Sam scratched his head.
‘Well, he must’ve turned round and gone back the way he came. I were in such a state I never noticed.’
That was understandable, I supposed. Sam would have set off after the cows, and the motorcyclist, realizing what he’d done, had hightailed it. But why had he been in our lane in the first place? And in such a hurry? The lane led nowhere except to our farm. He must have taken a wrong turning. Or perhaps it had been a crazy hot-rod kid looking for somewhere he could go off-road and indulge in a spot of scrambling. Off-road bikes didn’t usually have engines you’d describe as powerful, as Sam had, but then Sam wasn’t the most articulate of men, and he was in such a state it was possible he wasn’t remembering what had happened as accurately as he might.
‘We’re going to have to report this to the police, Sam,’ I said. ‘Do you want to phone your wife and tell her you’re going to be late home?’
‘I s’pose I’d better, ah.’
While Sam was speaking to Mary, his wife, I looked up the number for the police station. I couldn’t tie up the 999 line again – traumatic though this was for us, it was no longer an emergency. But in the event I didn’t need to make the call. There was a knock at the door, and when I answered it, it was to find two uniformed police officers on the doorstep, one a man in his forties, the other a fresh-faced girl who hadn’t been long in the job, I guessed.
‘PC Alan Bicknell and PC Claire James,’ the man said by way of introduction. ‘We’re here about the incident in the lane.’
‘Oh, right.’ The emergency-services control room had been in touch with the police, then. Of course, I should have realized they would, but I wasn’t thinking very straight. ‘You’d better come in.’
The two police officers followed me into the kitchen.
‘I was just going to phone you,’ I said. ‘This is Sam Groves. He works for my father.’
Sam was shifting uneasily in his seat, but for the moment the policeman merely nodded at him, speaking instead to me.
‘And you are . . .?’
‘Sally Proctor. Jack Proctor’s daughter. I’m the one who made the nine-nine-nine call.’
‘And your father has been taken to hospital, I understand?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. He was unconscious. I don’t know how he is now – I’m waiting for my mother to call when there’s any news.’ A feeling of utter helplessness overwhelmed me, and suddenly tears were pricking behind my eyes.
‘No news is good news,’ the young policewoman said chirpily, and the older officer shot her a warning look.
‘So can you tell us what happened?’ he asked, then indicated a chair. ‘All right if we sit down?’
‘Yes – yes, of course. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘We wouldn’t say no to that.’ He laid a clipboard, notebook and phone on the table and sat down, easing open his jacket to reveal a stab vest, something that always struck me as incongruous out here in the sticks. But health and safety rules, I suppose, and you never know when or where violence may occur. Or a horrible accident . . . I felt the tears pricking again and busied myself making the tea.
‘So what can you tell us about what happened, Miss Proctor?’ PC Bicknell was asking.
I half turned towards him.
‘It’s Sam you need to talk to. He was helping my father get the cows in.’
‘Right. Go ahead then, Mr . . . Grove, is it?’
‘Ah, Mr Groves,’ Sam said, and fell silent again. This was going to be a long and laborious process, I knew.
By the time I’d made the tea and placed the mugs in front of the two police officers they had dragged from Sam the same story he’d told me.
‘Can you tell us anything about this motorcycle?’ PC Bicknell was asking, and Sam was huffing and puffing in confusion and shaking his head.
‘Can’t say. All I know is t’were a motorbike.’
‘Big? Small?’
‘Oh, a big ’un.’
‘Colour?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t see.’
‘What about the rider?’
‘Didn’t see him really, either. He had one o’ them girt big crash helmets on . . .’ Sam was obviously making a huge effort to remember what he could. ‘It were black,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘An’ he were all in black, too. Black leather, I reckon.’
Great, I thought. Black leathers and a full-face crash helmet. That really narrowed the field. But what did it matter? What did any of it matter? The only thing of any importance was Dad . . . how was he? What was happening? I should be at the hospital with Mum, not sitting here drinking tea. I’d get over there the minute the police officers had gone, either call a taxi or drive Dad’s car . . . The hospital. It struck me suddenly I wasn’t even sure where Dad had been taken. Porton was our nearest A & E, but with his head injury maybe they’d take him straight to Frenchay, the specialist unit in Bristol . . .