‘Barney Poulton only moved down to Fethering four or five years ago. Previous to that, he commuted every day from Walton-on-Thames to a solicitor’s practice in London. His role as the “Sage of Fethering” is one that he completely made up for himself. And a lot of people find it very annoying – particularly Ted Crisp.’

‘Sorry? Who?’

‘Ted Crisp’s the landlord of the Crown and Anchor.’

‘Oh, right. The bloke who’s mostly beard?’

‘Yes.’ Carole was annoyed to find herself blushing. For no reason. Her brief relationship with Ted was so long ago that surely Adrian Greenford couldn’t have heard about it. ‘So,’ she went on, ‘what is the Sage of Fethering’s view of Bill Shefford’s death?’

‘Oh, complete cobblers. Though no more cobblers than any of the other opinions expressed, actually. Barney Poulton believes that the car Bill Shefford was working on had been sabotaged by an undercover organization of White Supremacists …’

‘What!’

‘… who had been deeply offended by his marrying a woman from Thailand.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’

‘I agree. As I said, though, complete cobblers. Interesting, though.’

‘In what way?’

‘The fact that people even entertain the idea of there being secret White Supremacist cells in West Sussex. It was the same in Ilkley. A lot of paranoia around these days about that kind of thing … makes you wonder whether there might be some truth in it.’

‘What, you mean truth in Barney Poulton’s theory of Bill Shefford’s death?’

‘No, truth that there might be White Supremacist cells around.’

‘Nonsense.’ There might well be an undercurrent of racism in Fethering, but nothing so overt as that.

‘You’re probably right.’

‘By the way, you mentioned a make of car, the one that actually killed Bill. What did you say it was?’

‘Oh.’ Adrian grinned. ‘Friend of mine bought one, showed it off to me. He said it was built like a tank. I told him it drove like a tank too. And it did.’

‘What was it?’

‘Triumph. A Triumph Tr6, to be exact.’

The identity of the vehicle had no resonance for Carole. She wasn’t interested in cars.

The two of them finished their coffees at the same time, so it seemed logical for Adrian to accompany her along the High Street. He stopped outside a gate some three houses in. The new metal sign read: Wharfedale. ‘This is me.’

‘I thought it must be.’

‘Oh?’