Unable to reach Tim, Andy had called the station. Ricky put him through to Superintendent Thornton.
The Superintendent, who had been informed of the assault on Fovargue and Andy the previous evening as well as the likelihood that the occupants of Silverdale Farm were responsible for some of the crimes under investigation and also that Tim and possibly Juliet were currently in jeopardy at the farm, had rapidly abandoned his tolerant view of Fovargue. Fovargue was no longer Jack the Lad but Jack Be Nimble, a sly and devious evader of the law, a possible murderer. Swayed by local opinion, he’d given the man the benefit of the doubt, but he’d thought there was something shifty about his character right from the start. Catching Fovargue was now his priority: road blocks would be set up. Descriptions of Fovargue would be sent to all the police forces in the country.
‘...and in the meantime, Carstairs,’ the Superintendent concluded, ‘keep a strict eye on that vehicle until we can get some uniforms there to impound it.’
Andy, uneasy and distracted by the fear that his call to Tim might have created problems for his boss, answered semi-automatically, “Yes, sir”. He was annoyed that Superintendent Thornton would bother him by fussing about the pantechnicon at such a time, a concern which in any case was faintly ridiculous. Who was going to try to steal that bloody great monstrosity?
He emerged from behind the St John Ambulance station and looked across at the lorry. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw that someone was in the driver’s seat putting it into reverse, presumably in preparation for taking it out of the field.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. He sprinted up the alleyway created between the double row of exhibitors’ stands, finally rounding Fovargue’s, which stood at the end of the row. The lorry was now facing the road. Today, it was the only vehicle that had been parked on the far side of the field: other, smaller vehicles had either been left in the visitors’ car park or tucked in behind their owners’ stands. No obstacles now stood between the lorry and the gate.
For a mad moment Andy considered standing in front of the monster, his arms stretched wide, to order it to stop. The notion must have flashed across his face, because the St John Ambulance man, who had followed him, came to grab hold of his arm.
‘Not much point in arguing with that, is there?’ he said.
‘I suppose not,’ said Andy. The lorry was level with him now. He looked up at the cab and saw the driver was wearing a motorcyclist’s helmet. He was all but certain it was the motorcyclist who’d followed and attacked Jack Fovargue the previous evening.
Ungraciously, he shook free his arm.
‘There’s going to be an unholy row about this,’ he muttered, more or less to himself.
‘Not your fault, was it?’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Andy. He took out his mobile and called Superintendent Thornton again.