wouldn’t be able to leave it – that it would continue to bother me if I did. Better to sort it out now and have done with the whole fucking thing.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
I started the engine.
Mark
Paul Carlisle
After Lise drowned, I moved all the way across the country. Maybe that was an extreme reaction. I know that everyone has their own way of coping with tragedy, and so it shouldn’t have surprised me that Paul Carlisle still lived in the house he’d shared with his wife. It did, though. I guess some people can exorcise ghosts from a place more easily than others.
It took half an hour to drive from the hospital to Carlisle’s house, which was in a pleasant little suburb towards the eastern edge of the city. A mile or so further on, you were in the countryside proper, but you could already smell it from here.
With the window down, my arm resting on the sill, I drove past the two pubs at the centre of the village. The larger one had a sprawling car park, where a travelling fairground had set up, with miniature wheels and rides, all candy colours and flashing bulbs. The street around was busy with people enjoying the late-afternoon heat. A small local carnival. As I drove slowly through, I heard children’s laughter and the whoop-whoop of the stalls, and then the flat bang of the punchball machine.
I supposed it was possible Carlisle was here somewhere: he lived just around the corner, towards the end of a side road. I indicated, turning in. If he wasn’t home, what was I going to do? Leave it, perhaps. Except I knew that I wouldn’t.
I’d been thinking about it on the drive over – justifying the trip to myself. Paul Carlisle was the best option right now for discovering the mystery woman’s real identity. Since she was both distinctive and fixated on Charlotte Matheson, it was likely he knew her, or at least had done once.
And of course, there was another reason too. However wild her story, she hadn’t committed an actual crime, and while her stay at the hospital was voluntary so far, that situation wouldn’t continue indefinitely. Depending on how her story shifted, there was no guarantee she’d be sectioned. It was possible that she’d be out in public in a few days’ time.
I want to see Paul .
I need to see Paul .
Petrie Crescent and Paul Carlisle would presumably be her first port of call. Regardless of any light he could shed on the circumstances, I figured that Carlisle at least deserved a heads-up about that in advance.
I parked up outside, behind a van, then walked up the path, knocked on the glass door and waited. A moment later, the curtain at the window beside me twitched slightly, and then a silhouette appeared at the door. Despite the time of day, the man who opened it looked like he’d just got up. He was wearing a dressing gown, and his hair was wild. I guessed he was in his early thirties.
‘Paul Carlisle?’
‘Yeah.’ He scratched the side of his head, ruffling his hair more, then gestured at the window, where something had been stuck to the inside of the glass. ‘Sign says no selling.’
I held out my ID. ‘I’m police, Mr Carlisle. Detective Mark Nelson. I was hoping to speak to you for a few minutes.’
‘Right.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘What’s it about?’
I looked at him for a few seconds. ‘Can I come in?’
‘I suppose so.’
As I followed him in, I felt myself bristling a little.
Nice attitude, Paul .
The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. There were platespiled on the side, a stack of old pizza boxes, a toaster resting in a sea of burned crumbs. The floor was only half tiled with cheap plastic squares, many of which were peeling up, and a line of crumbs and hardened cheese and old garlic skin ran along the base of the counter. I had to edge around a box filled with empty wine bottles gathering dust just behind the door.
‘Sorry about the state of the place. We’re run off our feet at the moment. Come on through.’
We .
It had
In for a penny, in for a pound.
I started the engine.
Mark
Paul Carlisle
After Lise drowned, I moved all the way across the country. Maybe that was an extreme reaction. I know that everyone has their own way of coping with tragedy, and so it shouldn’t have surprised me that Paul Carlisle still lived in the house he’d shared with his wife. It did, though. I guess some people can exorcise ghosts from a place more easily than others.
It took half an hour to drive from the hospital to Carlisle’s house, which was in a pleasant little suburb towards the eastern edge of the city. A mile or so further on, you were in the countryside proper, but you could already smell it from here.
With the window down, my arm resting on the sill, I drove past the two pubs at the centre of the village. The larger one had a sprawling car park, where a travelling fairground had set up, with miniature wheels and rides, all candy colours and flashing bulbs. The street around was busy with people enjoying the late-afternoon heat. A small local carnival. As I drove slowly through, I heard children’s laughter and the whoop-whoop of the stalls, and then the flat bang of the punchball machine.
I supposed it was possible Carlisle was here somewhere: he lived just around the corner, towards the end of a side road. I indicated, turning in. If he wasn’t home, what was I going to do? Leave it, perhaps. Except I knew that I wouldn’t.
I’d been thinking about it on the drive over – justifying the trip to myself. Paul Carlisle was the best option right now for discovering the mystery woman’s real identity. Since she was both distinctive and fixated on Charlotte Matheson, it was likely he knew her, or at least had done once.
And of course, there was another reason too. However wild her story, she hadn’t committed an actual crime, and while her stay at the hospital was voluntary so far, that situation wouldn’t continue indefinitely. Depending on how her story shifted, there was no guarantee she’d be sectioned. It was possible that she’d be out in public in a few days’ time.
I want to see Paul .
I need to see Paul .
Petrie Crescent and Paul Carlisle would presumably be her first port of call. Regardless of any light he could shed on the circumstances, I figured that Carlisle at least deserved a heads-up about that in advance.
I parked up outside, behind a van, then walked up the path, knocked on the glass door and waited. A moment later, the curtain at the window beside me twitched slightly, and then a silhouette appeared at the door. Despite the time of day, the man who opened it looked like he’d just got up. He was wearing a dressing gown, and his hair was wild. I guessed he was in his early thirties.
‘Paul Carlisle?’
‘Yeah.’ He scratched the side of his head, ruffling his hair more, then gestured at the window, where something had been stuck to the inside of the glass. ‘Sign says no selling.’
I held out my ID. ‘I’m police, Mr Carlisle. Detective Mark Nelson. I was hoping to speak to you for a few minutes.’
‘Right.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘What’s it about?’
I looked at him for a few seconds. ‘Can I come in?’
‘I suppose so.’
As I followed him in, I felt myself bristling a little.
Nice attitude, Paul .
The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. There were platespiled on the side, a stack of old pizza boxes, a toaster resting in a sea of burned crumbs. The floor was only half tiled with cheap plastic squares, many of which were peeling up, and a line of crumbs and hardened cheese and old garlic skin ran along the base of the counter. I had to edge around a box filled with empty wine bottles gathering dust just behind the door.
‘Sorry about the state of the place. We’re run off our feet at the moment. Come on through.’
We .
It had
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