The paramedics had left Marston Farm. They’d advised Fovargue to rest up the following day and told Andy to have his nose X-rayed to check for a possible fracture. Irritatingly, Andy found himself united with Fovargue in rejecting their advice: he had no intention of attending A & E and Fovargue clearly wasn’t going to pass up on the Lincoln show.
The female paramedic picked up their mutinous attitude and rolled her eyes.
‘Suit yourselves,’ she said. ‘We can’t make you do as we say. It’s your funeral.’
The paramedics didn’t wait for the tea and cake which Rita Shucksmith brought into the visitors’ sitting room. Fovargue, Susie and Andy weren’t interested in the cake, either, but the policemen from Lincoln did it justice.
Andy had asked Fovargue a few more questions before handing over to them. Since Fovargue had been reluctant to admit a possible link between this assault and the one on the previous Monday, the Lincoln police had treated it as a separate incident. They’d taken statements from Jack Fovargue, Susie Fovargue and Rita Shucksmith. All were equally unhelpful when it came to attempting to identify the assailant. Fovargue and Susie were adamant that they didn’t know who the motorcyclist was and thought it unlikely they’d ever seen him before. He’d had his face turned away from Mrs Shucksmith, who had glimpsed his back view only from a window and then from the doorway of her house. She didn’t know any bikers and said they were a rarity in the area. None of them would say they could recognise the man if they saw him again.
Andy could see that the Lincoln police thought they were wasting their time. He doubted that they’d follow up on the case unless someone prodded them into it.
When they’d gone, Mrs Shucksmith bustled off to make the Fovargues’ dinner. Fovargue’s pretence of not having suffered much from the assault was becoming difficult for him to maintain. Several times, his eyelids drooped before he juddered awake again. Susie had perched herself on the arm of a shabby brown sofa, a curious expression on her face. Andy couldn’t decide whether she was feeling ill-at-ease or simply irritated by his own presence. It was clear that both Fovargues wanted to get shut of him.
Excusing himself, he went into the garden. Dusk was approaching. For a few seconds he watched, fascinated, as three bats circled an outside light. He noticed a bench on the far side of the parking area and calculated that it was beyond earshot of the house, even if someone happened to be standing at one of the open windows. He sat down on the bench. A sharp shooting pain in his knee made him wince: he must have fallen more awkwardly than he’d realised. Suddenly, he felt inexpressibly weary.
He direct-dialled Tim’s number and was relieved to discover that Juliet had already provided his boss with an account of the events up to the motorcyclist’s escape. Briefly, he added details of the interview with the Fovargues and Mrs Shucksmith.
‘Doesn’t sound as if you achieved very much there,’ said Tim.
Andy bit back a stinging retort.
‘No. It’s hard to tell whether the Fovargues really don’t know the attacker or are just stone-walling.’
‘How badly hurt is Fovargue?’
‘The paramedics said his injuries are pretty superficial, but he’s quite shaken up. He’s more shocked by the attack than he’s letting on. He’s supposed to be having dinner, but my guess is that he’ll head for bed pretty quickly if I say I’m leaving.’
‘Are you planning to go soon?’
‘That’s why I’ve called you. You said I didn’t need to continue with the surveillance once I was sure the Fovargues were settled for the evening. Does that still stand now that Fovargue’s been attacked?’
‘What are the chances of his attacker returning?’
‘Nil, I’d say. The bloke clearly didn’t want anyone to know who he was. And he may have seen Shucksmith when he turned up with his shotgun.’
‘Well, if you don’t think the Fovargues will go out again tonight and that the attacker won’t come back, there’s no point in your hanging around. I could certainly use you back here.’
Andy groaned inwardly; he’d been hoping for a hot bath and a mindless half hour in front of the box nursing a beer before bed. Perhaps he should have taken the paramedic’s advice.