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wanted to get to the farm without being seen, and Alison wouldn’t have heard the car approaching if it had been parked way up on the road.”
    â€œSounds promising,” said Gristhorpe. “Did the witness notice anything about the car?”
    â€œYes, sir. He said it looked like an old Escort. It was a light colour. For some reason he thought pale blue. And there was either rust or mud or grass around the lower chassis.”
    â€œIt’s hardly the bloody stretch-limousine you associate with hit men, is it?” Gristhorpe said.
    â€œMore of a Yorkshire version,” said Banks.
    Gristhorpe laughed. “Aye. Better follow it up, then, Susan. Get a description of the car out. I don’t suppose your retired schoolteacher happened to see two men dressed in black carrying a shotgun, did he?”
    Susan grinned. “No, sir.”
    â€œRothwell didn’t do any farming himself, did he?” Gristhorpe asked Banks.
    â€œNo. Only that vegetable patch we saw at the back. He rented out the rest of his land to neighbouring farmers. There’s a fellowI know farms up near Relton I want to talk to. Pat Clifford. He should know if there were any problems in that area.”
    â€œGood,” said Gristhorpe. “As you know, a lot of locals don’t like newcomers buying up empty farms and not using them properly.”
    Gristhorpe, Banks knew, had lived in the farmhouse above Lyndgarth all his life. Perhaps he had even been born there. He had sold off most of the land after his parents died and kept only enough for a small garden and for his chief off-duty indulgence, a dry-stone wall he worked on periodically, which went nowhere and fenced nothing in.
    â€œAnyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “there’s been some bad feeling. I can’t see a local farmer hiring a couple of killers—people like to take care of their own around these parts—but stranger things have happened. And remember: shotguns are common as cow-clap around farms. Anything on that wadding yet?”
    Banks shook his head. “The lab’s still working on it. I’ve already asked West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries at the kind of places that sell that sort of magazine. I talked to Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds. He’s a DI there and an old mate.”
    â€œGood,” said Gristhorpe, then turned to Richmond. “Phil, why don’t you go up to Arkbeck Farm with Alan and have a look at Rothwell’s computer before you get bogged down managing the office?”
    â€œYes, sir. Do you think we should have it brought in after I’ve had a quick look?”
    Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye, good idea.” He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Look, Phil, I know you’re supposed to be leaving us for the Yard at the end of the week, but—”
    â€œIt’s all right, sir,” Richmond said. “I understand. I’ll stick around as long as you need me.”
    â€œGood lad. Susan, did you find anything interesting in the appointment book?”
    Susan Gay shook her head. “Not yet, sir. He had a doctor’s appointment for yesterday morning with Dr Hunter. I called the office and it appears he kept it. Routine physical. No problems. I’m working my way through. He didn’t write much down—or maybe he kept it on computer—but there’s a few names to check out, mostly local businesses. I must say, though, sir, he didn’t exactly have a full appointment book. There are plenty of empty days.”
    â€œMaybe he didn’t need the money. Maybe he could afford to pick and choose. Have a word with someone at his old firm, Hatchard and Pratt. They’re just on Market Street. They might be able to tell us something about his background.” Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Okay, we’ve all got plenty to do, better get to it.”
    II
    â€œI’m afraid my mother’s still in bed,” Alison told Banks at