Two miles from Outhgill, further up the valley towards Nateby, Jim Airey stepped into the road and waved an imperious hand. The approaching Land Rover slowed to a stop and some hairy old farmer stuck his head out of the sliding window, blinking against the rain.
“What the ’eck’s goin’ on, son?”
“There’s been a serious incident locally, sir,” Airey said, pompous, trying not to recoil as he got closer. The man smelt like he’d been rolling in sheep dip. “I’m going to have to ask you for some ID.”
“ID?” the farmer spluttered through his beard. “We in a police state now are we? Don’t you think I got better things to do than carry me drivin’ licence around all over the place just on the off-chance the likes of you take it into your head to pull me over?”
Airey sighed. Just about everyone he’d stopped so far had made the same point and he was getting sick of arguing about it.
He gestured to the back of the Land Rover. “What have you got in here, then?”
Grumbling, the farmer climbed awkwardly down from the driver’s seat with the stilted gait of a man whose knees gave out on him decades ago. He yanked open the back door.
Three startled-looking sheep jostled inside, accompanied by the overwhelming stink of lanolin. One of the sheep began to urinate with nerves, a yellow stream that splashed onto the bare metal floor. Airey stepped back hastily.
“Seen enough, son?” the farmer asked. “Or d’you want to ask them for ID an’ all?”
“Oh, get off with you,” Airey said, flushing.
The farmer merely grunted by way of reply and stumped unevenly back to his cab.
Farmers! Airey shook his head. Who else would put a load of dirty, incontinent animals into the back of their car? That Land Rover might be old, but it looked in surprisingly good nick, the dark blue paintwork gleaming almost freshly as it sped away.