Regan sipped her drink. ‘I’ve got a theory.’
‘Which is?’
‘That thieving little sod in the hoodie.’ Regan knew they had very differing feelings about the youth, but Bernice had asked.
Bernice pursed her lips. ‘I take it you’ve told the police?’
‘Not exactly. You see … I’m lacking evidence.’
‘Lacking? What evidence do you actually have?’
Regan pouted. ‘None. But I’ve got a hunch.’
‘You can’t accuse someone of something this serious because of a hunch.’ The Bernice of old had returned in an instant.
‘I can’t believe you’re still sticking up for him. He’s not Kevin. He’s nothing like him. Kevin was kind and gentle, and that kid is a thug who has no respect for anyone or anything.’ Regan stood up to leave.
This time Bernice was calmer. ‘Sit down. Please.’ Regan paused, but Elvis hadn’t moved and she still had some beer in her glass, so she did as Bernice asked. ‘I hoped you had something more concrete to go on.’ Bernice looked disappointed and suddenly tired, sinking back into her seat.
‘Look,’ said Regan, leaning forward, ‘I can’t be completely certain because of the rain that night, but I don’t think the car that hit him was coloured.’ Regan sat back.
Bernice looked puzzled. ‘But all cars are a colour. It’s a big selling point. That’s how I pick mine.’
‘What I mean is it wasn’t red or yellow. It must have been something that blended in. Like grey.’
‘Grey?’ Bernice didn’t sound convinced.
‘Or possibly black … maybe silver.’
‘That narrows it down then,’ said Bernice sarcastically, taking a long swig of her wine.
‘Don’t dismiss it. I know it was a small car, so if we could get local businesses to have a look at their CCTV footage we might be able to spot something.’
‘Aren’t those cameras in black and white anyway? So wouldn’t all cars look grey on CCTV?’
They both visibly slumped – perhaps this was an impossible quest after all. They finished their drinks in contemplative silence.
Another Monday came around and Regan’s feet were throbbing. She’d never realised how hard it was standing up all day. The market stall was doing okay, but she needed to work the stall six days a week to stand any chance of making a living out of it. She stepped inside Charlie’s front door and kicked off her shoes – bliss.
‘Hey, you.’ Charlie’s smiling face peeped from round the kitchen door and Elvis trotted over to greet him. ‘Good day?’
‘Yes. The little Indian restaurant want me to make them some exclusive mango chutneys in special combinations. I just need to work out an interesting twist and the pricing.’
‘That’s brilliant. Well done you!’ He seemed thrilled. ‘You want a coffee or a glass of wine?’
‘Wine. I need wine,’ said Regan. ‘Or beer. I’m not fussy.’
‘Okay. Well, you sit down because dinner is under control.’
‘Ooh, what are you making?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up because I’ve not done it before, but I’m making scallops wrapped in bacon to start, followed by mushroom risotto.’
‘You’d make someone a lovely wife,’ said Regan andCharlie stuck his tongue out. ‘What’s the special occasion?’ she asked, slumping onto the sofa with a groan that made her sound like a pensioner.
‘None really. I guess having you here makes me want to try a few new things out.’ He handed her a chilled glass of rosé.
She took the glass, but her eyes were fixed on his. The number of new things she’d like to try out with Charlie was endless, but she couldn’t say that. It would make him feel awkward. She blinked and sipped the wine. ‘I am happy to be your guinea pig.’ She gave a little squeak and Elvis dashed over, sniffing the air wildly.
