‘I could, I suppose, but it’d be just as easy for you to ring them yourself.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind doing it, Bill …?’

The garage owner was used to such appeals from the mature single ladies of Fethering. He pulled a mobile out of his overalls and said, ‘See what I can do.’ He got through and checked the name of the company.

The person who answered clearly knew his caller well. A time to do the job was offered, but Bill said, ‘Oh come on, you can do better than that. It is for one of my special customers.’ A concession was clearly made. He ended the call and turned to Carole with triumph. ‘They’ll be here within the hour.’

‘Thank you so much, Bill.’

‘One thing, though …’

‘Mm?’

‘Will it be OK with your insurance?’

‘I can assure you,’ said Carole with an edge of ice, ‘that my insurance is fully up to date.’

‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just that some insurance companies will only cover windscreen replacement when it’s carried out by a specific repair business … you know, one they have an exclusive deal with.’

‘My insurance covers everything,’ said Carole.

It was agreed that she would go back to High Tor, take Gulliver for his delayed excursion on Fethering Beach, and then walk back to Shefford’s. By then, hopefully, the job would be done.

She followed the agreed programme, walking through a part of Fethering she rarely visited. Though close to the Downside Estate, the area had been considerably gentrified. Property prices were high on the South Coast.

When she got home and went into the kitchen, she was surprised to find a sheet of paper, which had been shoved in under the door to the garden. On it had been scrawled, ‘WATCH OUT. THE CAR WINDOW WAS JUST THE START.’

TWO

At times, Carole was very good at blanking things out. Like her divorce. With determination, she could spend whole weeks without remembering that she had once been married to David. And that morning, she managed to give Gulliver his freedom on Fethering Beach without considering the implications of the unwelcome gift in her kitchen.

When they got back to High Tor, she found herself hoping, illogically, that the object would no longer be there. But, of course, it was, as unpleasant as a cat’s deposit of an eviscerated rodent. And she could no longer stem the flood of thoughts it prompted.

The biggest shock was how that piece of paper changed what had happened to her car. Up until then, she had been affronted by a random attack from Bill Shefford’s computer-gaming, glue-sniffing youngsters. Now it had become personal. The perpetrator of the glass-smashing knew who she was, and he or she was planning a campaign of further harassment.