The garage was on the northern edge of the village, just on the edge of the Downside Estate. This sector was made up of what the older and richer residents of Fethering still referred to as ‘council houses’, though quite a few of them, following Margaret Thatcher’s lucrative initiative, were now in private ownership. The younger and richer residents of Fethering described the estate, with just the same kind of snobbery, as ‘social housing’. Sadly, because the train line from Fethering to Fedborough, and then on up to London Victoria, followed the course of the River Fether, the Downside Estate could not be described as ‘the wrong side of the tracks’, but there was a strong feeling among the more genteel residents that it should be.

Most people in Fethering only visited Shefford’s to get fuel. The nearest other filling stations were in Fedborough to the north and Worthing to the east. But the garage also offered a repair and parts services, and a fairly low-key second-hand car business, whose offers, with their marked prices behind the windscreens, were lined up on the forecourt. They all looked rather dusty and neglected.

Carole parked the Renault at the end of the used-car row, out of the way of anyone using the petrol pumps. She went to the effort of reversing in, so that the smashed window could not be seen by passing walkers or from cars. Again, she didn’t want people gossiping about her.

She went inside to the office, which hadn’t changed since the time she had been in Fethering. This was where people paid for their fuel. There was a kind of kiosk, with till and control panel to start the pumps, of which there were only four on the forecourt. The fact that it was not permanently manned showed how slow the trade in fuel was. Not being on the main road, Shefford’s customers were mostly Fethering locals – and a lot of those favoured the cheaper prices at the big supermarkets, like Tesco at Littlehampton or Sainsbury’s at Rustington.

The room also acted as reception for people bringing their cars in for service. A rather threadbare sofa and a couple of plastic chairs were available for those waiting. There was an antiquated machine which delivered tea and coffee into plastic cups. Having tried its product once, Carole had not repeated the experiment. It was very watery stuff. (Though she had for a long time resisted the current faddishness about the infinite variations with Italian names, even Carole had become pickier about the kind of coffee she drank.)