worry, Kevin, you’re not in any trouble. Take a seat. I just have a few questions about a customer that you served.”
“Sure, anything I can do to help, Officer.”
Even his voice was deeper and older-sounding than Gary’s.
“According to the till receipts, last night you served this woman. Do you remember her?”
Hastings slid a headshot of Clara Hemmingway across the desk. Peterfield looked at it for a few seconds.
“Yeah, definitely. I can’t remember the time, but I definitely remember her.”
Hastings nodded encouragingly.
“What can you remember about her? Anything unusual? You must see hundreds of customers each shift — why do you remember her?”
Peterfield shifted in his seat, looking a little embarrassed. He glanced at Patel, who smiled tolerantly. He could probably guess why the teenager remembered her.
“Well, I remember her because she was kind of pretty, you know. It’s a long shift and all the faces blur together after a while, but a couple stick in the memory.”
“Fair enough. Anything else that you can remember? Anything at all? You never know how useful the smallest detail might be.”
Peterfield blushed a bit, mumbling, “Yeah, she was wearing a bit of a low-cut top. You could see loads. And she had a tattoo on her tit…sorry, breast.” He looked at Hastings, who remained stony–faced. “It was a rose or something. Left one, I think.”
Well, that confirmed the ID, thought Hastings. The photo he’d shown Peterfield had been a headshot.
“Thinking back, what can you remember about her? What else was she wearing? Was she with anybody else?”
“I can’t remember what else she was wearing.”
Hastings hid a smile; typical seventeen-year-old lad. No way was he going to remember what Hemmingway was wearing below the waist. There was only one thing that was going to stick in his mind after such an encounter.
Screwing up his eyes as if to remember, Peterfield leaned back slightly in his chair.
“She was on her own, I do remember that. Trolley not basket. I think she used carrier bags rather than bags for life. She used her card, Chip and PIN. Hang on… Her name on the card was Clare or something.”
“That’s great, Kevin. Can I take your details in case I need to speak to you again?”
The boy nodded, probably figuring that a chance to see her again in a line-up was better than nothing.
After Peterfield had left, Patel turned to Hastings. “Well, Officer, if there is anything else that we can help you with, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”
It was clearly meant as a dismissal; it was after all a busy time of the day.
Hastings thought briefly, should he ask Patel to canvass any other members of staff for any other witnesses? It was probably better not to, he decided. This was Hemmingway’s local supermarket; she was likely to be a regular customer. People might well get confused about the time or day that they had seen her and muddy the waters. Of course, there was one thing that didn’t get confused and that was CCTV. A quick look to check that she was alone and that the times matched and he was done, he decided.
“There is one more thing.”
Patel barely repressed a sigh.
“Do you have CCTV for the night in question?”
“Yes. The store is covered in cameras. We will have many hours of footage.”
Hastings decided to take pity on the man.
“I’ll speak to my guv to see if we need to pull in everything. In the meantime, could we just have a quick look to see what time she arrived and left and if she was on her own?”
Patel had clearly decided that there was no point arguing and that the sooner he co-operated, the sooner he could get rid of Hastings.
Motioning Gary out of his office and back down the narrow corridors, Patel led the young PC to another large, darkened room. In it sat a security guard, his eyes glued to a bank of half a dozen monitors, each with four changing views of the shop floor, car park and ‘backstage’ areas.
Finding footage of Clara leaving was easy. The time stamp on the receipt clearly showed the time that she completed her transaction and locating it took seconds on the digital security system. She certainly had done a big shop, Hastings noted as she struggled out of the door, laden down with multiple bulging carrier bags. Her skimpy top did nothing to hide her cleavage from the overhead cameras, much to the delight of the bored guard, he imagined. He noted the time: 22:34h. One minute later than the time on the till receipt. Seemed about right, he figured.
“We can follow her backwards all around the store as she does her shop, if you like, but it’ll take some time to set up the different feeds,” offered the security guard, clearly welcoming the distraction.
“I’ll keep that in mind and see what the guv says — just don’t erase the footage. For the time being I just want to see what time she entered.”
“No sweat, sonny. Can you give us a clue? It’ll be quicker than just running the tape backwards ’til we find her.”
Hastings looked at Patel.
“How quick do you think she could fill a trolley like this?”
Patel pursed his lips thoughtfully, clearly caught up in the investigation despite himself.
“Realistically, I’d say a minimum of twenty minutes, plus about seven or eight minutes to put it through the till.”
Without being bidden, the security guard keyed in the command. The view shifted immediately. Running it backwards at four-times speed, it seemed to take for ever before a familiar flash of blonde hair appeared, walking into the store. At this angle, Hastings saw that the woman’s coat hid her cleavage from the cameras. Bad luck, boys, he thought to himself.
Carefully noting the time, 21:41h, and that she was alone, Hastings thanked the staff for their help. He looked at the two times in his notepad: fifty-three minutes. She certainly took her time over her shopping, he thought.
Driving back to the station, he parked the car in the garage and went looking for DCI Jones. According to the desk sergeant, Jones was unavailable. Sitting down at his workstation, Hastings wrote up a short report, noting the positive ID, the time that she entered and left the store and that she was alone. Stealing a Post-it note from his neighbour’s desk, he started to write a reminder to pick up the footage from the superstore.
Suddenly, his radio crackled into life with his call sign. Toggling it, he responded.
“Are you free, DC Hastings? Reports of a break-in at the Costcutter’s on Bailey Street. You’ve attended before.”
Hastings sighed. He certainly had attended before; three times before as a matter of fact. The small shop and
