by Tom Gabbay
23.
Boyd didn't hear the phone ringing until she stepped out of the shower. Slipping into her dressing gown, she noted that it was a blocked number and picked up.
"Boyd," she said, rubbing her hair down with a hand towel.
"Ah, good morning, Detective..." It was an unfamiliar voice but she could tell right away that he was a cop. "This is D.I. John Nichols at Wandsworth station. Sorry to ring so early on a Sunday, but I've got a customer down here that I think you might want to have a chat with."
"Oh?" Boyd perked up. "In what regard?"
"In regard to Mia Fraser."
The bedside clock read 8:27 AM. "I can be there by ten," she said.
"Great," Nichols replied. "I'll meet you at the detention centre. Know where you're going?"
Boyd said that she did and they ended the call. After quickly dressing she found Leonard in front of his bedroom mirror, in a crisp white shirt and grey slacks, struggling to get his tie right. "Damn thing keeps coming up short," he grumbled, hand shaking as he pulled the knot apart and lined it up again.
"You don't have to wear a tie if you don't want to, Dad."
"Well, I want to."
"Let me help you then." She took a step into the room but his look stopped her in mid-step.
"I can still tie me own tie, thank you very much. I'll be out shortly."
The trip to the Hounslow hospice, where Leonard's older brother, Trevor, was in care, had been planned since the previous weekend, when Boyd learned from her cousin Alice that time was short. The brothers, who were eight year apart, had never been especially close -- they hadn't seen each other in years -- but Trevor was Leonard's only surviving sibling and Boyd understood how important the visit was to her father.
"We'll have to make a stop in Wandsworth," she said when he finally appeared in the sitting room, his tie the perfect length.
"What's in Wandsworth?"
"I have to see someone. It won't take long and it's more or less on the way."
Leonard managed a weak smile. "All right, sweetheart."
After a couple of attempts at small talk, Boyd got the message that her father preferred to be left alone with his thoughts, so they drove most of the journey in silence. It gave her time to wonder who Wandsworth had in custody and what light he or she might be able to shed on the Mia Fraser murder. A new lead would certainly be timely. The composite drawing had gone nowhere and, with nothing else to pursue, the case was in danger of slipping into cold storage.
Nichols was sitting in the otherwise empty lobby of the detention centre, eyes closed, listening to music on his earbuds. It was obvious from the jeans, old jumper, and blue gilet he was wearing that it wasn't a work day for him, either.
Boyd leaned over and poked his arm. "Detective Nichols?"
He opened his eyes, pulled the buds out, and produced a slightly embarrassed smile as he stood up. "Ahh... hello. You must be -- "
"Sarah Boyd." She offered her hand.
"John Nichols," he reciprocated. In his mid-thirties, with curly black hair, he had a pleasant, honest face. Boyd absentmindedly checked her watch.
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."
"No, no, not a problem. Just got here myself." He smiled again and glanced over at Leonard, who'd stopped at the door to look at the postings on a bulletin board.
"Oh, that's my father," Boyd explained. "We've got a family thing after this, so..."
"Got it," Nichols said. "He okay to wait out here?"
"Yes, of course," she said, then called out. "Dad!"
He looked over and smiled.
"This is Detective Inspector John Nichols. He's going to take me inside to interview his prisoner."
Leonard stepped up and offered his hand. "Detective Chief Inspector Leonard Boyd," he announced, then added with a wink, "Retired."
"Good to meet you, sir." They shared a firm handshake. "Like father, like daughter, eh?"
"Taught her everything she knows."
"I'll bet you did."
"Right, so..." Boyd stepped in. "Dad, you'll have to stay out here while Detective Nichols and I go inside. There are some magazines on the table, why don't you choose one and I'll be back as quickly as I can."
"Sure." Leonard gave her a peeved look. "You do what you have to do. Don't worry about me." He stood there until Boyd and Nichols had disappeared through the security door, then he picked up an out of date copy of The Radio Times, sat down, and turned to a random page.
"Nice man, your dad," Nichols commented as they walked a long grey corridor lined with blue steel doors.
"Thank you. Yes, he is."
"Where was he based?"
"Enfield was his last posting," Boyd said. "He took early retirement a couple of years ago."
"I understand," Nichols said and Boyd gave him a look.
"Do you?"
He nodded. "I went through it with my mum. It's not easy."
"No, it's not."
They reached the end of the corridor and stopped in front of a door marked 'Interrogation Room.'
"Right!" Nichols opened the case folder he'd been carrying and read from the arrest report. "Peter Alan Greene. Twenty-six years old, no fixed address. A few minor arrests, all drug related, with the exception of a GBH a couple of years ago. No convictions, but several cautions."
"What's the connection to Mia Fraser?"
"He was picked up in a raid on a drug distribution house in East Putney early this morning." He handed her a plastic sleeve that contained the collection of news clippings that had been found in Peter's closet. "He seems to have a special interest in your case."
Boyd could see that certain passages had been underlined. "Has he been interviewed?" she asked.
Nichols shook his head. "I thought you'd want first crack."
"Thank you," she said as they entered. "I do."
Peter was seated in the small, windowless room, head bowed, hands folded together on the table. He looked up when Boyd and Nichols entered, but said nothing.
"Good morning."
Boyd took the seat opposite and conspicuously turned on the recording equipment. Nichols remained standing, leaning against a wall near the door.
"I'm Detective Inspector Sarah Boyd and I'm going to be asking you a few questions," she began. "Also present is Detective Inspector John Nichols. You should know, Mister Greene, that this interview is being recorded and in the event that you are charged with a crime, you will be given access to a copy of the recording. Do you understand?"
He was silent. Boyd waited to establish eye contact before she repeated the question.
"Do you understand what I said, Mister Greene?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"Good. Thank you." She opened the file on the table in a way that allowed him to see the plastic sleeve holding the clippings. "Now, if you could, Mister Greene, please explain how you knew Mia Fraser."
No response. Just an icy stare.
"Did you have a personal relationship with her?"
Still nothing.
"Had you ever been intimate with her?"
Peter looked away and faked a laugh.
"Had you ever spoken to her?"
"I got nothing to say to you," he mumbled.
"I see." Boyd turned to Nichols. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think he fancied her and she told him to piss off."
Nichols looked Peter up and down. "Yes, that makes sense. I mean, why would a beautiful young girl like that have any interest in a born loser like him? Yeah. I think you've got it. She rejected him so he killed her. I'd put money on it."
"Fuck you, mate." Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"I think we struck a nerve," Boyd said.
Peter shook his head. "What a joke!"
"Really?" Boyd leaned forward. "You find the killing of an innocent young girl laughable, do you?"
Peter reverted to silence.
"All right," Boyd continued. "Let's start at
the beginning. Where did you first come into contact with Mia Fraser?"
"I didn't say I ever did, did I?"
"You might as well tell us because it will be very easy for us to establish whether or not you knew her. It would be far better for you if we got that information from you."
He gave her a long look. "I didn't kill her."
"Well, you certainly seem to have had a special interest in the gory details. Personally, I’d call it a rather sick interest." She picked up the plastic sleeve and read from the top clipping: "'...the nineteen year-old art student suffered multiple stab wounds and was pronounced dead at the scene.' Why did you underline that bit, Peter? The bit about 'multiple stab wounds.'"
"Last I heard there's no law against reading a newspaper."
"Did it turn you on?"
Peter looked away and Nichols spoke up again.
"I'll bet he liked to take them out at night and read them over and over. It would have helped him to re-live the experience. To go over it, moment by moment."
"Is that right, Peter?" Boyd tried to establish eye contact again, but this time he avoided her look. "You clearly enjoyed reading about it. Was it to help you to re-live the experience, like Detective Nichols said?"
"That's ridiculous," Peter scoffed.
Boyd could see that he was becoming agitated. "All right," she said. "Let's just go with the facts. Such as, where were you on the night of September twenty-third last year?"
Peter sat back in his chair, gave her a nasty look, then turned to Nichols.
"I want a lawyer," he said.
24.
Reaching into the darkness, Ula located her phone on the bedside table and swiped her finger across the front panel, bringing the screen to life. 6:53 AM. She'd slept badly, lying awake for hours before finally drifting off, only to be roused by yet another troubled dream that slipped out of her grasp as soon as she re-entered consciousness.
Rolling onto her back, she slid a hand into her panties and allowed herself a moment of pleasure. It was a rare indulgence, and she always felt ashamed afterward, but it provided relief from the increasing angst that gripped her, day and night, over the past few weeks. The comfort was fleeting, of course, and only served to make her feel a little more empty inside, a little more alone.
She slipped out of bed, picked up her cane, and limped into the bathroom to wash her hands. Alone for most of her life, Ula had never felt lonely until she lost Mia. It was difficult to say what had been different about the young artist, but from the moment she turned up on the doorstep, with that beautiful, open smile and the soft, friendly southern American accent, Ula had been won over. She'd always dismissed the idea of 'love' as an embarrassing fabrication created by song writers and novelists, but if such a thing as heartbreak existed, this was it.
There was no food in the kitchen, at least nothing worth eating, and Ula had no appetite anyway. Filling the kettle, she stared out the rain-splattered back window and cast her mind back to the night, four months earlier, when she and Mia sat in that very room, drinking wine as they prepared their one and only meal together. Strange, she thought, to have seen that evening through Mia's eyes, and how different the young girl's experience had been from her own. She hadn't been aware of Ula's heart pounding with excitement as they spoke, or her hands trembling as she tried to cut the vegetables for the sauce, and Mia had no idea about the shiver that went up Ula's spine when her new housemate reached across the table and touched her arm. Perhaps she should have confessed her feelings, but there was so little time.
Carrying her tea into the sitting room, Ula was drawn to the piano. She hadn't played in longer than she could remember, but something made her take a seat on the bench and open the fallboard. After sitting there for several minutes, eyes closed, her hands moved, in a seemingly involuntary movement, onto the keys. The notes came effortlessly, some deeply rooted memory guiding her fingers; some new, unfamiliar emotion inspiring a flawlessly tender performance of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Of all the mysteries in life, 'falling in love' might be the most bewildering. Why and when it happens is as inexplicable as why the vibrations from a particular group of tightly wound steel strings, when organised in a certain way, can make a human cry. But, in the end, the how and why of losing your heart to another doesn't really matter. For whatever reason, Mia became the receptacle for all the years of Ula's unspent affections and then, as suddenly as she was found, she was lost.
Ula dried her tears and curled up on the sofa under the woollen blanket she'd had since childhood. Erik was a selfish bastard, she thought, and one way or another she would have to prevent him from taking over Mia's memory. But he was right in his analysis. She no longer cared about revealing the murderer's identity. In fact, now that she knew what it was to see through Mia's eyes, it was the last thing she wanted to experience. She just wanted to go back there, to recapture the past and yes, even to change it. Was there anything wrong with that? Given the opportunity, wouldn't any one of us accept a second chance?
Daylight was fading when she was roused by the sound of the doorbell. Sitting up slowly, she reached for her cane, but it wasn't where it should have been. Disoriented and not yet fully awake, she surveyed the room and saw that it had been left on the piano, laid out across the keyboard. Strange, she thought. Why would she have left it there? And how?
The bell went again, more persistent this time. Dragging herself off the sofa, Ula crossed the room to retrieve the walking stick, then made her way to the entrance hall and opened the door. She remembered the detective's face but not her name.
"I’m sorry to disturb you again, Ms. Mishkin, but if it's convenient I'd very much appreciate a few moments of your time." Met with a vacant stare, and aware of Ula's memory issues, Boyd started over. "Sorry," she said. "I'm Detective Inspector Sarah Boyd. I was here a few days ago with -- "
"The drawing. Yes, I remember."
"That's right." Boyd smiled, but it seemed disingenuous to Ula. "It would be very helpful if I could have a few minutes of your time."
"Does it have to be now?"
"If you don't mind."
Ula hesitated, then nodded and stepped aside.
"Thank you," Boyd said as she crossed the threshold. "I promise it won't take long."
Ula was suddenly aware that she was still in her pyjamas and dressing gown. "I... I should get dressed," she said.
"Yes, of course." Boyd replied, smiling again. "Take your time. I'll wait here."
As Ula disappeared up the stairs, Boyd edged away from the door to have a look around. There was a strange, somewhat unsettling energy in the house -- a sense that something, or someone was lurking around the corner. A less rational person might have attributed the unexplained undercurrent to a ghostly presence, but Boyd dismissed all that otherworldly nonsense. She was simply curious.
Stepping into the sitting room, she gravitated to the same group of photographs, sitting atop the piano, that Mia had come across on her first night in the house. The smallest photo, in black and white, showed a young woman standing outside an institutional-looking building in a wide open, rural setting. In her mid-twenties and wearing a white lab coat, the woman's pose was noticeably stiff, showing only a trace of a smile on her thin lips. The year, 1974, was scrawled in the lower righthand corner of the picture, along with a few words written in Russian. The second photograph, in faded colour, featured the same woman, but this time she was standing in front of the house on Highbury Crescent, clutching a pram that held identical twins. Bundled up in matching hats and coats in spite of the springlike weather, the two infants stared out at the photographer with the same solemn expression their mother exhibited. The third and final photograph depicted the woman, perhaps a bit older, standing with a group of men in front of a chalkboard that held a long mathematical equation. Unlike the men, who seemed happy and collegial, the woman stood apart and gazed off into the distance, as if completely unaware of her surroundings.
Boyd replaced the
photos back onto the piano and moved to the bookshelves, which were filled with an eclectic mix of old art books, hardcover copies of classical musical compositions, and a large number of thick volumes of works in physics and biology. Noticing what looked like an old journal wedged between the paintings of Marc Chagall and a treatise on thermodynamics by German physicist Max Planck, Boyd pulled it off the shelf and turned to the first faded page. The author had inscribed her name at the top -- Olga Mishkin -- along with the date of the journal's initial entry, which was 01.01.1970. Below that was a two paragraph entry, written in Russian, which included a couple of mathematical formulas and, at the bottom of the page, a small pencil sketch of a sleeping cat.
Leafing through the remainder of the diary, Boyd found that the writings became increasingly erratic. The words no longer fell in a straight lines across the page, letters were exaggerated in size or printed backwards, and the drawings became progressively sinister, with an assortment of monsters and demons replacing the sleeping cats and flowers of the earlier pages. In the last few entries, entire passages were crossed out and on the final page, dated 10.10.1996, the words had been so thoroughly scratched out with black ink that the paper had started to tear.
"Why are you looking at that?"
Boyd spun around to find Ula standing behind her. "Oh..." She closed the journal. "Sorry, I was just admiring the collection..."
Ula stepped forward, took the book out of Boyd's hand, and replaced it on the shelf. "I live alone so I'm not used to locking the doors." She turned away and limped toward the hallway.
"I do apologise," Boyd said, following her out of the room. "I had no business -- "
"Did you want to ask me something?" Ula interrupted as she shut the sitting room door behind them.
"Yes... Yes, I did." Boyd reached into her coat pocket and handed Ula a photograph. "I wondered if you recognise this man."
Ula drew a sharp breath. "Peter," she whispered.
"You know him?"
"No, I... I don't think so. No, I don't."
"But you know his name."
"Yes, I... I just remembered it. When I saw the picture."
"Sorry," Boyd said. "I'm a bit confused. You don't know him, but you recognised his picture right away and you know his name."
