A Question of Guilt (21 page)

‘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 . . .

The phone was ringing. I snatched it up.

‘Hello?'

‘Sally – it's me. Mum.'

‘Mum!' I hobbled across the kitchen and into the hall where I'd have more privacy. ‘What's happening? How's Dad?'

‘There's no change really. He still hasn't come round. They're doing all sorts of tests, scans – oh, I don't know what they called them. His shoulder was out and they've got that back in. But they're worried about internal injuries as well. I don't understand half of what they're saying, so I can't tell you much, but I thought I ought to give you a ring. I knew you'd be worried.'

‘Yes, thanks, Mum. Look, the police are here at the moment, but . . .'

‘The police?'

‘Yes. It seems it was a motorcycle that caused the cows to stampede, and they're talking to Sam. But as soon as they've gone, I'll drive over. You are at Porton General, I presume?'

‘Yes, but . . . there's nothing you can do here, love.'

‘I can be there for you and Dad.'

‘I know that. And there's nothing I'd like better than to have some company, but . . .'

‘But nothing! I'll be there.'

‘No, Sally, listen to me. The farm won't run itself. Somebody's got to be there to see to it.'

I felt a surge of panic. She was right, of course, the farm wouldn't run itself. But I couldn't do it! I wouldn't know where to start! Born and brought up here I might have been, but I hadn't lived here now for years, and even when I did, the nitty-gritties had been way outside my domain. Besides which, still partially disabled, I was not physically up to doing all the things that needed to be done.

‘Look, you've got Sam,' Mum said, trying to reassure me.

‘But he can't manage on his own.'

‘No, but he knows what needs to be done. Now listen, Sally, I think the best thing would be for you to try and get hold of one of the casuals your dad uses in the summer. There's Bill Turnbull and his boy Mark, and the Greenings. All their numbers are in the book – you know the one – it's by the phone in the hall. Ring them now, see if any of them can come and help out.'

‘Yes, I know the book . . .' I could see it from where I was standing, a quarto-sized yellow book with a floral design on the cover. ‘But what if they can't help?'

‘We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.' Mum was her usual pragmatic self – the self that had kicked in, I supposed, when she'd conquered the effects of the first shock of what had happened to Dad.

‘Don't worry, Mum. Leave it to me.' I was trying very hard to match her no-nonsense attitude and failing miserably. Inside I was a quaking jelly.

‘I don't know when I'll be home,' Mum went on, ‘but I'll ring you again as soon as there's any news.'

‘If you're going to be staying, there are things you'll need.' I was thinking on my feet now. ‘I'll pack a bag for you, and one for Dad too, and bring them in as soon as I've sorted out things here.'

‘Perhaps that would be a good idea,' Mum agreed. ‘There's clean pyjamas in the airing cupboard, and his shaving kit is in the bathroom cabinet, and . . .'

‘Don't worry, I'll find it. What about you? Is there anything you want especially?'

‘No, just a toothbrush and comb and a change of clothes. Oh, and my handbag so that I've got some money for a cup of tea, and my mobile phone. I'm on the hospital one at the moment.'

Mum asking for her mobile phone really was a turn-up for the books. I'd bought it for her two Christmases ago, and it was something of a sore point with me that she never so much as switched it on, let alone used it. ‘I've got it for emergencies,' she always said, typically stubborn. Well, this was certainly an emergency, albeit not the sort she had in mind.

‘I'll be there as soon as I can,' I promised.

Back in the kitchen the police seemed to have more or less finished interviewing Sam, and when I'd given them all the other details they required they got up to go.

‘We'll keep you informed if we make any progress with our enquiries,' PC Bicknell said, packing his paperwork together. ‘I wouldn't hold your breath, though. We haven't got a lot to go on, and unless the culprit's got a conscience and decides to own up, there's not going to be a lot we can do.'

‘I realize that.' I just wanted them to go, so that I could get on with all I had to do, and drive into Porton to be with Mum.

With one last request to Sam to let them know if he remembered anything else that might help to identify the motorcyclist, they left, and after I'd phoned Bill Turnbull and got his promise of his son Mark's help with the morning milking, Sam left too. Bill himself was busy with a job he'd been contracted to, and he couldn't speak for Mark's commitments in the coming days, but at least I had the immediate problem sorted. Further arrangements could wait until later. For now, my priority was getting to the hospital with some things for Mum and Dad.

I was upstairs packing a couple of bags when I heard someone at the door. I struggled back down the stairs, wondering if it might be the police again, but when I opened the door it was Jeremy who was standing there.

‘I've just heard your dad has been involved in an accident, Sally,' he said anxiously. ‘Is it true?'

Once again I could feel the tears welling.

‘Yes, Jeremy, I'm afraid it is,' I said.

‘So what's happened? It was the cows, I heard . . .?'

‘Yes, they stampeded and Dad was trampled.'

‘Is he all right?' Jeremy clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Stupid question. But you know what I mean . . .'

‘He's been taken to hospital in Porton, and Mum's with him. The last I heard, he still hadn't regained consciousness. I'm on my way there now, so I won't stop to talk, if you don't mind.'

‘Oh Sally, I'm very sorry to hear that.' Jeremy looked truly shocked. ‘But how are you going to get to Porton?' he asked.

‘I'm going to take Dad's car. Then at least we'll have transport on hand.'

‘Are you sure that's a good idea?' He was looking down at my crutches.

‘I've been driving it for the last week or so,' I said. ‘I'll be OK.'

‘I'm not so sure,' Jeremy said doubtfully. ‘You're upset, Sally, as well as incapacitated. We don't want you having an accident too.'

I shrugged. ‘I don't have much choice, Jeremy. Apart from taking a taxi, and that's going to cost an arm and a leg.'

‘Hmm.' Jeremy consulted his watch. ‘Tell you what, Sally. Give me half an hour to do a few things I need to do, and I'll take you.'

‘Oh, Jeremy, no! I couldn't put you to that trouble!' I protested.

‘No trouble,' he said gruffly. ‘I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you, Sally. Get whatever it is you need together, and I'll be back shortly. And I don't want to find you've taken matters into your own hands and gone already.'

‘OK,' I said meekly. ‘I'll take you up on that. To be honest, I don't really feel much like driving all the way to Porton and back again.'

‘I'm sure you don't. See you in a bit.'

I closed the door and felt the tears pricking at my eyes again, brought on this time, I felt sure, by Jeremy's kindness. When something like this happened, you certainly found out who your friends were.

But, apart from the medical team at the hospital, there was nothing anyone could do to help Dad. I felt sick all over again as an image of him lying in the lane, unconscious and covered with blood, rose before my eyes.

‘Please, oh please, let him be all right,' I prayed.

Then, pulling myself together, I struggled back upstairs to finish packing the necessaries into bags for Mum and Dad.

I honestly don't know how I'd have managed without Jeremy that night. We'd scarcely set out in his BMW than my mobile rang – Mum, saying that Dad was being transferred to Frenchay Hospital, in Bristol, where they specialized in serious head injuries. When I relayed this information to Jeremy, he took it in his stride, immediately changing direction, and although I felt horribly guilty that his kindness had landed him with a much longer journey than he'd bargained for, I was also relieved that I didn't have to drive all that way on my own in a car that I was still not completely familiar with.

When we reached Frenchay, he came in with me – with my crutches, I'd really have struggled to carry two bags – and then accompanied me to the wing where Dad had been taken.

‘I'll wait for you in the car, Sally,' he said when we reached the nurses' station. ‘You'll be all right now, won't you?'

‘Don't you want to see Dad?' I asked.

‘I'd only be in the way, and your mum will want to talk to you alone, I'm sure.'

He was right, of course, but for all that I didn't want him to go. The company of someone just one step removed from total involvement in this nightmare was somehow comforting.

‘I don't know how long I'll be,' I said tentatively.

‘Take as long as you like.' Jeremy squeezed my arm. ‘You know where the car's parked, and I'm not going anywhere.'

It soon became clear that Jeremy might be waiting a very long time. Dad had been whisked off for more scans, and Mum and I sat tensely waiting in the relatives' room, drinking disgusting-tasting coffee from paper cups and alternating talking about what had happened with bouts of anxious silence. Eventually a doctor came to see us; his serious expression and the tone of his voice as he introduced himself did not bode well.

Apparently they had discovered Dad had something called a subdural haematoma – a clot between the brain and skull – and they were going to perform an emergency operation to relieve the pressure.