat, woolly jumper under a waterproof jacket. Doug Wilson looked a little more professional in his Marks and Sparks suit, trilby and tan raincoat with the epaulettes and belt. In fact, Annie thought, he looked a bit like a private detective from a fifties movie, except for the glasses. And when he took his hat off, he still looked like Daniel Radcliffe playing Harry Potter.

    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 blond was all gone now; she had let her hair grow out and return to its natural color. 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 gray 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 mouthwatering baking, of pastry, marzipan, cinnamon and cloves, but Beddoes’s 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 cozy 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 in the 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. 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 toward 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-­skin 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. 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 ­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 realized. 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. Good-­bye.

    Once they had put their rain gear on again, Annie and Doug Wilson 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 prized 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 midmorning 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 stylized white A’s 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. There was something vaguely familiar about him, Winsome felt, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A beagle sat quietly by his side, nose twitching as Winsome appeared.

    The uniformed constable introduced herself and dropped her cigarette and trod on it as Winsome approached. Winsome had been told by dispatch that someone had reported seeing what he thought was a bloodstain in a disused hangar near the railway line. It was her job to go over there and assess the situation, weigh up the pros and cons of bringing in an expensive CSI team. The wind tugged at her hair and seemed to permeate the very marrow of her bones. The rain felt like a cold shower.

    What have we got? Winsome asked.

    They’re padlocked shut, ma’am, said one of the officers, pointing at the gates. There’s nothing urgent, so we thought it best to wait for you.

    Winsome looked at the man inside. She couldn’t help but see him as a man imprisoned in some sort of prison camp or compound. He had a military air about him—­that was what had eluded her for the first few moments—­though she would have been hard pushed to put her finger on what made her think that. How did you get in there, Mr. . . . ?

    Gilchrist. Terry Gilchrist. There’s a gap around the side. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. It’s a tight squeeze, and it’s mucky down there. He gestured to the mud-­stained front of his jacket and knees of his trousers. Winsome was wearing black jeans and a belted winter coat, not exactly her best outfit, but not something she wanted to drag through the mud, either. She guessed that the uniformed officers also hadn’t liked the idea of crawling through a hole in the fence and getting their uniforms dirty. Do you know who owns the place?

    Government, probably. You coming in?

    Winsome sighed. A good detective always comes prepared, she said, and returned to her car. She opened the boot, took out a torch and a pair of bolt cutters and approached the gates. She handed the torch through the fence to Gilchrist, and with one quick hard snip of the bolt cutters she snapped open the padlock, which clattered to the concrete. Then, with Gilchrist’s help, she pushed the gates open. They grated as they followed the semicircular grooves already etched in the crumbling concrete. They might not have been opened frequently, Winsome noted, but they had certainly been opened occasionally, and quite recently by the looks of the tracks.

    Gilchrist smiled at her. Thanks for rescuing me, he said. I was beginning to feel I’d never get out of here.

    Winsome smiled back. You won’t. Not yet for a while.

    Gilchrist turned. Follow me.

    As he walked toward the hangar entrance, the dog trotting by his side, his stick clicked on the concrete. Winsome could see by the way he limped that the walking stick was no affectation. What had happened, then? An accident? A war wound?

    Winsome paused in the doorway and took in the hangar. She imagined you could fit a few planes in here, at a pinch. She had no idea how many Lancasters or Spitfires there were in a squadron, or even if the hangar had been used during wartime. Her grandfather on her mother’s side had fought in the Second World War, she remembered, and he had been killed somewhere in Normandy shortly after the D-­Day landings. She doubted that there were a lot of fellow Jamaicans with him; he must have been very scared and lonely for his own ­people. A place like this made her think about such things.

    Gilchrist stood by an area of the concrete floor and the dog’s tail started wagging. Winsome went and stood beside him, taking her torch and holding it up, at eye level, shining the light down on the floor.

    On the patch of cracked concrete Gilchrist pointed to, Winsome saw a large dark stain shaped like the continent of South America. It certainly resembled congealed blood. There was a familiar smell of decaying matter, too. She squatted closer. Just around where Brazil would have been, she saw fragments of bone and gray matter stuck to the scarlet stain. Brains, she thought, reaching for her mobile. Maybe they were both wrong, maybe it was paint, or a mixture of water and rust, but now that she had seen it for herself, she could understand exactly why Gilchrist had been concerned enough to ring the police. It could be animal blood, of course, but a simple test would determine that.

    Winsome keyed in the station number, explained the situation and asked for AC Gervaise to be informed and for the forensics bloodstain analyst, Jasminder Singh, and DC Gerry Masterson to come out to check the blood at the hangar.

    THE LANE farm seemed a lot less grand than the Beddoes spread, Annie thought, as DC Doug Wilson parked behind a muddy Rav 4 outside the front porch, a cobwebbed repository for inside-­out umbrellas, Wellington boots and a ­couple of rusty shovels. The farmhouse was smaller and shabbier, with a few slates missing from the roof and a drainpipe leaning at a precarious angle, water dripping from the gutter. The yard seemed neglected, and the outbuildings were fewer in number. They looked old and in need of repair. One barn was practically in ruins. A ­couple of skinny chickens pecked at the wet ground inside their sagging wire coop. Annie doubted that Frank Lane had a Deutz-­Fahr Agrotron locked in his garage, if his garage even had a lock, and she wondered what the relationship between the two farmers really was. Beddoes hadn’t given much away, but surely Lane had to envy the newcomer’s obvious wealth? Or resent it? And was Beddoes patronizing or honestly supportive of his neighbors? Perhaps in their eyes he was merely playing at being a farmer while they were living the very real hardship of it. He had hinted at so much himself. These considerations might matter down the line, she told herself.

    She and DC Wilson got out of the car and tried to avoid the worst of the mud, which seemed even squelchier than that at the Beddoes farm. At least the rain had abated to a steady drizzle over the short drive, and there were now a few patches of blue sky visible through the cloud cover. Not enough to make baby a new bonnet, as her father used to say, but a small handkerchief, perhaps.

    Annie knocked on the door, which was opened by a broad-­shouldered man in his mid forties. Wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt, he had a whiskered, weather-­beaten face that conformed more closely to Annie’s idea of a farmer. Satisfied by their credentials, he invited them in. There was a weariness and heaviness about his movements that told Annie he had perhaps been overdoing it for years, maybe for lack of help, or that the stress of survival was eating away at him. Farming was a hard physical job and often involved long hours of backbreaking work with little or no relief, though it was also seasonal and subject to the vagaries of the weather. But whereas Beddoes had seemed fit and fluent in his movements, Lane seemed hunched over and cramped up.

    The living room smelled musty and stale, no scented air freshener. No offer of tea, either. Everything in the living area demonstrated the same quality of neglect and plain utility as the farmyard itself.

    Frank Lane moved some newspapers aside and bade them sit on the worn sofa while he settled himself into what was no doubt his usual armchair by the fireplace. There were cigarette burns on the armrest beside an overflowing glass ashtray.

    When everyone had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and Doug Wilson had taken out his pen and notebook, Lane looked at Annie as if to tell her to get on with it.

    We’re here about your neighbor’s tractor, Mr. Lane. I understand Mr. Beddoes asked you to keep an eye on his place while he and his wife were on holiday in Mexico?

    Aye, said Lane, lighting a cigarette. Bloody Mexico. I ask you. But you can’t keep your eye on a place unless you’re living there, can you, and I’ve more than enough to do here. I did my best.

    I’m sure you did, said Annie. Nobody’s saying it was your fault. But how did you manage it? What did your duties consist of?

    I drove over there every day, fed the pigs and chickens, checked that everything was still under lock and key. He never told me to keep a particular eye on his tractor. I saw nowt amiss.

    That’s very neighborly of you.

    Lane gave a harsh laugh. Neighborliness has nothing to do with it. Beddoes paid me well enough.

    Ah, I see.

    A man deserves to be paid for his labor. And it’s not as if he can’t afford it.

    When was the last time you checked on the place?

    Saturday. Day before they got back.

    You didn’t go over on Sunday?

    No. They were supposed to be back by early morning. How was I to know they’d have problems with their flights? Nobody phoned me or anything.

    And everything was in order on Saturday?

    It was. Or I’d have said something then, wouldn’t I?

    Annie

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