Hanging from the walls were a variety of tools and equipment, most of whose functions she could only guess at. There were racks of new tyres and electrical appliances. The space was flooded with light; its double doors had been wheeled back, letting in the thin February sunshine. Cars awaiting service, along with a battered recovery truck bearing a peeling ‘Shefford’s’ logo on the side, were parked rather randomly outside against a wire-netting fence.

The workshop had space for two cars to be worked on at a time. On one side a fairly new BMW 1 Series hatchback was raised some six feet above the ground on a still-shiny four-post hydraulic lift; on the other, at ground level, stood a green Morris Traveller. (Carole, whose only interest in a car was: a) that it was a Renault, and b) that it would get her from A to B, could not of course have identified the models with such precision. She would have categorized them as ‘one of those flashy German things’ and ‘an old car with wood on it, like a shooting brake’.)

Apart from the vehicles, the workshop appeared to be empty. Reckoning Bill must be working outside and calling his name, Carole moved towards the doors.

She was surprised to hear, apparently from beneath the ground, his voice asking, ‘Can I help you?’

This strangeness was quickly explained, as the garage owner appeared, carrying a torch from the inspection pit beneath the Morris Traveller. He was stocky, pushing seventy, and still had the freckled complexion of someone with red hair. The hair itself, though, was now white and sparse, combed over in inadequate cover.

‘Ah. Mrs Seddon. Good morning.’

‘Good morning, Bill.’ This had been the unspoken protocol since their first meeting. On his instruction, she called him ‘Bill’, but to him she was always ‘Mrs Seddon’.

‘What can I do you for?’ he asked. It was almost like a catchphrase for Bill Shefford.

‘My Renault has been vandalized,’ Carole replied dramatically. ‘Someone has smashed in the back window.’

‘Oh dear. That’s bad luck. Where did it happen?’

‘On the parade, right here in Fethering!’ She still couldn’t get over the shock of it.

‘Youngsters, I bet,’ said Bill wryly. ‘Parents don’t instil any discipline into them these days, just let them get on with playing all these computer games and sniffing glue.’

Carole gave an enigmatic smile rather than a full endorsement of his view. She didn’t want to sound too much like a Daily Mail reader. She treasured the superiority of taking The Times.

‘Anyway,’ she asked peremptorily, ‘could you sort it out as soon as possible?’

He did that indrawn-breath thing so beloved of doubting workmen. ‘Replacing glass is a specialist job, Mrs Seddon. Lots of firms out there who do it.’

‘Well, could you organize one of them to come and do my Renault?’