The Case

I was leaving home for work yesterday and stopped in my tracks upon noticing a small black leather case on the pathway leading to my front door. I decided to video capture my discovery, and, using my phone in one hand, I lifted the case and opened it. It was empty except for two cards in a clear plastic sleeve. One was a BMW service card for roadside assistance, and the other was a business card for a BMW sales executive named Graham Weaver. I read the card aloud, remarked how strange and joked that perhaps I was Graham Weaver before posting it as a story on Instagram.

I tried calling the number on the card but nobody answered so I took the case inside and left for work.

I returned home in the evening, having forgotten about the case. I recently started a job selling solar door-to-door and my feet were tired from walking all afternoon. I took off my shoes and decided to make dinner. I transferred some leftover roast chicken from the fridge to the oven and then started browsing my phone.

I found a response to my Insta story from my friend, Emma:

Someone likely had their car broken into and this is stuff from the glove box. They drop it once they see it has no value.

That must be it. I replied. The scanario seemed plausible.

OR you are Graham Weaver!!!

I chuckled and called the number on Graham Weaver's card again. No answer. I stopped the call, remembering that I’d hidden my phone number for work calls. I texted the number on the card and left a message,

Hello, my name is Tim Holland. This morning I found your card/case on my front path. I tried the number on the card but didn’t get through to anyone. It just occurred to me that your car is probably stolen?

I returned to my bedroom and found a text response from Graham Weaver’s number,

Hi Tim, what is the name on the card?

Graham Weaver. I replied.

No response came.

I showered, changed into a Tshirt and pants, and eventually sent one more text,

Well, let me know if you want the case. Otherwise I’ll probably throw it out.

A few minutes later I received a reply,

Hi Tim, It’s Graham’s wife. Can i call you?

Sorry, my husband passed away three weeks ago and I am a bit confused. What case/card can be found. Would you mind to send a photo of the case?

Oh, I’m sorry, I replied and sent a photo of the case.

A few seconds later my phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Hello, Tim?” The accent was Russian, her voice was slightly taught.

“Yeah, hi, so I found the case this morning. It’s empty, except for the card. I’m guessing it was stolen and ended up discarded on my front path. Was your car stolen?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

“Do you mind if I come and collect the case?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll be home in the morning.”

“Thank you, I’ll call before I come.”

“Can I ask, how did your husband die?”

There was silence.

“He died from cancer.”

“I see, I’m sorry. Can I ask your name?”

“My name is Olga.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow, Olga.”

“Thank you. See you then.”

I put the phone down, paused, and picked it back up. I went to my Instagram and deleted the story.

I ate the leftover chicken and chatted privately with some friends online about the bizarre circumstances of the case.

You should ask for a BMW as a reward! One friend said.

Maybe he’s having an affair and faked his own death!! Another friend quipped.

Next I’ll receive a key that opens a blue box!? I said, in a lame allusion to Lynch’s Mulholland Drive.

The jokes didn’t feel okay but it had been a long day. I was genuinely intrigued to meet Olga and learn more about the circumstances of the case.

I received a comment from another friend, Amanda:

Stolen car …?

I replied, sharing what I’d learned from Olga, that her husband had died.

Wtf … how did he die???

Cancer. I replied.

That’s terribly sad. The case is also freaky and strange.

I noticed that Amanda had shared a link. I clicked on it and it took me to Graham Weaver's Facebook page. Graham's profile photos were all of Graham and Olga, embracing, with warm smiles, clearly in love. Graham was a big friendly looking guy and Olga looked happy and radiant. They seemed to be in their late thirties, early forties. Younger than I’d expected. I scrolled the page and read a series of tributes and farewell comments from their many friends. One photo showed Graham and his brother, both handsome with strong similar features.

I woke at four in the morning, feeling sick and remembered that the chicken I’d reheated was over five days old. I slept in till 9am and then got up and cleaned the house.

I received a message at 11am that Olga was on her way. Twenty minutes later, I greeted her at my front door. She smiled politely. I handed her Graham’s case and invited her in for a cup of tea.

“Thank you but my mother-in-law is waiting in the car.” A red hatchback was parked on the roadside.

“Of course,” I motioned to the path behind her. “I found the case lying there yesterday morning. Was his car broken into?”

“No, my husband spent the last few years in hospital and actually hasn’t sold cars for six years.”

I did some basic arithmetic. “So, a car your husband sold previously was broken into.”

“I think so. I thought when I got your message that it must be a scam because he passed only weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you with it.” I said.

“My husband sold many cars and he would leave these cases in their cars. If he had got the message I’m sure he would have told you to throw it away but …”

Olga’s eyes misted over as she lifted the case to her chest.

“Thank you for making contact. And not just throwing it away.”

“You’re welcome.” I said.

She smiled graciously and left.