just talked to.
What about ID?
The damage was so extensive that I very much doubted they’d have run with a viewing. Swiping through, that turned out to be the case. The husband, Paul Carlisle, had identified her clothing and belongings. The victim had credit cards inCharlotte Matheson’s name, Charlotte was missing, and it was her vehicle. That had been enough for a formal ID.
The only odd note in the file was a question over her where abouts that day. Reading the details, I frowned. Matheson had called in sick to work, yet her husband claimed she had left that morning as usual. It had never been established where she had been instead, or why she had been driving along the ring road at that time of night.
Was that important? Probably not. At the time, it would likely have been a question that was acceptable to leave unanswered. For the police, at least, not everything can or has to be explained; while it was a mystery, it was not one that would have mattered much to us. The circumstances of her death were clearly accidental, and ultimately, that was all we had needed to know at the time.
I wondered about it now, of course, but that was simply because of present circumstances. A woman had just told me a strange story connected to this accident, so it was understandable that a weird detail in the file would seem suddenly intriguing and important. But in reality, there was no obvious connection at all between the two things.
So what was happening here?
I leaned back in the seat, rubbing my eyes.
There were two obvious explanations I could think of. The first, and to my mind least likely, was that she was telling the truth – that she really was Charlotte Matheson, and the police had made a mistake with the ID on the body. It wasn’t completely impossible, but it meant that an unidentified woman had been driving Matheson’s car that night, dressed in her clothes and carrying her possessions, all for reasons unknown, and that the real Charlotte had been somewhere else for the last two years, the whole world believing she was dead.
But aside from how unlikely all that was, it wasn’t even the entirety of the woman’s story. I went through the windscreen , she’d told me. She claimed to remember dying at the scene. Which really was impossible.
The second explanation – the most likely – was that she was crazy. I decided that, actually, I was fairly satisfied with that one. As sad it was, in due course her real identity would be established; there would be a hospital that Fredericks hadn’t checked, or else a concerned relative would come forward. Given the extent of her scarring, it should hardly prove too difficult to establish her real identity. Case closed.
Except ...
Why Charlotte Matheson?
Despite myself, the question nagged at me. This woman certainly looked like her, and she knew many of the details of what had happened. She knew about Charlotte’s life. I could understand somebody being traumatised and confused, and I could understand someone lying ... but why this lie in particular? Why choose Charlotte Matheson?
There was only one possible answer I could think of. She must have known her. She might have been a close friend who had been deeply affected by Matheson’s death, or perhaps someone associated with the family somehow. Thinking about it more, in fact, I decided that had to be the case. No matter how confused and crazy you are, if you’re giving out information, then you have to have got it from somewhere.
So there was at least one more thing I could do.
I swiped back through the file until I found Charlotte Matheson’s address: 68 Petrie Crescent, just as she’d said. It wasn’t going to be an enjoyable conversation to have with her widower, but it might clear things up relatively quickly. Yes , Paul Carlisle might tell me. She had a batshit-crazy sister . Something like that, anyway. Case then closed for real.
The paracetamol were beginning to work their magic, and I knew I
What about ID?
The damage was so extensive that I very much doubted they’d have run with a viewing. Swiping through, that turned out to be the case. The husband, Paul Carlisle, had identified her clothing and belongings. The victim had credit cards inCharlotte Matheson’s name, Charlotte was missing, and it was her vehicle. That had been enough for a formal ID.
The only odd note in the file was a question over her where abouts that day. Reading the details, I frowned. Matheson had called in sick to work, yet her husband claimed she had left that morning as usual. It had never been established where she had been instead, or why she had been driving along the ring road at that time of night.
Was that important? Probably not. At the time, it would likely have been a question that was acceptable to leave unanswered. For the police, at least, not everything can or has to be explained; while it was a mystery, it was not one that would have mattered much to us. The circumstances of her death were clearly accidental, and ultimately, that was all we had needed to know at the time.
I wondered about it now, of course, but that was simply because of present circumstances. A woman had just told me a strange story connected to this accident, so it was understandable that a weird detail in the file would seem suddenly intriguing and important. But in reality, there was no obvious connection at all between the two things.
So what was happening here?
I leaned back in the seat, rubbing my eyes.
There were two obvious explanations I could think of. The first, and to my mind least likely, was that she was telling the truth – that she really was Charlotte Matheson, and the police had made a mistake with the ID on the body. It wasn’t completely impossible, but it meant that an unidentified woman had been driving Matheson’s car that night, dressed in her clothes and carrying her possessions, all for reasons unknown, and that the real Charlotte had been somewhere else for the last two years, the whole world believing she was dead.
But aside from how unlikely all that was, it wasn’t even the entirety of the woman’s story. I went through the windscreen , she’d told me. She claimed to remember dying at the scene. Which really was impossible.
The second explanation – the most likely – was that she was crazy. I decided that, actually, I was fairly satisfied with that one. As sad it was, in due course her real identity would be established; there would be a hospital that Fredericks hadn’t checked, or else a concerned relative would come forward. Given the extent of her scarring, it should hardly prove too difficult to establish her real identity. Case closed.
Except ...
Why Charlotte Matheson?
Despite myself, the question nagged at me. This woman certainly looked like her, and she knew many of the details of what had happened. She knew about Charlotte’s life. I could understand somebody being traumatised and confused, and I could understand someone lying ... but why this lie in particular? Why choose Charlotte Matheson?
There was only one possible answer I could think of. She must have known her. She might have been a close friend who had been deeply affected by Matheson’s death, or perhaps someone associated with the family somehow. Thinking about it more, in fact, I decided that had to be the case. No matter how confused and crazy you are, if you’re giving out information, then you have to have got it from somewhere.
So there was at least one more thing I could do.
I swiped back through the file until I found Charlotte Matheson’s address: 68 Petrie Crescent, just as she’d said. It wasn’t going to be an enjoyable conversation to have with her widower, but it might clear things up relatively quickly. Yes , Paul Carlisle might tell me. She had a batshit-crazy sister . Something like that, anyway. Case then closed for real.
The paracetamol were beginning to work their magic, and I knew I
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