been two years since his wife died, and it was hardly surprising that he’d moved on. Even so, I felt a twinge of awkwardness. This was going to be an even more difficult conversation than I’d expected.
Beyond the kitchen, the rest of the downstairs was open-plan: a double room with bare varnished floorboards. There were whorls of cat hair around the legs of the furniture, and the back of the nearest settee was coated with it; the creature must have been nearly bald. That settee, which divided the room roughly in two, was also covered with a pile of coats. The other settee was pointed at a wall-mounted plasma screen. Carlisle had been watching football. As I followed him over, he picked up a remote and muted the screen.
‘Have a seat, if you can find one.’
He sat down on the free settee – or rather, half collapsed in the middle – but made no gesture towards clearing the other for me. I scrunched the coats up a little, perched as best I could and clicked on my camera.
‘Before we start, I want to say that this is more of a courtesy call. Although I’m also hoping you might be able to help me with something.’
‘Right.’ Carlisle massaged his eyes and suppressed a yawn; it really was as though I’d woken him up. His whole manner struck me as odd. A visit from the police usually livens up an ordinary person’s day somewhat. At the very least, it flicks the on switch.
‘Am I interrupting?’
‘No.’ He gave a sigh and leaned forward. ‘No, sorry. I’m just exhausted. We’re not sleeping well at the moment.’
‘You live with your girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. Fiancée. We’re engaged. Not married yet.’
Fast work , I thought. But again, who was I to judge? It made me think of Sasha, and of course of Lise. I forced myself to stop doing so.
‘You used to be married to a woman named Charlotte Matheson. Is that right?’
I had his attention now. He stared at me.
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘And she died in an accident.’
‘A couple of years ago. Yes.’
Each yes was accompanied by a blink and made to sound final. I felt sorry for him, because I recognised that particular strategy. When you lose someone, people mention it all the time; even if they don’t say it out loud, you know they’re thinking about it. They express concern, they ask questions, they offer condolences. It’s all meant well, but it can feel like a carousel of attention: each person coming forward not to help you, but to take their turn saying the right thing in the spotlight of your loss. Eventually it becomes easier just to shut it down.
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ I said, ‘a woman was found on Town Street in the north of the city. She was very confused and disorientated, and had suffered some injuries.’
‘Okay.’
‘She gave her name at the hospital as Charlotte Matheson.’
Carlisle continued to stare at me. I tried to read his expression, to see if there was anything there: shock; surprise; fear. But there was nothing. It was the reaction of a man who hadn’t been expecting anything like this, and still didn’t fully comprehend what I was saying.
‘More specifically, she claims to be Charlotte Matheson. Your wife. This woman named you as her husband and gave us this address as her place of residence.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. She also claims to remember the accident itself.’
‘What is that supposed to mean, she remembers the accident? ’ He glanced at the door in the far corner of the room, then back to me, and almost whispered, ‘My wife died in that car crash.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. This woman knows all the details of the accident. And she claims that she died in that accident too.’
Again I watched the expression on his face.
Horror dawning now.
‘Why would she do that? I just ... I don’t ...’
‘I know. I really can’t say at the moment why she’s claiming this. The woman clearly isn’t very well. At all. But what she is is adamant. So the first thing you
Beyond the kitchen, the rest of the downstairs was open-plan: a double room with bare varnished floorboards. There were whorls of cat hair around the legs of the furniture, and the back of the nearest settee was coated with it; the creature must have been nearly bald. That settee, which divided the room roughly in two, was also covered with a pile of coats. The other settee was pointed at a wall-mounted plasma screen. Carlisle had been watching football. As I followed him over, he picked up a remote and muted the screen.
‘Have a seat, if you can find one.’
He sat down on the free settee – or rather, half collapsed in the middle – but made no gesture towards clearing the other for me. I scrunched the coats up a little, perched as best I could and clicked on my camera.
‘Before we start, I want to say that this is more of a courtesy call. Although I’m also hoping you might be able to help me with something.’
‘Right.’ Carlisle massaged his eyes and suppressed a yawn; it really was as though I’d woken him up. His whole manner struck me as odd. A visit from the police usually livens up an ordinary person’s day somewhat. At the very least, it flicks the on switch.
‘Am I interrupting?’
‘No.’ He gave a sigh and leaned forward. ‘No, sorry. I’m just exhausted. We’re not sleeping well at the moment.’
‘You live with your girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. Fiancée. We’re engaged. Not married yet.’
Fast work , I thought. But again, who was I to judge? It made me think of Sasha, and of course of Lise. I forced myself to stop doing so.
‘You used to be married to a woman named Charlotte Matheson. Is that right?’
I had his attention now. He stared at me.
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘And she died in an accident.’
‘A couple of years ago. Yes.’
Each yes was accompanied by a blink and made to sound final. I felt sorry for him, because I recognised that particular strategy. When you lose someone, people mention it all the time; even if they don’t say it out loud, you know they’re thinking about it. They express concern, they ask questions, they offer condolences. It’s all meant well, but it can feel like a carousel of attention: each person coming forward not to help you, but to take their turn saying the right thing in the spotlight of your loss. Eventually it becomes easier just to shut it down.
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ I said, ‘a woman was found on Town Street in the north of the city. She was very confused and disorientated, and had suffered some injuries.’
‘Okay.’
‘She gave her name at the hospital as Charlotte Matheson.’
Carlisle continued to stare at me. I tried to read his expression, to see if there was anything there: shock; surprise; fear. But there was nothing. It was the reaction of a man who hadn’t been expecting anything like this, and still didn’t fully comprehend what I was saying.
‘More specifically, she claims to be Charlotte Matheson. Your wife. This woman named you as her husband and gave us this address as her place of residence.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. She also claims to remember the accident itself.’
‘What is that supposed to mean, she remembers the accident? ’ He glanced at the door in the far corner of the room, then back to me, and almost whispered, ‘My wife died in that car crash.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. This woman knows all the details of the accident. And she claims that she died in that accident too.’
Again I watched the expression on his face.
Horror dawning now.
‘Why would she do that? I just ... I don’t ...’
‘I know. I really can’t say at the moment why she’s claiming this. The woman clearly isn’t very well. At all. But what she is is adamant. So the first thing you
Similar Books
