by Simon Brett
‘Do you know for a fact that he’d done that – changed his will?’
‘I don’t need to know it for a fact. I know it happened.’ The logic was suspect, but it didn’t stop Rhona. ‘And then – this is the giveaway, isn’t it? – the new Mrs Shefford starts doing evening classes in car maintenance. Now why would someone like her want to know about car maintenance?’
‘Since she had married someone who ran a garage, it seems to me quite logical that—’
‘No, no, she only needed to get enough mechanical knowledge to work out a way of killing her husband that looks like an accident. Then, while nobody’s in the workshop, she loosens the screws and – what do you know? – she inherits the lot.’
‘Rhona, I really must say that—’
‘There’s no two ways about it,’ the old woman pronounced definitively, ‘Molly or whatever her name is – she murdered Bill Shefford. I’ve told you before, you can never trust a Chink.’
‘This is becoming a habit, Carole,’ said Adrian Greenford as he approached her table in Starbucks, flat white in hand. He gestured to the chair opposite. ‘May I?’
‘Please …’
‘Thank you. No, we must be careful.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Meeting in public in a place like Fethering. People will talk.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Carole felt herself colouring. She had never had any aptitude for banter, particularly if it came with a hint of the sexual.
‘Anyway, how’ve you been?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ As ever, she wanted to move on quickly from discussion of herself. ‘And you? Getting settled in, are you?’
‘Slowly. Everything takes longer than you imagine. Tradesmen don’t come when they say they will. And then, of course, with Gwyneth being in the wheelchair, she can’t help as much as she’d like to.’
‘Oh, of course. I’d forgotten about that. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. She’s come to terms with it. Manages to keep pretty cheerful … most of the time. I’ve told her about you, you know, how kind you were to me when I was lost in Allinstore. Gwyneth said you sounded an interesting person. You must meet her.’
‘Yes, I’d like to,’ Carole lied. Meeting any new people always triggered anxiety in her. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more about Adrian’s circumstances than the kind of stuff they talked about over coffee. She would like to keep theirs a hermetically sealed, Starbucks-only relationship.
‘Incidentally, I gather you had the dubious distinction of witnessing the death that everyone in Fethering is talking about …?’
‘I didn’t actually witness it. I was at the garage when it happened.’
‘Very sad.’
‘Yes … Oh, by the way, did you get to go to Shefford’s? When we were last here, you were asking me to recommend a local garage.’
‘I did, yes. Met Bill. And his son. Didn’t get his name.’
‘Billy.’
‘Oh, that must’ve been confusing for them when they lived in the same house. Letters and stuff getting mixed up.’
‘I always think it’s odd when fathers and sons are given the same name. It seems only to happen right at the top, in the aristocracy where they want to keep family traditions going and, er … lower down the social scale, where presumably they haven’t the imagination to come up with anything different.’ Carole was aware that she had incautiously let her snobbish prejudices show for a moment there. Bit rash, with someone she didn’t know well.
But Adrian Greenford’s chuckle suggested that he hadn’t been offended. Well, he was Northern, so perhaps his standards were more lax. ‘I also met Bill’s wife. She was there. Stunning-looking woman.’
‘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” i
s 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.
Then there was the family with five children. Cozy Cottage was far too small to accommodate them. Which meant that the children would spill noisily out into the back garden, before taking over the front garden and very soon playing in the streets like pre-war East Enders. The peace of High Tor would be shattered forever.
The less said about the couple who arrived on a motorbike, the better. The front garden of Cozy Cottage becoming an open-air repair shop, with oily engine parts scattered all over the scuffed lawn … it didn’t bear thinking of.
Nor was Carole much keener on the pair who came in a Rolls-Royce. Her upbringing had taught her that one of the worst sins in the middle-class lexicon was ‘showing off’.
No, in fact she reckoned she’d got off quite lightly with Adrian Greenford.
‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked, standing at the gate of Wharfedale.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Come and meet Gwyneth.’
‘Oh.’ It was the last thing she wanted to do. Having just decided that her association with Adrian was going to be a Starbucks-specific one, she didn’t want to go back on that so soon. Besides, her right knee was causing her pain and she couldn’t wait to rest it in her sitting-room armchair at High Tor.
‘I would love you to meet her, and this seems the perfect opportunity … that is, if I’m not keeping you from some other commitment …?’
Her first instinct was very quickly to invent another commitment. That was one of Carole Seddon’s great skills. She had lost count of the number of other commitments she had invented to hide the emptiness of her life.
But she stopped herself. Her second instinct was born of ingrained politeness. To refuse Adrian’s offer at that moment would be an act of appalling bad manners. ‘No, I’d be delighted to meet Gwyneth,’ she lied.
NINE
Adrian’s apology for the state of the house seemed unnecessary, even by Carole’s exacting standards. True, there were some unopened cardboard boxes in the hall, but otherwise the interior had been furnished and decorated to a very high spec. Of course, in characteristic Fethering style, Carole had known who the old couple who lived there previously were, but she hadn’t known them. One had died and the other gone into a care home, so she expected that the place had been left in something of a state. In fact, she remembered Adrian describing it as ‘a bit of a tip’. He and Gwyneth – or, more likely, given her lack of mobility, he – had been busy since they took over ownership. A residual smell of fresh paint confirmed Carole’s supposition.
All of the rails and other invalid aids that Adrian had mentioned on their previous meeting at Starbucks were in place. The garden path was levelled asphalt and there was an incline up to the front door. No handrails on the outside but plenty inside, suggesting that, though Gwyneth Greenford could drag her way round the house, all of her outside excursions were in the wheelchair.
As they entered, Adrian called out, ‘Gwyn, I’ve brought someone to meet you,’ and ushered Carole into the front sitting room.
The woman sitting in the armchair, with a folded wheelchair beside it, was younger than Carole had expected. She’d had the image of Adrian’s crippled wife as being his age, if not older, but Gwyneth Greenford was a good twenty years younger. She was dressed in smart-casual clothes, well-cut dark blue trousers and a silvery silk jumper. Her make-up was expertly done. Whatever her disability might be, there was no visible manifestation of it.
‘Oh, hello, Carole,’ said Gwyneth.
This instant recognition was a bit of a shock, but when she thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Adrian had said he’d told his wife about her, and Gwyneth would have had plenty of opportunities to see her walking back and forth along the High Street. The shops on the parade were only yards away from Wharfedale. Instinctively, Carole looked towards the windows. Net curtains, so to see anything outside in detail Gwyneth would have had to peer around the edges. But she wouldn’t have been the first person in Fethering to have done that.
‘Hello. A pleasure to meet you,’ said Carole, in a manner that would have made
her parents proud.
‘I’d offer to make you coffee, but …’ Gwyneth spread her hands wide to sum up her helplessness.
‘I’ve just had coffee, thank you. At Starbucks. That’s where I met Adrian.’
‘Oh.’ Gwyneth looked at her husband.
Rather awkwardly, he said, ‘Happy coincidence.’ Then, swiftly, ‘But can I get you anything, my love? A drink or …?’
‘No, thank you. Ooh, there is something you could do for me, Adrian …’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a parcel in the kitchen that I want to catch the post.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no rush for that, my love.’
Carole checked her watch. Not yet noon. ‘No. You’ve missed the morning collection at the Post Office. And the afternoon one doesn’t go till five thirty.’
‘I would like it to catch the post,’ said Gwyneth definitively. ‘If you don’t do it now, Adrian, we’ll forget.’
Some invisible marital semaphore must have been exchanged, because he instantly said, ‘Very well, my love.’
When he got to the sitting-room door, his wife said, ‘Close that. Then Carole and I can get to know everything about each other.’
Carole bridled at the thought. The idea of anyone getting to know everything about her was an appalling one. And, when she came to think of it, a Northern one too. Still, over the years she had managed to frustrate many people’s attempts to get near her real self. She didn’t think the wheelchair-bound Gwyneth Greenford would prove too much of a challenge.
‘So, Carole,’ came the opening salvo, ‘Adrian tells me you’re retired. What did you do during your working life?’
This was easy stuff. A quick résumé of her career at the Home Office (omitting the fact that she was edged out of employment a little earlier than she would have wished). All facts, nothing that came near to being personal.
‘And are you married?’
Potentially trickier, but straight, unembroidered answers had worked in the past. ‘Divorced,’ she said and, to avoid being asked for details, went straight on, ‘I have one son, who’s married with two daughters.’
It seemed to have worked. No enquiries about the divorce. All Gwyneth said was, ‘Adrian and I don’t have children.’