Having slept on it, Tim decided that he should himself accompany Ricky on his visit to Jack Fovargue’s. Ricky’s hunch that their attacker might have been a traveller was intriguing: one of the theories he was working on was that the farm vehicle thefts could have been co-ordinated by a group of travellers. That would explain why he could discern no geographical pattern to them and how the thieves had managed to be so elusive.
Silverdale Farm, the address supplied to Ricky by Fovargue, was a large, rather bleak, red-brick building. It was completely isolated, standing alone at the heart of Baston Fen. It had been extended several times in ways not always sympathetic to the original architectural style, which appeared to be Victorian Gothic. Tim guessed the house originated from the high Victorian period, which would make it more than a hundred and fifty years old. It was more elaborate than most farmhouses, but not grand enough to have been inhabited by an aristocrat. It could have started life as a wealthy gentleman’s whim, a second residence for playing at farmers when he tired of ‘town’.
The house had been built to the right of a track leading off the roughly cambered fenland road. The track continued well beyond the house itself: there were several outhouses and yards, as well as some rows of Dutch lights and some allotment-sized market garden plots. All of these looked as if they were well-cared-for. The area immediately in front of the house was rather more neglected, although this was probably because it had been turned into a play area for small children. It was littered with a miscellany of small bicycles, scooters and abandoned toys. There was no proper path leading to the front door. As he and Ricky picked their way across this obstacle course – and Tim was reflecting that it must degenerate into a muddy quagmire in the winter – he heard an engine in the distance. He thought it might be a motorcycle, but when he looked up he saw a quad disappearing over the horizon. It was purple, an unusual colour for a quad. Not one of the missing vehicles, then, unless it had been disguised: he was sure he would have remembered if one of them had been purple.
Ricky rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a well-built woman in her late thirties. She had thick, wavy auburn hair tied back in a ponytail and was wearing a matching jumper and cardigan. A single pearl was suspended from a gold chain round her neck. If it weren’t for her jeans, she’d have been the living image of a stereotypical county-set wife.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fovargue? I’m DC MacFadyen. I won’t need to tell you that your husband was assaulted in the street in Spalding yesterday. This is Detective Inspector Yates. We’re here to gather a few more details. And to check on how Mr Fovargue is, of course.’
‘I’m afraid Jack’s not here at the moment.’ She directed her smile at Tim. Typical of this kind of woman, he thought: she invests all her energy in the most senior person present; doesn’t bother with the juniors.
‘Really?’ Tim said, injecting surprise into his voice. ‘Aren’t you worried that he may not be well enough to go out just yet?’
Her rather forced social smile morphed into something softer, a look of indulgence, perhaps.
‘You don’t know Jack, Detective Inspector. It’s impossible to keep him inside when he thinks he should be working. He’s been gone for a couple of hours now. I don’t know when he’s planning to return, unfortunately. Otherwise I’d ask you if you wanted to wait.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Fovargue. We won’t hang around today, as his plans seem to be so… fluid. Perhaps instead we can make an appointment to return when he is here?’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t manage Jack’s diary, or even have access to it.’ She paused and noticed Tim’s raised eyebrow. ‘Oh, I could if I wanted to. But Jack has so many irons in the fire, it’s too confusing to try to keep up with him. I have enough to do with my work here and looking after the children.’
‘Quite,’ said Tim. ‘Perhaps in that case you could supply us with his mobile number?’
She hesitated. Surely she wasn’t going to try to pretend that she didn’t know it?
‘I can never remember it offhand. If you wait here, I’ll fetch it for you.’
She disappeared into the house. Evidently there was still no question of asking them in. The two policemen stood waiting on the doorstep, a shrill wind whipping round their legs. Ricky tutted quietly and rolled his eyes at Tim. Tim threw him a grim look in return. He wasn’t amused by this show of unhelpful helpfulness and he’d been perturbed by seeing the quad. He scanned the horizon, which lay beyond typical flat Fenland country of rich ploughed fields, the view unbroken for possibly five miles until at last obscured by a row of poplar trees.
It took Mrs Fovargue several minutes to return. When she did, she looked flustered, her face red as if she’d had an argument with someone or been chastised. Tim reflected that she’d had time to call Fovargue and speak to him – if he really was out of the house. An alternative possibility was that he’d been there all the time and told her to get rid. It was a big enough house for them to have spoken in a distant room, unheard by their visitors.
‘Here is the number. I’ve written it on a slip of paper for you. Don’t be surprised if it goes to message. Jack has several phones, because there are so many businesses.’
‘For which of the businesses is this number?’
‘I forget. But it’s the number he always tells me to call, if I need to speak to him,’ she added brightly.
‘That should work, then,’ said Tim sardonically. ‘Well, if that’s everything…’
She began to close the door.
‘Just one more thing, Mrs Fovargue.’
‘Yes?’ She was looking apprehensive now, struggling to regain the self-assurance with which she had first greeted them.
‘When DC MacFadyen and I arrived, I thought I saw a purple quad. It was some distance away, heading out into the open fields over there. Does it belong to your husband?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that. I don’t have anything to do with the vehicles. I just know that there are many of them and they change hands all the time. One of Jack’s businesses is about sourcing vehicles for people. Unusual vehicles, mostly – veteran tractors, that sort of thing. I’d say a purple quad was quite unusual, though, wouldn’t you?’ She gave a forced little laugh.
‘Indeed. And I’d say that a company operating in this area to supply veteran vehicles was pretty unusual, too. In my experience, the farmers round here are a doggedly unsentimental bunch. They’ve got an eye on the bottom line, which means using the most efficient machinery they can get their hands on, not the sort of kit their parents and grandparents used. I’m surprised your husband can make a go of it.’
‘Oh, well, the veteran vehicle business is national – even international, sometimes – not just local. And Jack would agree with you about the farmers in this area. He says they’d do anything to squeeze out a bit more profit. That’s why he started his organic farming business: to show them that they don’t have to murder the soil in the process. As you probably know, there’s an educational division to it, as well. He gives classes to schoolchildren to teach them about the soil; sometimes visits schools, too. I help him with that.’
Her voice had recovered its aplomb. She clearly felt she was on stronger ground now.
‘And is it part of his message that only old vehicles are good for the land?’
She gave a tinkly little laugh.
‘Certainly not. But, although it’s really the big farmers Jack wants to educate, so far he’s had the most success with smallholders. Some of them are incomers, retired people or people seeking a new way of earning a living.’
‘You mean, people in pursuit of the ‘good life’?’
‘That sort of thing, yes. And they can be quite sentimental, not just about organic farming, but also about the kinds of implements farmers used in the past. Someone once asked him if he could source some old tools and it just grew from there. Jack set the service up as a favour – he barely makes any money out of it. He’s too nice, really.’
Tim managed to swallow the smart rejoinder that sprang to his lips. Mrs Fovargue was visibly more relaxed now she’d circumnavigated the tricky part of the conversation and he didn’t want to put her on her guard again.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘Here’s my card. Please ask your husband to call me when he gets back today. And tell him that if this isn’t convenient, I’ll give him a call myself tomorrow. Thank you for your help, Mrs Fovargue.’
‘My pleasure. My name’s Susie, by the way, in case you want to speak to me again.’