Andy Carstairs had spent a mildly interesting couple of hours at the Lincoln showground watching farmers, agricultural machinery manufacturers and assorted local artisans setting up their stands. There was a St John Ambulance first aid post near the entrance to the ground and Andy had struck up a conversation with the man and woman on duty, explaining that he was a plain-clothes police officer on the look-out for undesirables. Luckily for him, they’d attended another show a few weeks before at which some of the stands had been damaged and visitors endangered by a group of motorcycle joyriders speeding through “for a laugh”, as the man put it contemptuously. Andy’s mission sounded plausible, therefore, and they made him welcome, even providing him with tea.
Lincoln wasn’t one of the big shows – plots had been marked out for perhaps two dozen stands. From his vantage point, Andy was able to keep watch on the Fovargues, who had a pitch in the central row. They seemed to be working together harmoniously enough, erecting the stand with a practised skill. It took them about ninety minutes to complete the job. They spent some time after that walking round the other stands and talking to their owners. Most were affable enough and happy to engage in conversation – one or two were gruff and got rid of them with a short couple of words, but Andy didn’t think such brush-offs were significant. This was Lincolnshire, after all: some people didn’t like being interrupted when they were busy and Lincolnshire folk weren’t usually slow to tell it how it was.
He thought he saw Susie Fovargue glance across at the first aid post a few times as if she had clocked him, but since they’d never actually met, he was probably imagining it. Jack Fovargue, having immersed himself in his own particular brand of bonhomie, didn’t look at him once.
After three quarters of an hour or so, Susie had had enough of the niceties. She said something to Fovargue and gestured towards the pantechnicon, which they’d parked at the end of their row of stands. Fovargue nodded and, after chatting for a few more seconds with one of his neighbours, followed Susie across the grass to the vehicle. He manoeuvred it round the edge of the field with considerable dexterity. As it neared the first aid post, Andy walked away so that Fovargue wouldn’t see his face. He listened to the chug-chugging noise it made as Fovargue steered it through the narrow entranceway and only turned back to look at it once it was out on the road. It appeared to be heading out towards Scampton.
Andy called Tim on his mobile.
Tim put down the cup of tea that Juliet had just made for him. He switched the phone to ‘speak’.
‘Hello, Andy? Are you still at the showground?’
‘Yep. But the Fovargues have just left. They’re on the A15, on the Scampton road – going in the opposite direction to Silverdale Farm.’
‘Hi, Andy, it’s Juliet. That’s not a surprise. Susie told me they were staying overnight somewhere near to the show. There’s a local woman looking after the kids.’
‘Can you follow them, Andy?’ It was Tim again.
‘If I go right away, probably. They can’t be moving very fast in that thing he’s driving.’
‘Get after them, then, will you?’
‘Sure. And then what? Do you want me to keep tabs on them for the whole night?’
‘No, that shouldn’t be necessary. Just wait until you think they’ve settled down for the night. If it’s only a guest house they’re staying in, they might go out to dinner.’
‘All right. I’d better get going.’
Andy cut the call. He’d left his car parked on the main road, as close in to the verge as he could get it. Another car had now parked in front of his. As Andy reversed back a few yards to pull in front of it, a motorcyclist shot past him.
‘Christ, mate, slow down, will you!’ Andy muttered as he swung the car out into the road and followed the bike.
He’d almost reached Scampton before he rounded a bend and saw the pantechnicon just ahead of him. To his surprise, the motorcyclist was riding behind it. Having roared past Andy like a bat out of hell, the rider had slowed to the sedate speed of 35mph. Andy tried to see beyond the lorry. The road ahead appeared to be both straight and clear; overtaking the giant vehicle in a car might be tricky, but it shouldn’t have presented too much of a problem to an accomplished biker.
The motorcyclist looked over his shoulder. As far as Andy could tell, it was no one he knew, but he decided to hang back and allowed another car, a red Honda, to occupy the space between them. It was unlikely he’d lose the pantechnicon now. The whole group trundled on for a few miles, eventually losing the Honda when it turned into the yard of a pub. The pantechnicon halted at the junction of the A15 and the A1103 and turned left towards Gainsborough. The motorcyclist followed. Andy drew closer to the bike and memorised its registration number, then dropped back again.
Andy’s mobile sang into life.
‘Andy? Did you catch up with Fovargue?’
‘Yes, and I’m still following him. He’s just turned left on the A1103, heading for Gainsborough.’
‘That’s probably where he’ll be staying, then. Remember what I said.’
Andy rolled his eyes.
‘Yes, boss. One other thing: a motorcyclist may be following him as well. He came haring past me at the showground, but since he caught up with Fovargue he’s stayed behind him.’
‘Strange. You don’t know who it is?’
‘I don’t think so, but his face is covered by a visor.’
‘Could just be a coincidence, but go carefully, Andy. Don’t get involved in anything. If you need to apprehend anyone, send for backup first. I’ll alert DI Robinson, ask him to have a patrol car ready to come out from Lincoln to support you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Andy. ‘Look, I’m going to switch you off now because…’ He’d missed the click. Tim had already terminated the call.
Tim was still at home. He’d put Sophia to bed and had been sitting in his living room with Juliet when Andy called.
‘You don’t believe in coincidences,’ she said.
‘No, and I don’t believe in lone coppers getting done over, either. Andy’s got to ask for help if he wants to do anything more than just watch. Give him another call in fifteen minutes or so, will you? He should be in Gainsborough then, if that is where the Fovargues do intend to stay. Right, I’m going back to the station now. Thank you for staying to help Katrin.’
‘It’s the other way round: Katrin’s helping me – us, I should say.’
‘Well, thanks, anyway.’
He went into the kitchen, where Katrin was stirring bolognaise sauce.
‘Sophia go off all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘God, that smells nice!’
‘Stay for some, then. The pasta’s almost ready.’
‘Sorry, got to go. Don’t wait up!’
He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Juliet, who’d just come to stand in the doorway, retreated, at once embarrassed and assailed by a sharp pang of envy.