‘Sorry to drop round unannounced, but I thought you’d want to see this.’ She held out a USB stick. ‘It’s the nursery’s CCTV footage from the night Kevin died.’
Regan was awash with an odd sensation: a mixture of excitement at possibly having a lead, and horror at the thought that the person who mowed Kevin down was on the footage.
Charlie quickly got out his laptop and they all crowded round. The whole clip was only fifteen seconds long. The camera was angled so that it covered the front of the premises rather than the road – which was completely expected, because that was the whole purpose of having CCTV, but it wasn’t entirely helpful to Regan. The entire pavement was visible, including some of the road, and all in slightly grainy black and white.
‘Wouldn’t the car be on the other side of the road?’ asked Regan.
‘Yeah, but there is a bit visible,’ said Penny.
Charlie put a hand on Regan’s arm. ‘Let’s watch it and see.’
The first twelve seconds of video showed a group of youths walking past, going towards town and away from the pedestrian crossing, all with their heads bent down against the rain.
‘Watch on the top left corner of the screen,’ said Penny, pointing unnecessarily.
There was a brief flicker of reflected light on the wet road and a small car weaved briefly across the topmostcorner of the screen before it was gone. Regan stayed watching and the screen went black as the footage ended.
‘Play it again,’ said Regan, not taking her eyes off the screen. They watched it three more times and each time Regan tried not to blink – she didn’t want to miss something vital. When it finished its fourth play, Regan slumped back on the sofa and Charlie and Penny looked at her.
‘It’s a small, light grey or possibly silver, two-door car …’ She screwed up her face because she wasn’t entirely sure.
‘I think it might be the same car that nearly ran you over a few minutes before,’ said Charlie, his voice steady but quiet.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Regan had had a busy day on the market. She wasn’t complaining, but her feet were. She’d not sat down all day. She’d been covering for Jag on the fruit and veg stall, which was always busy, and Malcolm had nipped off a few times because he and his wife were trying to book a last-minute holiday. Plus, thanks to Cleo’s new signs, Sticky Situations had also had a steady run of customers.
‘Love the new design,’ said Ken the honey man, pointing at the banner across Regan’s stall. ‘Much better.’ He gave a thumbs-up.
‘That’s thanks to you,’ she replied.
He waved her comment away. ‘You’re doing great. You’re killing my business,’ he said with a friendly wink.
The new signage was much larger and more eye-catching and had definitely increased interest. The new logos on the labels made everything look more professional, and people really liked to stop by and try the jam, especially if she had new flavours. The unicorn jam was still a winner, but the pina colada was a close second. Apparently the mango and aniseed chutney had become a firm favourite at the local Indian restaurant, and they had popped by to order a batch of twelve.
She’d gone straight from the market to the police station to hand over the CCTV evidence to the very bored desk sergeant, who took her details again and nodded in the right places but gave her zero hope that anything at all was going to come of it. She couldn’t blame him; the footage wasn’t exactly conclusive. A two-door car was all they were certain about. The make, model, age, colour and number plate were all still a mystery.
From the police station she had gone back to Charlie’s, which was feeling increasingly like home; she had to keep reminding herself that she would be moving out in twelve days’ time. She didn’t want to think about that, and instead busied herself making a batch of melon, lime and ginger jam – which was a new recipe thanks to a glut of melons from Jag – and tidying up.
When she knocked on Cleo’s front door, she was ready to drop into a heap and snooze. Elvis was having a good sniff around, but when Regan put a hand in her pocket he immediately sat to attention. The regime of feeding throughout the day for good behaviour was starting to pay dividends.
‘Hello. Come in,’ said Cleo.
‘For you,’ said Regan, handing Cleo some gerberas, their bright faces bobbing about as she handed them over.
‘My favourites. Thank you. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please. Where can Elvis sit?’ asked Regan, realising the small but stylish apartment was not designed for large clumsy dogs who liked to chew stuff.
‘He’s fine anywhere. Actually, hang on.’ Cleo disappeared and returned with a real sheepskin, which she put on the floor by the sofa. Elvis went straight to it.
‘Are you sure? Because what he’s going to do is …’ Elvisdemonstrated what he was going to do on cue by bunching up the sheepskin and starting to shag it.
‘Ah … oh well, never mind. He can take it home with him.’ Cleo turned away. ‘Should we give him some privacy?’ she whispered.
‘No, he’s not shy, and he usually falls asleep afterwards. He’s like most men, just a little hairier – apart from one bloke I went out with at university. You could have plaited his chest hair.’
‘Eurgh,’ said Cleo.
