Tim and Ricky were at Silverdale Farm again, again waiting for someone to answer the door. To Tim’s surprise, Fovargue had called him late the previous afternoon and suggested they might like to return the next morning. He’d even apologised for their earlier wasted journey.
Despite this promise of co-operation, they now found themselves facing a closed front door. They had been standing on the wrong side of it for quite a while. Tim had just pushed the bell for the third time.
‘He’d better not be having us on,’ he muttered to Ricky, leaning on the button for a good thirty seconds. ‘If we don’t get anywhere this time I shall lose patience.’
As if on cue, someone called out ‘Just a minute!’ and began, by degrees, to jerk open the door, which appeared to be sticking. Gradually Jack Fovargue’s compact figure was revealed.
‘Good morning! DI Yates, I take it?’ He advanced a few steps and held out his hand, which Tim shook briefly. As his wife had yesterday, he chose to ignore Ricky.
‘Yes, DI Tim Yates, South Lincs police. DC MacFadyen you know already.’
Fovargue mimed a startled double-take as if he’d only just noticed Ricky. He held out his hand again.
‘My guardian angel!’ he said, chuckling. ‘I must thank you. I’m sorry you got caught up in all that. Not too much damage done, I hope?’
‘No,’ said Ricky, ‘just a bit of a sore face, that’s all. How are you yourself, sir? You took more of a pasting than I did.’
‘Right as a trivet.’ Fovargue laughed again. ‘I told you I would be. It takes more than a drunken lout to get the better of me. But you’d better come in, both of you. Don’t stand there on the step.’
He made a waving gesture over one shoulder and stood back to let them past him.
They found themselves in a large square kitchen. Although it was quite a warm day, the wood-burning stove, set in what looked like the recess originally created for a kitchen range, had been lit and was chucking out heat. Fovargue pointed to the shabby but comfortable-looking sofa that stood in front of it. ‘Take a seat near the stove. I love the old house, but most days it’s chilly inside these thick walls.’
Fat beads of perspiration were already appearing on Ricky’s forehead. As yet, Tim himself felt no discomfort, but he knew that shortly the heat would become oppressive. Both policemen sat down on the sofa as directed. As Tim was hoping they would get the interview over with quickly, it dawned on him that this was probably the same result that Fovargue’s overbearing hospitality was intended to achieve.
‘Well,’ said Fovargue, as if they were complete strangers who’d wandered in on him by mistake. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m sure you know why we’re here, Mr Fovargue,’ Tim said, injecting as much warmth into his voice as he could. ‘It’s about the assault on you and DC MacFadyen two days ago. As I told your wife yesterday.’
‘I’m truly grateful for your concern,’ said Fovargue, his expression so open and guileless that it seemed unquestionably genuine. ‘And so is my wife. But I think I had already mentioned to… er… DC MacFadyen… that I don’t wish to press charges. Being set upon by a young hothead is not a pleasant experience, but I’m a busy man. I don’t want the distraction of having to take this further. I’m sure you will understand.’
‘Whether or not I understand your reasoning is immaterial, sir. The fact is that a police officer was also assaulted during the affray. Even if you don’t want to press charges, that can’t be ignored. As my boss has very forcefully pointed out.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Fovargue. ‘We are in the soup, then, aren’t we?’ The comment seemed strangely flippant.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that, sir. Let’s just start at the beginning, shall we? Did you know your assailant?’
‘No, never seen him before in my life.’
‘Okay. What were you doing in Spalding that morning?’
‘I’d been to the information centre at Springfields, to settle the final details about some soil appreciation courses I’m doing there. I made a detour to Red Lion Street because I wanted to book a meal for myself and my wife. She’s very keen on the Indian restaurant there.’
‘I see. So you were just walking along the street minding your own business?’
‘Precisely that, yes.’
‘What time of day was it?’
‘I think it was getting on for one o’clock. DC MacFadyen can probably verify? He turned up a few minutes later.’
Ricky nodded at Tim. Tim didn’t show it, but he was annoyed. Ricky’s alacrity in confirming Fovargue’s story almost felt like a betrayal.
‘Tell us what happened next. In as much detail as you can remember, sir. For example, did your attacker jump you from behind or did he meet you head on?’
‘He… I think he was passing me on the pavement and jolted in to me as he went by. Then he started swearing and told me to look where I was going. I said there was no need for that kind of language, we’d both misjudged the narrowness of the pavement. Then he suddenly socked me one. I had no idea it was coming.’
‘You retaliated?’
‘I’m a peaceable man, DI Yates. I disapprove of physical violence. But yes, of course I retaliated, when some bloke had just jumped me for no good reason. What would you have done?’
‘Probably much the same as you did, sir, but I’m not the one who’s making the statement. I understand that a ‘proper’ fight ensued, with both of you lashing out at each other. Would you agree that’s a fair representation of the facts?’
‘I suppose so. To be entirely honest with you, I’m a bit vague about the sequence of events after he first laid into me.’
‘What’s the next thing you can remember clearly?’
‘Being escorted into the hospital by the paramedic.’
Tim’s inner sardonic smile tickled into life. Fovargue would say that, of course.
‘Are you saying you can’t recall the details of the fight?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Sorry.’
‘For how many minutes would you say you had been fighting when DC MacFadyen arrived and broke it up?’
‘Not all that long. Perhaps for two or three minutes, maybe even less. I was aware that people were stopping to watch. It was embarrassing.’ Tim noted that although Fovargue claimed to be unable to describe his attacker he could perfectly recall his reaction to the onlookers.
‘Indeed, I can imagine. According to DC MacFadyen, he pitched in and pulled your attacker off you. Thwarted of the opportunity to carry on hammering you, the man socked it to DC MacFadyen instead. Is that right?’
Fovargue shrugged.
‘I was feeling pretty disorientated by that stage. If that’s what DC MacFadyen says, I have no reason to disbelieve him.’
‘Quite.’ Tim shot a sidelong glance at Ricky. Normally, DC MacFadyen was placid to the point of inertia, but at present he was looking extremely riled. Tim threw him a quick smile, encouraging him to humour Fovargue.
‘And the attacker?’ Tim continued.
‘Sorry… what do you mean?’
‘Your attacker. Can we have a description?’
‘I’ve already told you – I didn’t know him.’
‘Yes, you have, Mr Fovargue, and I’m sure you’re telling the truth.’ Tim gave Fovargue a straight look, which was returned unflinchingly. ‘But you must have noticed what he looked like: he got much too close to you for comfort. How would you describe him?’
Fovargue was silent for a few seconds.
‘I think he was a biker,’ he said at last.
‘A biker?’
‘Yes. There have been several gangs of them in the area recently. I’m sure you police must know about them,’ Fovargue added smoothly.
‘We’re alerted to all sorts of things, Mr Fovargue. What intrigues me now is why you think he was a biker. Did you see him with a motorbike?’
‘No, but he struck me as the type…’
‘Was he wearing or carrying a helmet?’
‘I’m not sure. No, I don’t think so.’
‘In DC MacFadyen’s own statement, he notes you said you thought the man could have been a traveller. He agrees that was a reasonable assumption on your part.’
‘That may have been my original view. I’ve had time to think about it since.’
‘But you’re unable to provide a detailed description of what he looked like?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Jack Fovargue shrugged and smiled apologetically. Tim decided to change tack.
‘It’s disappointing that you can’t remember what happened more clearly. Thank you for your time, anyway, sir. As you see, DC MacFadyen has been taking notes. Perhaps you’d like to look over the statement and sign it if you agree it’s correct?’
‘Certainly. Will that be all?’
‘Not quite,’ said Tim. ‘I take it that all the outbuildings beyond the house are yours?’
‘Yes. I run several businesses from here, as I believe Susie told you.’
‘Yes, she did. It all sounds fascinating. She told us you more or less fell into the second-hand farm machinery business by accident.’
‘I prefer to call it a vintage tools business. But yes, I started it when someone asked me to source an authentic ’30s horse-plough.’
‘How many businesses do you have altogether?’
‘Four. They’re not all run entirely separately. I started by growing organic vegetables to sell. That’s why I bought the house and the land that came with it – you’ll have noticed there’s quite a lot of land. Then I got involved with societies dedicated to protecting the soil – some of them international. I don’t know how interested you are in farming, DI Yates?’
‘I’m not an expert, but I guess everyone who works in South Lincolnshire has picked up some farming knowledge.’
‘You’re probably aware, then, that although the soil around here is incredibly rich and fertile, the farmers don’t expend much effort on looking after it properly?’
‘I can’t say I’ve given it that much thought, but I suppose I’ve always known the big Lincolnshire farmers farm intensively. It follows that they must use commercial fertilisers and weed-killers, that sort of thing. They probably don’t see why they shouldn’t: as you say, the soil is excellent: rich enough to take what they might throw at it, if I can put it like that.’
‘You’re right: that’s a good summary of the typical big shot’s attitude. But it’s mistaken. Farmers can’t keep on pounding away at the soil forever. Eventually it will fail. It’s not just what they put on the soil that’s damaging it, it’s the methods they use. Farmers in Norfolk have long been losing top-soil to dust storms, after ripping up hedgerows. It hasn’t happened here yet, but it will if no action is taken. That’s why I set up the Silverdale Soil Appreciation Society.’
‘It’s mostly for children, isn’t it?’ said Ricky, remembering what the woman who kept the craft shop in Red Lion Street had said.
‘It’s for anyone who’s interested. We have a range of subgroups. But we’ve had more success with children than adults so far, mainly because both the schools and the local scout troop have shown an interest. Susie does some of the work with children.’
‘Do the children come here?’
‘Occasionally. One of the barns is laid out with seats and we keep the equipment we’ve invented to show what’s happening to the soil in there. But mostly we take the stuff out with us and go to see them. Silverdale’s too remote to attract many visitors.’
‘So, there’s the organic farming, the vintage vehicles business and the soil appreciation stuff. But you said there are four businesses?’
‘There’s also the tankers.’
‘What are they for?’
‘We own a couple of sewage tankers. We empty cesspits, both domestic and commercial ones: there are still a surprising number in South Lincolnshire. It’s actually the most profitable of the businesses, but that’s not why I started it…’
‘Let me guess,’ said Tim. ‘It was because other tanker companies were damaging the environment with chemicals.’
‘You got it. Why are you so interested in the businesses?’
‘You probably know there’s been an outbreak of theft of agricultural vehicles over the past few months. It’s been reported on local television and in the papers. Actually, outbreak’s putting it mildly: it’s been more like an epidemic.’
‘Yes, I’ve read about it: some of the farming bigwigs have been banging their drums, haven’t they? Tough for you. But I don’t see what it has to do with me.’
‘I’m not suggesting it does have anything to do with you, directly. But since your activities all relate to farming, I wondered if maybe you’ve seen or heard anything that might help us?’
‘Not that I can think of. The farm machinery I deal in is all antique. Thirty years old, at least.’
‘I understand that. But this is a big property and, presumably, you have quite a few staff?’
‘The workforce varies, depending on the time of year. Sometimes there are up to thirty people on the payroll; in the winter, maybe half that. Josh Marriott sees to it all. He’s my farm manager. But I still don’t understand what you’re driving at. And we keep a tight ship here. Josh would know if there was anything underhand going on.’ Fovargue succeeded in keeping his tone smooth, his voice well-modulated, but Tim noticed he’d begun to clench and unclench his hands.
‘We’re not singling you out, Mr Fovargue. We’ve been systematically making enquiries throughout the county. As you’ve pointed out, so far we’ve drawn a blank. A property like this would be ideal for temporarily concealing stolen goods in transit, but I’m not suggesting for a moment that’s what’s happening. Silverdale Farm’s not exactly at the top of our list of suspects. But I thought I saw a purple quad on the Fen when we visited yesterday, which set me thinking. Probably it didn’t mean anything at all and, as far as we know, none of the missing quads is purple. I mentioned it to your wife: she may have told you.’
‘No, she didn’t, but Susie’s not your woman when it comes to vehicles. She’s not interested in them, other than knowing whether they’ll provide a means of getting from A to B. But you’re sure it was a purple quad? It seems unlikely. We do own a quad here, but it’s army surplus. Khaki, in other words.’
‘Perhaps that was it, then,’ said Tim. ‘I could have been mistaken about the colour. In any case, we’d like your permission to take a look round the whole property. Just as a routine check. We can get a warrant if you prefer it.’
‘Absolutely no need for that. I’d be delighted to show you round.’
Fovargue’s next action belied his words. He suddenly seemed startled and made a show of consulting his watch.
‘Christ, is that the time? But we can’t do it now, I’m afraid. I should have left ten minutes ago: I’m going to be late for my next meeting now. Can you come back tomorrow? In the meantime, I’ll line Josh up, tell him that you’re coming. He’ll be better at explaining how it all works than I am and he knows all the people working here, if you want to ask him about any of them.’
‘Yes, we can come tomorrow,’ said Tim, ‘but we’d appreciate it if you’d take the time to read and sign the statement now. While your words are still fresh in your mind.’
Jack Fovargue held out his hand impatiently for the written statement Ricky was offering him and cursorily speed-read the whole two pages in a few seconds. He grabbed a pen from the table and scrawled a signature at the bottom of the second page.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Good luck with your investigations. Now I really must show you out. Sorry to be so abrupt.’