Andy continued to follow Fovargue and the motorcyclist. The motorcyclist was keeping plumb in the middle of his side of the road, riding close up to the pantechnicon. He didn’t try to pull out or hang back so that he could see beyond the vehicle. Fovargue had fitted extra-large wing mirrors on both sides of it, but Andy still thought it unlikely he’d be able to see a motorcyclist who was keeping to that position.
Fovargue headed out beyond the town, taking a narrow lane that was barely wide enough for the pantechnicon to negotiate. After rounding a sharp bend, he pulled up at a red-brick farmhouse. A sign standing in the field opposite announced it as Marston Farm. Bed & Breakfast. Children and Dogs Welcome. Evening Meals by Arrangement. There were two entrances to the farm, with a turning circle linking them, one gated, the other open. Fovargue steered the lorry into the open entrance so that it was almost off the road but standing parallel to it. The motorcyclist halted after he turned the bend, got off his bike and propped it up under some trees. Andy stopped his car and reversed it back round the bend. He couldn’t tell whether either the motorcyclist or Fovargue knew that he had been following them.
Juliet called him at that moment. Andy considered ignoring her, then thought better of it.
‘Juliet, hi, I can’t stop – Jack and Susie Fovargue have just rolled up to a farmhouse that does bed and breakfast. The motorcyclist followed them all the way and he’s dismounted now. I should go and see what’s happening.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the other side of the bend in the road before the farm. I reversed when I saw they were stopping.’
‘Do they know you’re there?’
‘Perhaps the motorcyclist does. As I told you, he turned round to look at me just after he passed me at the showground. He may have been aware that I didn’t turn off after that. It’s less likely the Fovargues have noticed me.’
‘Tell me which road you’re on and the name of the farm. I’ll work out the compass co-ordinates and send them to DI Robinson. He’s on standby to provide backup.’
‘I’m on a road called Marston Common Lane. I’ve just passed an airfield. The B & B is at Marston Farm.’
‘Brilliant. Wait where you are for backup.’
‘But they’ll probably…’
‘Wait for backup, Andy. Tim’s orders.’
Andy could hear raised voices. A man with a rough Lincolnshire accent was shouting. A woman started screaming.
‘I’m sorry, Juliet, I’m going to have to deal with this now. I can hear a woman getting hysterical. Most likely it’s Susie Fovargue. Someone may have been hurt.’
‘Andy…’
Andy left the phone on, putting it in his pocket, and scrambled out of his car. As he turned the bend he saw Jack Fovargue lying on the ground. The motorcyclist was standing over him. As soon as Fovargue had hauled himself back on his feet, the motorcyclist landed another punch straight in the centre of his face. Fovargue staggered and fell down again. The motorcyclist kicked at him viciously.
The woman screamed again. It wasn’t Susie Fovargue, who was leaning out of the cab window of the lorry. She was shouting ‘Mr Shucksmith! Mr Shucksmith!’
Andy ran down the road towards the motorcyclist.
‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Stay where you are! Don’t lay hands on him again!’ In his pocket he could feel his phone vibrating.
The motorcyclist was still wearing his helmet. He stood stock-still in the road until Andy reached him.
‘I am arresting you…’ Andy began. The motorcyclist landed him a powerful left hook, turned and sprinted to where his motorcycle was standing under the trees. Andy staggered against the back of the lorry. He put his hand to his face and then inspected it: his nose was bleeding. Taking a few seconds to recover, he launched himself back on his feet and started pursuing the motorcyclist, but his head was spinning and he found himself incapable of running. He had moved only a few yards before the motorcyclist had reached his bike, jumped on it and ridden away.
Andy sat down by the side of the road and took the mobile out of his pocket. Not surprisingly, Juliet had hung up. He called her again.
‘Andy? Are you okay?’
‘I think so. I’ve just been punched in the face by that motorcyclist, but it seems to be nothing worse than a nose bleed. Jack Fovargue’s more seriously hurt – the guy floored him twice and then kicked him.’
‘There’s a patrol car coming from Lincoln.’
‘Get them to send an ambulance, will you?’
‘Sure. Did you get the number of the bike?’
‘Yes. It’s FT17 OGS.’
‘I’ll have it checked.’
‘Right. I’m going to see how Fovargue is. He’s sitting up now, but he hasn’t managed to stand yet.’
‘Get yourself checked out when the ambulance comes, will you?’
Andy cut the call. He scrambled to his feet and walked back to where Fovargue was sitting with his back propped against the nearside rear wheel of his vehicle. Susie had climbed out of the cab. She was crouching beside him, talking to him in a low voice, and with a vehemence that didn’t suggest her first concern was for his welfare.
Andy hadn’t quite reached them when a man wearing a checked flat cap appeared from the direction of the farmhouse. He was carrying a shotgun, though he had broken it and was holding it over the crook of his arm: it didn’t look as if he was about to shoot someone. He strode up to the Fovargues. Like Susie, he didn’t seem inclined to show much sympathy for Fovargue’s injuries.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing? You’ve upset Rita now. You know her nerves are bad.’
Andy continued to approach them; belatedly, the man noticed him and swung round.
‘And who the fuck are you?’
‘DC Carstairs, South Lincs Police,’ said Andy. He fumbled for his identity card. The man snatched it from his hand, then gave it back to him. ‘May I ask who you are, sir?’
‘Name’s Shucksmith. This is my farm. Wife runs a B & B. More trouble than it’s worth, as you can see. These are tonight’s ‘guests’.’ He didn’t try to conceal the sneer in his voice.
Susie Fovargue had stood up when Shucksmith appeared. Fovargue found his feet more slowly.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked Andy. ‘Don’t tell me you were just bloody well passing by!’
It wasn’t a question Andy had prepared himself for. Trying to think on the hoof, he was saved by an interjection from Susie.
‘Lucky for you he did come,’ she said ironically.
‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ said Andy.
‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ said Fovargue, suddenly agitated. ‘All I need is a hot bath and a decent meal. And perhaps a glass of wine or two.’
‘You’re planning on staying, then?’ said Shucksmith without enthusiasm. ‘Better check first that Rita’s still up for it.’
‘I’ll come in and talk to her,’ said Susie.
‘Please come back when you’ve seen her,’ said Andy. ‘I’ll need you to answer a few questions.’
‘Why don’t you all come inside and use the visitors’ lounge,’ said Shucksmith. ‘You can’t keep on standing out here making an exhibition of yourselves.’
‘We’ll wait here until the ambulance has arrived,’ said Andy. ‘Mr Fovargue can sit in my car. I’ll go and fetch it.’
‘How do you know my name?’ said Fovargue obstreperously. ‘And where is your car? I don’t see one.’
Andy debated with himself: he could say that the name Fovargue was painted clearly on the side of the pantechnicon. It wouldn’t wash: Fovargue would still have had to swallow too many coincidences.
‘DI Yates detailed me to drop in at the showground, make sure you were all right, sir. He was concerned for your safety after the assault the other day. I watched you leave and then I saw the motorcyclist come helling past. I thought he might be following you, so I decided to follow myself.’
‘I suppose you think I should be grateful.’
‘Not really, sir. We don’t expect much gratitude in this job. Let me fetch the car. It’s just around the corner. You’ll be all right for a couple of minutes?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Fovargue flapped the air with one hand, as if to brush away any concerns. ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ he added with faux concern. ‘It’s dripping on to your shirt.’
Annoyed with himself for feeling embarrassed by Fovargue’s taunt, Andy found a crumpled tissue in his pocket and dabbed at his nose.
‘I’ll be right back,’ he said over his shoulder. He felt giddy as he retraced his steps, challenged by the slight incline in the road.
He’d rounded the corner when he saw a patrol car come speeding towards him. He tried to flag it down, but either the driver didn’t see him or decided to ignore him.
‘Fuck!’ he muttered to himself. He didn’t want the plods to get to Fovargue – or Susie – before he did. Belatedly he realised he should have asked Juliet to tell them to call him when they were close to the farm. He made a final painful push for his car and was starting the engine when a paramedics’ first response vehicle zoomed past him. He drove the car back to the farmhouse as quickly as he could.
Two policemen and two paramedics, one of the latter a woman, were gathered round Fovargue, who was leaning against his lorry with as nonchalant an air as he could muster. The female paramedic was taking his pulse.
‘Ah, here comes the detective now,’ Fovargue said. ‘I told you he wouldn’t be long.’
‘DC Andy Carstairs,’ said Andy shortly. ‘I believe DS Armstrong sent for you. You passed me on the road just now.’
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t realise it was you. I thought you looked a bit… ruffled. Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Andy snapped. ‘Can we just get on with questioning Mr Fovargue now?’
‘We have to check him over first,’ said the male paramedic. ‘I don’t think we’ll need the ambulance, though. I’ll cancel it.’
‘Best let me check your pulse, too,’ said the female paramedic to Andy. ‘And here’s some lint to hold to your nose.’
‘Look,’ said Andy, ‘I have just prevented a very serious incident. There was a guy going for this gentleman as if he wanted to kill him. Can we please drop the trivialities?’
The two paramedics looked offended.
‘No harm in letting them take a look at you,’ ventured one of the policemen.
‘All right,’ said Andy. ‘I’ll do that if you’d do me the favour of taking some notes. I want to question Mr Fovargue while the attack is still fresh in his mind.’ He turned to Fovargue and registered the amused glint in his eye.
‘Mr Fovargue, did you know your assailant?’
‘Hard to say, but I don’t think so. He kept his helmet on, but I didn’t recognise him.’
‘Do you think it was the same man who assaulted you last Monday?’
‘If you think about what I’ve just said, it should be obvious to you that the answer to your second question is also that I don’t know.’ Fovargue had recovered his urbane manner, but there was more than a hint of testiness in his words. ‘Besides, I didn’t see the person on Monday at all clearly. As I’ve already said in my statement.’
Mr Shucksmith appeared again.
‘For Christ’s sake, what is this, a party?’ he said. ‘Unless you’re going soon, I must insist you all come inside. I’ve got staff and the neighbours to think about.’
Andy caught the eye of the policeman who’d spoken to him and they exchanged an amused glance. Country people often considered it shameful to be associated with the police.
‘Is that all right with Mrs Shucksmith?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh, Rita’s all right. Tends to make a fuss about nothing. Anyway’ – turning to Fovargue – ‘your wife has quite charmed her. And to tell you the truth, I think Rita’s interested in hearing about what happened herself.’