Unti Peter Robinson #22 Read Online Free PDF

Patricia. Been good to me, they have, since Katie left. Not their fault they had more advantages in life.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIncomers, 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. Goes 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?”
    â€œWhat money?”
    â€œBeddoes 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?”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAye, well . . . summat ought to be done.”
    â€œDo the Beddoeses have any children?” Annie asked.
    â€œNot 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 good-­bye.
    â€œWell, 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?
    â€œWhat the hell are those?” she asked Wilson, a well-­known expert on all things Yorkshire.
    â€œMoles,” he said, turning to grin at her. “The mole catcher nails them there.”
    â€œGood Lord. Why?”
    â€œTo show he’s doing his job,” said Wilson. “And as a warning, of course.”
    â€œA warning to who?”
    â€œOther moles.”
    TERRY GILCHRIST lived in an old farm laborer’s cottage about a hundred yards west of the village of Drewick, from which he was separated by a patchwork field of allotments dotted with greenhouses and potting sheds. Gilchrist had his own garden, which Winsome could see through the window was well tended, even though everything was drooping under the weight of the rain, or bent by the wind. Beyond the allotments, apart from the square-­towered Norman church and a ­couple of limestone and millstone manor houses, Drewick was almost entirely a postwar village with a few shops, a community hall and a pub, about halfway between Northallerton and Thirsk. Most of the houses were redbrick, with red pantile roofs, and consisted generally of bungalows and semis, with a few short terraces running off at right angles from the high street. The house was only a mile or so from the hangar, and she had thought it best to take him back home for a quick chat rather than stand out in the wind and rain. She had detailed the patrol car officers to guard the scene until Gerry and Jasminder arrived.
    Gilchrist took her coat and offered her a cup of tea, which Winsome gratefully accepted. She could see him grimace with pain as he stood,