‘So maybe he did set up a new pension?’
‘It seems unlikely. His pension arrangements were all sorted through a financial adviser Bill had worked with for years. I’ve called the guy in question and he knows nothing about it. And I’ve checked through Bill’s papers. There’s nothing there about an “APIPENSION” – or, I suppose, more likely, an “A.P.I. PENSION”. Nothing.’
‘And what about the other payments? You said there were two recipients.’
‘Yes. There are fewer of the others, but they’re for larger amounts. Two thousand, three thousand, that kind of thing.’
‘And who’s the payee there?’
‘“VADJ Trading”.’
‘Mean anything to you?’
‘No. Needless to say I’ve googled it. Nothing.’
A suspicion was forming in Carole’s mind, but she didn’t want to spell it out. See first in which direction Malee’s thoughts had been moving.
‘So, do you have any thoughts about where the money might have been going?’
Malee’s answer showed that she shared Carole’s suspicions exactly. ‘The only thing I can think,’ she said, ‘is that Bill was being blackmailed.’
By the time Carole had finished the call, Jude had opened the bottle, poured two glasses and was sitting at the kitchen table with hers half empty. Seeing her neighbour’s raised eyebrow, she said, ‘Had to get the taste of Frankie’s Chardonnay out of my mouth.’
‘Strange,’ said Carole, taking a modest sip as she sat down. ‘We used to drink bottle after bottle of the stuff.’
‘I find that very encouraging. Evidence that some things – like your taste – can improve as you get older.’ Jude grinned. ‘I could only hear your end of the conversation with Malee. Very frustrating.’
Quickly, Carole brought her up to date.
‘Blackmail?’ Jude echoed. ‘What would someone like Bill Shefford have done to be blackmailed about?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Carole picked up the diary. ‘But maybe something in here will give us a clue.’
Jude moved round to the other side of the table, so they could both look at the same time.
The first thing they noticed was that the book wasn’t strictly a diary. It didn’t have pages printed with dates, and yet it contained a lot of hand-written dates in Bill Shefford’s large, rather childlike, hand. Presumably, it was one in a long sequence of notebooks which he replaced as soon as they were filled and which contained every detail of his business life. The pages of the one on the High Tor kitchen table were interleaved with bills and scraps of paper and its bulk was held closed by a large rubber band. The paper was decorated with a lot of oily smudges.
The first entry was early February of the previous year, some eleven months before. And as they flicked through, the pattern of how he used the book became clear. There appeared to be little personal stuff, except for the occasional note to self on the level of ‘pick up a loaf of bread’. Otherwise, it was a record of the garage’s business. There were notes about parts that had to be ordered, dates and addresses where cars needed to be picked up for service, customer’s phone numbers and reminders of when the MOTs of his regulars were due.
Though on first glance, the entries, scribbled down in biro or pencil, might appear to be random, Bill had a system going that probably worked better for him than using a conventional printed diary. When a directive had been followed or a job completed, the note was crossed out. By that simple means, Bill Shefford had always kept on top of his business.
Once Carole and Jude had worked out his method, they realized they didn’t have to check through every entry. Which was just as well, because in places the crossing-out made the original notes virtually indecipherable. The pages were thin and bumpy from Bill Shefford’s vigorous scribbling.
‘Let’s move on to October,’ said Jude. ‘That’s when Malee said he started to get distant from her, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Carole confirmed, stifling a yawn. She was beginning to think it was bedtime if she was to be up at six thirty for Gulliver’s walk on Fethering Beach. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find anything, though. It’s all garage stuff, nothing personal.’
‘We must keep looking,’ said Jude, rather firmly. She was better at late nights than her neighbour. ‘This is the only proper lead we’ve got. Come on, let me fill up your glass.’
‘I don’t think I should have any … Oh, all right.’
Fortified with Sauvignon Blanc, they continued to scan the notebook. ‘More cars being picked up … More taken to the MOT Test Centre …’ said Carole, on a note of defeatism. ‘More brake pads being ordered …’
She was rather beginning to wish that it had been Jude’s fridge in which there had been a cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. It’s very easy to make your excuses and leave from someone else’s house. Getting a visitor out of your own without being positively rude is always a trickier assignment.
‘Just a minute,’ said Jude, her eyes darting across the open pages. ‘There’s something different here.’
‘What?’ asked Carole rather grumpily. By the Aga, Gulliver coughed again. She wondered if he was going down with something.
‘Look, although there are lots of dates in the book, dates when cars are being delivered or picked up for service and what-have-you, there are very few actual timings.’
‘Nothing strange about that,’ said Carole. ‘When I booked the Renault in with Bill, I wouldn’t say, “I’ll be with you at eight thirty a.m. on the dot.” I’d just say I’d bring it in first thing in the morning.’
‘Exactly. And the same when Bill was picking up cars from people’s houses for service. We’ve seen lots of those entries. He’d just put down “a.m.” or “p.m.”. Same with deliveries of parts and things. He’d put down the date when they’d arrive, not the time.’
‘So? I can’t really see that this is a very big deal, and I am beginning to get rather weary, Jude, so, if you don’t mind—’
‘No, look, Carole – here!’ Jude’s finger pointed to an entry. Though scored through by a pencil line, it was still quite legible. ‘9 October 3.00 p.m. H.’ ‘And another one there – see, a week later! And there! And there! Dates, times.’
‘And always “H”,’ said Carole, intrigued in spite of herself.
Jude’s finger continued running down the lines and flicking on to the next page. The finger stopped. ‘Now that one’s different.’
Carole peered across to read, under the pencilled crossing-out: ‘17 October 10.15 a.m. MOT.’
‘That’s not strange. The diary’s full of dates for MOTs. He kept a record of when his customers’ MOTs were due. It was part of the Shefford’s service. He always rang me about the Renault.’
‘Yes, but none of the other MOT references have got times on them. Just dates.’
‘So? One of his customers was pernickety about the time of day he or she could bring the car in – or have it picked up. There’s nothing more to it than that, Jude.’
‘I wonder …’
‘There really isn’t.’ Carole looked at her watch and went all Carole Seddon. ‘It’s nearly midnight. I don’t think we’re going to work this out now. Are we?’
‘No, probably not,’ Jude admitted in a tone of disappointment.
‘So, let’s try again in the morning. When our minds are fresher.’
‘All right,’ Jude conceded grudgingly. ‘First thing?’
‘Well, not my “first thing”. Gulliver and I will be down on the beach by seven.’
‘After that then?’
‘No. Tomorrow’s the day I do my monthly shop for non-perishable items at the Sainsbury’s in Rustington.’ (Some rituals of Carole Seddon’s life could not be changed for mere murder investigations.)
‘When will you be through with that?’