But all Carole could think was that, if she allowed the repair at Shefford’s Garage to continue, very few people would ever know about her Renault having suffered the indignity of being vandalized. Bill Shefford, yes, but no one else at the garage. The repairman would know nothing about the circumstances of the breakage. Inevitably, a few locals taking early morning walks past Fethering Parade would have recognized her car. But only a few. Hopefully, her prompt action would have staunched the noxious flow of village gossip at source.

The next thing she did, Carole knew was wrong by any standards. She picked up the piece of paper on the kitchen floor, got out a box of matches and burnt it in the sink. She washed the ashes down the plughole. She shuddered slightly as the last black flakes disappeared.

Her fear of doing something wrong was not as strong as her fear of drawing attention to herself.

Carole Seddon was very good at blanking things out.

She continued with her morning as if the call to the insurance company had never happened. Gulliver stayed at High Tor beside the Aga, trying on the reproachful look of a dog who hadn’t just been for a nice gambol on Fethering Beach. The reproach was mixed with resignation. Long experience had taught Gulliver that he very rarely got more than his scheduled morning and evening walks. But it was worth trying, hope once again triumphing over experience.

The only difference when she got back to Shefford’s was that the Renault had been moved. Presumably, that meant the repair work had started and was being done round the back of the building. Inside the reception area, there was no one around, not even Frankie in her glass box. Carole moved towards the workshop door, which was ajar. She was about to go through when she was stopped by the sound of a voice raised in anger.

‘But, for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision soon!’

She recognized the tones of Billy, Bill Shefford’s son and – everyone in Fethering assumed – his father’s partner in the business.

‘I don’t want to be hasty,’ responded Bill, clearly not enjoying the confrontation.

Carole moved to sit on one of the plastic chairs, the optimum eavesdropping position.

‘We can’t just let things drift on,’ Billy persisted.

‘They’ve been “drifting on” – as you put it – quite satisfactorily for nearly forty years.’

‘Yes, but times have changed, Dad. You don’t seem to realize how much times have changed.’

‘Just give me time to think about it, Billy.’

‘You’ve had bloody years to think about it, and you’ve still got no nearer a decision!’

‘Don’t shout. The windscreen repair guy will hear you.’