‘Malee.’
‘Yes. Did you know – that means “flower” in Thai?’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Good heavens, no. Just something I picked up somewhere.’
‘She’s Bill’s second wife,’ Carole explained.
‘I pieced that together,’ he said, with an edge of irony. ‘I hardly imagined that the sylph-like Malee had produced that red-headed hunk Billy. Rather younger than him, for one thing. And call me old-fashioned, but I thought the tradition was that mothers were older than their sons.’
‘Yes, of course, Adrian. Silly of me.’
‘That’s certainly how it happens in the North. But of course it may be different down here.’
To her surprise, Carole found herself grinning. ‘No, no, it’s the same.’
‘Do you believe in the great North/South divide, Carole?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ she lied. ‘People are people everywhere.’ Which was a most un-Carole-Seddon-like thing to say.
Adrian chuckled, then his face grew more serious. ‘Rather a strange feeling, though … Bill Shefford. You know, I meet this chap at the garage. Couple of days later, I hear he’s dead.’
‘I still feel rather shocked by it.’
‘Completely understandable, Carole. If you were actually there.’
‘Mm.’ A silence. Both sipped their coffees. ‘Tell me something, Adrian. With your knowledge of cars …’
‘Yes?’
‘How easy is it for a gearbox to come loose like that?’
‘Depends very much on the make and model … and who’s doing the job. With most modern cars it couldn’t happen; everything’s locked in position within the chassis. And even with older models … I mean, needless to say, gearboxes have to be fixed pretty securely in place or our roads’d be covered with ones that’d fallen out. But a skilled mechanic could remove one quite easily. Then again, a skilled mechanic would take precautions to see that he got it out safely.’ He grimaced. ‘Which is what makes me think there’s something odd about what happened to Bill Shefford.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Carole, instantly alert.
‘Well, I just wonder if he was all right.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Man in his seventies. Didn’t look very fit to me. I wonder if he might have had a seizure, mini-stroke, something like that, which would explain why he allowed the accident to happen.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It would explain why it happened. Still, I suppose that kind of detail will come out at the post mortem.’
‘Do you think there’ll be a post mortem?’
‘Bound to be, with an accident like that.’
‘Yes,’ Carole agreed thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, ‘I don’t know if you’ve been in Fethering long enough to notice that it’s a hotbed for gossip …?’
‘I’d kind of expected that. Small towns and villages are the same all over. It was the same in Ilkley. Gossip can get very cruel and hurtful sometimes.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Still, that’s what people’re like, isn’t it?’
‘Well, needless to say, everyone in the village has got a theory about Bill Shefford’s death.’
‘Tell me about it. I was in the Crown and Anchor last night.’
Carole again felt a small, unreasoning pang at the thought of her protégé spreading his wings.
‘Nobody could talk about anything else,’ Adrian continued.
‘Did you contribute?’
He chuckled. ‘No, I know my place. New boy. Not yet wise enough in the ways of Fethering to offer an opinion.’
‘You soon will be.’
‘Oh, I’m sure, yes. There was one bloke in particular who was giving everyone an earful last night.’
‘Did you get his name?’
‘Barney Poulton.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Carole wearily.
‘Seems to be the local historian, knew everything about the village.’
‘Well, he only knows it because he’s done his research.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘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?’
‘Seeing the “For Sale” sign up, and then the “Sold”, I worked out that I’d soon have new neighbours.’ The casualness with which she said this belied the anxiety with which Carole had anticipated the new ownership. She knew that you could get lucky with neighbours as – she usually conceded – she had with Jude, but there were many other, less congenial, scenarios. So, as ever disturbed by the possibility of change, Carole had covertly watched the comings and goings of potential purchasers, marking them according to her own rigid scale of values.
Given what she regarded as one of the prime locations in the British Isles, Fethering High Street, the property took a surprisingly long time to sell. No doubt behind the delay were many stories of personal heartbreak, of buyer losing the purchasers of their existing houses, of mortgages refused after surveys, of moves being cancelled due to the start of divorce proceedings, and all the other myriad glitches in the English system of house purchase, the least efficient in the known universe.
So, she watched avidly, from behind her front-room curtains, for the tell-tale arrival of estate agents’ cars outside what was now called Wharfedale, but had previously been Cozy Cottage. And she rated her prospective new neighbours.
She was worried, on Gulliver’s behalf, by the couple who came accompanied by a Rottweiler. Also, the woman’s hair was styled in what was locally called a ‘Portsmouth facelift’, pulled back so tightly into a scrunchy that her eyes were narrowed. Though such coiffeur might be seen on the Downside Estate, it was totally unsuitable for Fethering High Street.