‘I don’t know about that.’ Regan wasn’t sure what Charlie had shared and it felt decidedly uncomfortable to talk about him with his mum.
‘Well, he’s definitely been happier these last few weeks. So it’s either you or the fact the Grand Prix season has started again.’
‘It’s probably the Grand Prix.’ Something unspoken passed between them. Two women who loved one man completely, but from two very different perspectives.
The front door opened and Beanstalk and Charlie appeared in the doorway. ‘Hello, Mrs M,’ said Beanstalk. ‘Anything to eat? Ooh, jam.’ He picked up a jar whilst inspecting the cauliflower bobbing in the bowl. ‘Ew, that looks like brains.’
‘It is,’ said Regan, snatching the jam off him. ‘From the last person who tried to steal my jam.’
Over the next few evenings, Regan ensconced herself in Charlie’s kitchen, and with Joanna’s help she made a mountain of jam. Not all of it perfect, but it tasted good, and she was growing in confidence with every batch. Joanna’s help had been invaluable, but she was popping in less and less now as Regan improved. Joanna had been a superb taste tester too. Regan already had some favourite flavours and she was pleased with the quirky combinations she was conjuring up. Or, more accurately, what Jag’s leftovers were dictating. Thanks to Joanna, she had a process now that worked; so she could set everything out, prepare the ingredients, make jam and deposit it into sterilised jars, all within a two-hour window. She almost felt like she knew what she was doing.
Despite Penny’s protestations, she had moved back to the studio. She’d found that she’d grown quite fond of the little place – with the obvious exception of Cleo’s torture chair – and with Penny’s mum due home she was keen not to cause any issues for Penny.
Regan had been in touch with her dad and he’d invited her round for dinner. This was a very rare thing and showed Regan that he totally got how upset she was aboutKevin’s death. Her dad had cooked for her throughout most of her childhood, but a weekly rota of fish fingers, beans on toast and pizza, with fish and chips on a Friday, was the full extent of his culinary talents – assuming you didn’t count Marmite sandwiches and the ability to make a teddy-shaped jelly once a year for her birthday.
Regan leaned against the doorframe after ringing the doorbell. She could hear scurrying about inside and the faint shadow of someone dashing back and forth from the bedroom. Her stomach sank at the thought of sharing a meal with Tarty Tara. Then her stomach contracted at the thought she may have interrupted something. She tried to erase the image that had invaded her mind.
The door opened abruptly and her father appeared to be trying to smile, but he had the appearance of a startled chimpanzee. He rubbed his neck. Regan peered past him. ‘Everything … um … all right?’
‘Yes. Yes. Come in.’ He held the chimpanzee grin for a moment more until it was too hard to maintain and he slipped back into his usual sombre but permanently puzzled face.
Regan had a good gander as she went in. Nothing seemed untoward. The bedroom door was closed. She wondered how much more stuff Tarty Tara had moved in since the last time she’d been there.
‘You on your own?’ She needed to be a hundred per cent certain; she didn’t want Tarty Tara appearing, magician’s-assistant style, during the arctic roll.
‘Oh, yes. Just me.’ He seemed more awkward than usual, which was quite a feat.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Have a seat and I’ll put the pizza in.’ Heshot to the kitchen faster than she’d seen him move before. Something was definitely up. She sat at the table, but leaned to her left so she could watch him in the kitchen. He darted about and then slumped back against the cupboard, tilted his head to the ceiling and sighed deeply. He appeared to be trying to compose himself. Something was very wrong.
They ate their pizza in silence until Regan could take no more. ‘So the night of the accident. I keep going over and over it.’
Graham nodded. ‘That’s understandable. But you need to try to forget about it now.’ Regan frowned at him. ‘Not Kevin. Don’t forget about Kevin – but you do need to forget about the accident. It’s not healthy to dwell on things.’ He was nodding as though he was trying to convince himself.
‘But if I could only remember more details about the car.’ It was so frustrating. She knew she’d seen it, because she remembered seeing the spray of water as it careered away.
Graham shook his head and winced. ‘No. You need to stop trying to remember. It won’t do any good.’
She pondered this. ‘Do you mean if I stop trying it might come back to me?’
‘Um, no. Not exactly. Look, Regan, it’s a terrible thing that’s happened, but obsessing over who killed Kevin won’t bring him back.’
Blunt as ever. ‘No, but if I can get justice for Kevin then—’
‘You’d feel better? Are you really doing this for you?’
How had he made it sound like she was being selfish?‘No, I want justice for Kevin. Nobody should be able to get away with what that driver’s done.’ Familiar bubblesof anger rose inside her. ‘And if they’re not locked up they could do it again.’
‘Statistically that’s not likely,’ said Graham, cutting off a perfect inch-squared piece of pizza and putting it in his mouth.
She gave up.
‘So no actual witnesses to the accident then?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t actually see it happen?’ He paused with his knife and fork held above his plate.
