by Steve Mosby
‘And you want me to ... ?’
‘Go and interview her, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘To establish if there’s any validity to her story.’
‘That she came back from the dead?’
We both knew exactly how much validity there would be to her story. It falls to me to punish you for your drunken transgressions indeed. I shook my head carefully, and Pete laughed again.
‘Happy engagement, Mark.’
Mark
She knows all the details
On arrival at the hospital, I faced a long and torturous journey through the building in an attempt to locate the Baines Wing, where the woman calling herself Charlotte Matheson was being looked after.
As I wandered half lost along seemingly identical corridors, searching for clues on the signs hanging down overhead, it began to feel like a mythical destination. After returning to what appeared to be the same junction I’d just left, I toyed with the idea of scrawling chalk arrows on the floor. It also didn’t help matters that the walls were a particularly sickly shade of green. The bright sunshine on the drive over here had caused my receding hangover to return with a vengeance.
My contact was a Dr Fredericks, and after eventually signing in at the Baines Wing reception, I was directed to a waiting area. There was nobody else there, which was fortunate, as it was claustrophobically small, with cheap black chairs lining the walls around a low table. There was a spread of tatty magazines, a couple of books. I sat down and breathed slowly and steadily. The air in here tasted warm and recycled, and the back of my head thudded in time with my heartbeat, like an angry neighbour hammering on a wall in protest.
On the drive over, I’d decided I was a little pissed off with Pete for sending me on this adventure. I’d scanned enough of the file to know that Charlotte Matheson was most certainly dead. Whoever the woman here was, it was someone else. Establishing who she was didn’t seem like a fantastic use of my time and experience, and Pete knew it. It was hardly likely to be a criminal matter. On top of that, if this woman turned out to be seriously disturbed, there were also ethical considerations to bear in mind. Call me high-minded, but I prefer to see the people I interview as people, rather than the butt of an office joke.
‘Detective Nelson?’
I looked up to see a man I presumed was Dr Fredericks. He was old and tall, and dressed in a brown suit. Looming over me and looking down, he inclined his head curiously.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really, no.’
‘Right. There’s a water cooler round that corner.’
‘Thank you.’
I poured myself a cup from the ice-cold nozzle, drained it, then got myself a second and wandered back round. By the time I’d returned, Fredericks had taken a seat in the corner of the waiting area, balancing his clipboard awkwardly on his knees. His legs were so long that the size of the area was even more of a problem for him than it was for me.
‘Join me,’ he said. ‘You’re going to want to sit down.’
‘Okay.’ I sat across from him, eager to get this over with. ‘I know a little about why I’m supposed to be here. A woman was picked up yesterday and gave her name as Charlotte Matheson. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. This is Charlotte Matheson’s file.’ Fredericks showed me the bundle of sheets on the clipboard, separated out with paper clips. ‘Her older records. According to this, we’ve treated her a number of times in the past.’
I held up the folder I’d brought with me.
‘According to mine, Charlotte Matheson died two years ago.’
Fredericks nodded. ‘According to ours too.’
‘We’re in accordance, then. So it’s a different Charlotte Matheson.’
‘That’s the thing. Obviously it is – or else she has a different name altogether. But she certainly believes that she is this Charlotte Matheson. She’s given us the correct birth date, home address, everything.’
‘She’s confused?’
‘Yes, she’s certainly confused. And in fact she was dressed very oddly when she came in: a white gown and trousers. It looked at first as though she was a patient somewhere.’
‘That would make sense.’
‘The problem is, if that’s the case, I don’t know where. There are no identifying marks on the fabric, and it isn’t standard-issue clothing from any hospital I’m familiar with. Plus, I’ve made enquiries. None of the facilities nearby have a patient missing.’
I sipped the water, taking all this in.
‘Presumably you’ve confronted her with the fact that she can’t be who she claims to be? On the grounds that Charlotte Matheson is dead?’
Fredericks shook his head. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘I’m well aware that you need to wear kid gloves here, at least to an extent, but I’m asking if you’ve explained to her that she can’t really be this person, because this person is dead?’
‘Oh. I see what you mean. No, we haven’t done that. We don’t need to; that’s not a matter of contention.’
I finished off my water.
‘It’s me that doesn’t follow now.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve not been clear enough. The woman we’re treating knows that Charlotte Matheson was killed in a car crash, and yet still maintains that’s who she is. Hang on.’ Fredericks pulled a couple of sheets from his file and scanned through them. ‘I told her that the Charlotte Matheson she is claiming to be has been dead for two years, and she replied: “Yes, I know I have.” She was disorientated when she first arrived, but we went through all this a number of times.’
‘She thinks she’s dead?’
‘It seems that way. She’s very confused, and not sure what’s happening right now. There appears to be some memory loss. But she’s adamant that she did die in a car crash. She told the officer who found her that she’d been in an accident, and that it had killed her. She knows all the details.’
I wanted another cup of water.
‘What about the injuries?’ I said. ‘My superior told me that she’d experienced some kind of damage to her face.’
Fredericks looked awkward at that. He replaced the paper in his sheaf of records and then stood up, indicating that I should do the same.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s really why I got in touch with the police in the first place. I think you’re going to need to see those for yourself.’
Groves
A man carved out of black wood
I know who did it.
David Groves put the card down on the kitchen counter. The post always arrived early to his house, and the day that would have been his son Jamie’s sixth birthday was no exception.
It was not yet eight o’clock, but the kitchen caught the morning sun, and the light hung in the air now, divided into fuzzy slices by the half-turned slats on the blind. It was homely, he always thought; you could film a commercial for bread in here, or butter. The whole downstairs was open-plan, and the furnishings were old and wooden, giving it a farmhouse feel.
After Jamie had gone missing, and his break-up with Caroline, Groves had looked around several properties, but had fallen in love with this place the moment he stepped inside. It reminded him of a cat, curled up comfortably in a sunbeam. Every morning the cottage woke up slowly: pipes clanking halfheartedly; eyelashes of dust turning lazily in the air.
He poured another cup of coffee – strong and black – from the glass bulb jug, then turned his attention back to the birthday card, and the message written inside
I know who did it.
That was all, with blank space above and below. Handwritten, like the envelope it had come in: neat lines of black biro that were presumably a deliberate attempt to hide the sender’s identity. It was addressed not to David Groves, but to Jamie himself.
At least there was only one this year.
That was something. Jamie’s birthday was always when the freaks came out. For a while, he’d wondere
d about that. Nobody could say for certain when Jamie had died, so they were unable to attack him on that date, but why not the date of the abduction itself? Eventually, of course, he had figured it out. It was because it would hurt more on his son’s birthday. The date commemorated Jamie’s birth and the two full milestones he had managed to reach before being taken. It reminded Groves that there should have been so many more, and that there never would be.
You should be celebrating, the freaks were saying. But we are instead.
In previous years there had been phone calls – silent, until the caller finally worked up the nerve to say something quick and vicious and then hang up – but it was mostly letters. Taunting. Confessing. Explaining to Groves in graphic detail all the things that had been done to his son before he died.
Groves didn’t believe any of them were genuine. It was just ghouls and cowards – people with something missing inside them. But still: they got under his skin. One year, someone had concluded a letter by writing: I’m coming to see you tonight. Be ready. That evening, Groves had turned off all the lights, left the front door ajar and waited in the lounge. He’d stayed awake the whole night, willing something to happen. Of course nothing had – and deep down, he’d known it wouldn’t. But he’d waited anyway. If he received the same message now, he was sure he would wait up again.
He read this year’s card once more.
I know who did it.
The coffee was bitter and strong. He put the card back in the envelope and shut it away in a kitchen drawer. Later on, he’d store it upstairs with all the others, but out of sight would do for now, so Caroline didn’t see it when she came round later. Even though they were divorced, they always spent Jamie’s birthday together.
He put the cup down, then began gathering his things, getting ready for work.
The message stayed with him, though. Only one this year, perhaps, but it had brought a couple of fresh turns of the knife with it. Addressing it to Jamie himself was a new development. And instead of dangling his son’s murder in front of him, just out of reach, the message offered up the murderers instead. I know who did it, the sender was saying. But I’m not telling. It was as though they knew that some days the idea of finding the people responsible was all that got him out of bed and kept him going. It was a new angle from which to hit a downed man, and Groves realised that the blow had landed.
Well played.
He pulled on his suit jacket. Not for the first time, he imagined what he would do if he ever found himself face to face with his son’s killers. The scenario had played out in his head on countless occasions. Every atom in his body would want to hurt them as badly as they must have hurt Jamie, and then put a bullet in their heads. And yet he knew what would really happen.
Rather than doing any of that, he would arrest them.
Unlike his ex-wife, Groves had retained his religious faith in the aftermath of Jamie’s abduction and murder. If anything, in fact, it had deepened, albeit changed, perhaps in a similar way to a marriage that had survived an affair. He clung to it. He had to believe that God had a plan, and that however abhorrent his son’s death was, it somehow fitted into that. It was not his position to deliver the punishment that awaited the killers in the next world, only to apply the law in this one. And in some strange way, it felt as though doing anything else would be a betrayal of Jamie – of his little boy’s innocence and goodness. An act like that would sully his son’s memory as well as taint his own soul. After everything else they’d done, Groves was determined not to let these people do that as well.
That was also why he was going to work today, in spite of the date. Once, he had been a husband, a father, a man of faith and a policeman; now, those last two were all he had left, and they were intertwined in him. He was a good man. He did the right thing. It was all he had now to define him.
Happy birthday, Jamie, Groves thought as he left the cottage, locking the door behind him, the card forgotten for now.
I wish I could give you a cuddle.
I miss you so much.
First call of the day.
Carnegie Avenue ran along the edge of the Larkton estate. The buildings were all but indistinguishable grey-faced blocks of bobbled concrete, and the burned house stood out amongst its neighbours like a rotten tooth. The fire had gutted it so badly that the entire structure had half collapsed. First charred by the flames, then sodden by the fire hoses, it was now smouldering in the morning sun.
There were two fire engines parked out front – idle now, their lights off – and the street was crammed with locals, who had presumably emerged in the early hours to rubberneck the flames. They stood in groups, sharing gossip or conspiracy theories, or just shaking their heads in disbelief at the remains of their former neighbour’s property.
‘Out of the way, you fucking rats.’
Sean Robertson, Groves’ partner, steered the car in slowly behind the nearest fire engine, forcing a cluster of teenagers to amble on to the pavement. They slouched and smirked, taking their time. In the passenger seat beside Sean, Groves thought his partner was going to blare the horn, but instead Sean just grinned through the windscreen at them, nodding sarcastically.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Jesus wept.’
‘Just kids,’ Groves said. ‘Doing kid things.’
‘Zero respect.’ Sean cricked on the handbrake. ‘You know what they say? No such thing as a bad dog, only a bad owner. Someone ought to arrest the parents. Not that half of these little bastards know who their fathers are.’
Groves smiled. They’d been partners for years, and had long ago fallen into familiar roles and routines, Sean’s generally consisting of this kind of exaggerated outrage and disgust at the state of society. It was all for show. In reality, he would have given any of these kids not only his ear but his time if they’d needed or wanted it. Assuming nobody was around to see it, anyway. Sean always reminded Groves of the Charles Bukowski poem about the tough writer with the soft little bluebird he only took out when nobody was around to see.
They got out and headed over to the scene. Closer to, Groves could smell the mulch of the scorched and soaked building. The windows had been punched out by the heat and the stone walls had browned like half-burned newspaper. One corner of the roof had fallen in slightly. It must have been an absolute inferno before the fire crews arrived. The air above the house still shimmered with the residual heat.
‘Robertson and Groves.’ Sean showed one of the firemen his ID. They were partners – equal rank – but today he was taking the lead. Sean hadn’t mentioned Jamie, and probably wouldn’t, but he knew the date, and this was his way of quietly taking some of the pressure off Groves. ‘Your commander about?’
‘There.’
The commander was an old guy with small, wet eyes and an enormous grey moustache that protruded from beneath his visor. The moustache rolled back and forth as he filled them in, like it was chewing on the words. It was always strange, attending a fire scene as police. Groves was used to being in charge of a situation, but they were second fiddle here, and would only be allowed into the property if and when the commander said so. In reality, their presence was a formality; it was only in case anything came of it later, which rarely happened with house fires. But there was a body inside, so they had to show their faces at ground level just in case the investigation was one of those rare examples that grew more floors.
‘You can’t go upstairs,’ the commander said. ‘I’m not being pissy. You literally can’t; the stairs are gone. But straight through the remains of that front door yonder – that’s your lounge in there.’
‘That’s where the resident is?’ Sean said.
‘Unless he’s moved, yeah. Which I doubt. Coroner’s on his way.’
Groves looked at the house again.
‘Hell of a blaze,’ he said. ‘What are your thoughts?’
The commander shrugged. ‘That’s for the team to say, and then maybe you guys. There are no suspect containers aside from all the bott
les. My guess? Well, you’ll see the remains of the ashtray by the settee.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘Yeah, I’d imagine so. Guy’s drunk and sleepy, and he drifts off with a dangler. You know what these builds are like.’
Groves nodded. Most of the houses on the estate were old council homes, sold off cheap to people who then rented them out to people who then rented them out again. Old, threadbare furniture; dodgy electrics; and God only knew what stuffed in the wall cavities. Most of them wouldn’t have passed a safety check twenty years ago, never mind today. If that was what this fire came down to, it might still be a criminal investigation, but not one for them. They were only here for the resident.
‘Okay.’ He turned to Sean. ‘Shall we?’
‘Let’s.’
They stepped through the open doorway into the remains of the front room. The smell hit Groves first: a foul waft of old meat and rust, like opening the oven in an abandoned house. The back window was completely gone, allowing an angle of sunlight in. Everything it touched looked either scorched black or shattered. In the far corner, water was still drizzling down from the remains of the ceiling, pattering on the broken eggshell of a television. What was left of the carpet squelched beneath Groves’ feet. Looking down, he saw dirty grey foam bubbling up around his shoes.
The dead man was on the remains of the settee – or inside it, to be more precise. The fabric had burned away, leaving a rusted skeletal frame with a spread of thick black ash congealing underneath. The man himself was bent double, with his backside on the floor and both legs poking over the front of the settee, the rest of him contorted awkwardly within the frame. If he had been alive, it would have looked for all the world like a moment of slapstick, as though he’d sat on a collapsing deckchair.
He was very obviously not alive, though. You could still tell the body had once been a real, living person, but only just. A patch of skin and scorched hair remained on the scalp, and a single shoe was recognisable on one foot, the melted plastic hanging down in stalactites. Beneath the body, mixed with the ash, the melted flesh had hardened in greasy pools. The man himself might as well have been carved from black wood. The mouth was little more than a gaping hole.
