Abattoir Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Peter Robinson
a car?’
‘A used Peugeot. Falling to bits.’
‘When was the last time he came here?’
‘About two weeks ago.’
‘Does he have a job?’ Annie asked.
‘Hasn’t mentioned one.’
‘Any particular skills?’
‘Well, he weren’t much use around the farm, that’s for sure. Oh, he was all right with the manual labour, and he was good with the sheep, shearing and all. But he hasn’t it in him to be a real farmer. Too lazy. He can draw and paint, I’ll give him that, for all the use it is.’
Annie was just about getting to the end of her tether with Frank Lane. Her father Ray was an artist, and drawing and painting had been a lot of use to him. Annie sketched and painted herself, though only as a hobby, like Beddoes farmed. ‘How do you manage without your wife and son, up here all alone?’
‘I get by. I don’t mind being alone. I get plenty of peace and quiet. But I have to pay for help when I need it, don’t I? Cuts into the savings, what’s left of them. This isn’t a one-man job, you know, especially when you get to harvest time, or planting, or sheep shearing. Or lambing.’
‘It sounds like a hard life.’
Lane grunted and lit another cigarette.
Annie coughed. He didn’t react. ‘How do you get on with John Beddoes?’ she asked.
For the first time, Lane seemed to think for some time before answering. ‘Beddoes is all right, I suppose,’ he said grudgingly. ‘For an amateur, that is. He’s a bit full of himself, but there’s nowt I can really fault him on. Or that wife of his. Patricia. Been good to me, they have, since Katie left. Not their fault they had more advantages in life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Incomers, aren’t they? City folk. Only been here seven years.’ He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. ‘Gentleman farmer. Hobbyist. Got a chip on his shoulder about it, too. Thinks we look down on him. Mebbe we do. I were raised to it. This farm was my father’s, and his father’s before him. Go back as long as you like. John Beddoes bought his farm off Ned Fairbairn when it got too much for him to manage by himsen. Nowt wrong in that. Things change. And it meant a bit of extra land for me at a good price when I needed it. But it helps when you’ve got money behind you, doesn’t it?’
‘What money?’
‘Beddoes were something big in t’City. Banking or stockbroking or whatever they do down there. Big finance. All a bunch of thieves, if you ask me. He paid me well enough for taking care of his farm, and I can use the money. I’m sorry about his tractor, but there really was nowt I could do short of stand guard over his yard all week. A fancy Kraut tractor and all. Asking for trouble around here, that is. God knows what he thinks he needs it for.’ He pointed a fat finger at Annie. ‘It’s you lot should be paying more attention to crime around these parts. How often do we get a patrol car up here?’
‘We do our best, Mr Lane,’ said Annie. ‘But it’s a bit like farming – good help’s thin on the ground these days, and there’s a lot of territory to cover.’
‘Aye, well . . . summat ought to be done.’
‘Do the Beddoes have any children?’ Annie asked.
‘Not as they’ve ever mentioned.’
There didn’t seem much more to say. Wilson put away his notebook and they walked to the door. Lane remained motionless in his armchair, smoking and staring into space. He didn’t say goodbye.
‘Well, that was fun,’ said Annie as the car lurched back down the track to the road. Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen on the way in: what looked like several rows of dead mice nailed to the wooden fence. At second glance, they seemed too large to be mice, she thought, and she gave a little shudder. Rats, perhaps?
‘What the hell are those?’ she asked Wilson, a well-known expert on all things Yorkshire.
‘Moles,’ he said, turning to grin at her. ‘The mole-catcher nails them there.’
‘Good Lord. Why?’
‘To show he’s
‘A used Peugeot. Falling to bits.’
‘When was the last time he came here?’
‘About two weeks ago.’
‘Does he have a job?’ Annie asked.
‘Hasn’t mentioned one.’
‘Any particular skills?’
‘Well, he weren’t much use around the farm, that’s for sure. Oh, he was all right with the manual labour, and he was good with the sheep, shearing and all. But he hasn’t it in him to be a real farmer. Too lazy. He can draw and paint, I’ll give him that, for all the use it is.’
Annie was just about getting to the end of her tether with Frank Lane. Her father Ray was an artist, and drawing and painting had been a lot of use to him. Annie sketched and painted herself, though only as a hobby, like Beddoes farmed. ‘How do you manage without your wife and son, up here all alone?’
‘I get by. I don’t mind being alone. I get plenty of peace and quiet. But I have to pay for help when I need it, don’t I? Cuts into the savings, what’s left of them. This isn’t a one-man job, you know, especially when you get to harvest time, or planting, or sheep shearing. Or lambing.’
‘It sounds like a hard life.’
Lane grunted and lit another cigarette.
Annie coughed. He didn’t react. ‘How do you get on with John Beddoes?’ she asked.
For the first time, Lane seemed to think for some time before answering. ‘Beddoes is all right, I suppose,’ he said grudgingly. ‘For an amateur, that is. He’s a bit full of himself, but there’s nowt I can really fault him on. Or that wife of his. Patricia. Been good to me, they have, since Katie left. Not their fault they had more advantages in life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Incomers, aren’t they? City folk. Only been here seven years.’ He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. ‘Gentleman farmer. Hobbyist. Got a chip on his shoulder about it, too. Thinks we look down on him. Mebbe we do. I were raised to it. This farm was my father’s, and his father’s before him. Go back as long as you like. John Beddoes bought his farm off Ned Fairbairn when it got too much for him to manage by himsen. Nowt wrong in that. Things change. And it meant a bit of extra land for me at a good price when I needed it. But it helps when you’ve got money behind you, doesn’t it?’
‘What money?’
‘Beddoes were something big in t’City. Banking or stockbroking or whatever they do down there. Big finance. All a bunch of thieves, if you ask me. He paid me well enough for taking care of his farm, and I can use the money. I’m sorry about his tractor, but there really was nowt I could do short of stand guard over his yard all week. A fancy Kraut tractor and all. Asking for trouble around here, that is. God knows what he thinks he needs it for.’ He pointed a fat finger at Annie. ‘It’s you lot should be paying more attention to crime around these parts. How often do we get a patrol car up here?’
‘We do our best, Mr Lane,’ said Annie. ‘But it’s a bit like farming – good help’s thin on the ground these days, and there’s a lot of territory to cover.’
‘Aye, well . . . summat ought to be done.’
‘Do the Beddoes have any children?’ Annie asked.
‘Not as they’ve ever mentioned.’
There didn’t seem much more to say. Wilson put away his notebook and they walked to the door. Lane remained motionless in his armchair, smoking and staring into space. He didn’t say goodbye.
‘Well, that was fun,’ said Annie as the car lurched back down the track to the road. Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen on the way in: what looked like several rows of dead mice nailed to the wooden fence. At second glance, they seemed too large to be mice, she thought, and she gave a little shudder. Rats, perhaps?
‘What the hell are those?’ she asked Wilson, a well-known expert on all things Yorkshire.
‘Moles,’ he said, turning to grin at her. ‘The mole-catcher nails them there.’
‘Good Lord. Why?’
‘To show he’s