Though most garages had become minimarkets, Shefford’s had not gone down that route. The only items for sale were car-related – plastic containers of oil, light bulbs, wiper blades, cleaning products, de-icers, air fresheners. On the walls were curling posters of other motoring products and a large calendar, provided courtesy of the local Chinese restaurant. Over everything was a patina of dust. It was a while since Carole had been in Shefford’s, and she’d forgotten how run-down the whole place was.

The reception area was empty, but through a glass partition could be seen a back office where a woman with unlikely magenta hair was working away in front of a deep monitor whose beige plastic was soiled by oily fingerprints. Beside her keyboard stood a tall desktop computer from another generation. There was access from the room to the fuel payment kiosk. Magenta hair was in charge of that. The other door between the two offices was ajar and the woman looked up at Carole’s entrance.

‘Can I help?’ Her voice was harsh, nasal and loud.

‘Yes. Good morning.’ Following Fethering convention, though she knew perfectly well who the woman was, Carole didn’t use her name. Frankie had done the books and performed various other secretarial duties for Shefford’s for as long as anyone could remember. She was older than Carole, so probably round the sixty mark, and unmarried. The fierce red hair was just the latest manifestation of Frankie’s urge to draw attention to herself. Changing hairstyles, piercings and tattoos had featured much over the years, and her wardrobe defiantly avoided any two garments that might actually go together. She was a frequent – and loud – visitor to the Crown and Anchor, in the company of a sequence of unsuitable men. She ought to have been a rather sad figure, but somehow contrived not to be.

‘Is Bill about?’ Carole continued.

‘He was here a moment ago. Probably out in the workshop.’

‘Would he mind if I …?’

‘No, go on through.’ Frankie gestured to the door at the back of the reception area.

The workshop was a corrugated-iron-roofed extension which had been there almost as long as the garage. Over the years, the minimum of patching and repair work had been carried out when required, but nothing that would qualify under the title of ‘refurbishment’. Carole found the shabbiness rather comforting; for her it exuded an air of unfussy competence. She certainly preferred it to the gleaming and impersonal efficiency of the workshop from which she had collected the new Renault in Brighton.