Unti Peter Robinson #22 Read Online Free PDF Page A

doesn’t confide in me.”
    â€œBut you brought it up.”
    â€œIt was just something you say. I didn’t mean owt by it. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Can’t say as I care one way or another.”
    Annie didn’t believe that. She sensed that under Lane’s brittle anger and truculence were sadness, regret and guilt. Perhaps even love. But the anger and self-­pity went deep, she felt. She knew from experience that ­people don’t always have the patience, or the skill, to cut through someone’s layers of aggression and unpleasantness to whatever kindness and vulnerability might lie below. Sometimes they might try for a while, then they realize life is too short, so they cut their losses and leave, move on to someone else, maybe, someone more open, someone easier to be with. Perhaps that was what both his wife and his son had done.
    â€œWhat’s his name?” Annie asked.
    â€œWe christened him Michael, but he goes by Mick. Why?”
    â€œI understand he was in a bit of trouble some time ago. Something to do with a stolen car?”
    â€œSilly bugger. It were nowt, really. Storm in a teacup.”
    â€œEven so, he got probation.”
    â€œThey give kids probation as soon as look at them these days. It doesn’t mean owt. Used to be ASBOs. Now it’s something else. And community ser­vice.”
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œNineteen.”
    â€œWhere is he living in Eastvale?”
    â€œI don’t know the number, but it’s one of them tower blocks. That rough estate. As if he didn’t have a good home of his own. He’s living with some tart, apparently.”
    Annie knew where Lane meant. The East Side Estate was the oldest and roughest housing estate in town. She ought to be able to find Mick Lane there easily enough. “He’s living with a woman?”
    â€œSo he said.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDunno. He hasn’t exactly brought her home for tea. But if she’s living in a council flat, it stands to reason she’s a slapper, doesn’t it?”
    Annie knew the East Side Estate and some of its denizens, but that didn’t mean she agreed with Lane’s opinion. “Do you still see Mick at all?”
    â€œHe drops by from time to time.”
    â€œDoes he own a car?”
    â€œA used Peugeot. Falling to bits.”
    â€œWhen was the last time he came here?”
    â€œAbout two weeks ago.”
    â€œDoes he have a job?” Annie asked.
    â€œHasn’t mentioned one.”
    â€œAny particular skills?”
    â€œWell, he weren’t much use around the farm, that’s for sure. Oh, he was all right with the manual labor, 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?”
    â€œI 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 harvesttime, or planting, or sheep shearing. Or lambing.”
    â€œIt 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.