Access Point

by Tom Gabbay

  Ula couldn't stop looking at the photograph. "He did it," she said after a long pause. "He killed her."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because he said he would."

  "This man threatened Mia?"

  "Yes."

  "He said he would kill her?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you witness him making that threat?"

  "Yes..." She paused and finally looked up from the photo. "I mean no."

  Boyd frowned. "Which is it?"

  "I... No. I wasn't there."

  "Then how do you know he threatened her? Did Mia tell you about it?"

  "Yes." Ula handed the photo back. "In a way."

  "In a way?"

  "Yes."

  "You're going to have to be more specific."

  Ula nodded. "I'll try, but... Have I told you about the problems I have with my memory?"

  "Yes, I understand about that. But it's very important that you give me a clear and honest account of everything you know about Mia and this man, and how you know it. I'm happy to take your statement here, or if you prefer, we can do it in a more official setting, at the precinct."

  It was a clumsy threat, but it worked, as Boyd knew it would. Feeling that she needed time to organise her thoughts, Ula suggested they sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.

  "Did Mia have a relationship with this man, Peter Greene?" Boyd activated the voice recorder on her phone as Ula sat down.

  "Yes," Ula replied. "But it was over. She'd ended it before she came to live here."

  "And he was upset about that?"

  Ula nodded. "He followed her everywhere. He'd wait outside the art college and say things to intimidate her."

  "Was that where he threatened to kill her?"

  Ula thought for a moment. "No. That was at a party. There were lots of people there, and it was very noisy. I tried to leave but he grabbed me by the wrist and wouldn’t let go."

  "Grabbed you?"

  "I meant Mia. He grabbed Mia."

  "And that's when he threatened to kill her?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know what exactly he said?"

  Ula closed her eyes to help her recall the moment. "He said, 'If you're fucking somebody else, I'll fucking kill you both.'"

  "I see. And you know this in such detail because..."

  "Mia told me."

  Boyd noticed a slight hesitation in Ula's response. "Did Peter Greene ever appear at this property?"

  "No," Ula replied. "He never came here. I would have known about it if he did."

  Boyd paused. Something wasn't right and she needed a moment to consider the best approach. "The problem I'm having, Ula..." she began after a moment. "...is that the last time we spoke, you told me that you never discussed Mia's personal life with her. Now you say that she confided to you all the intimate details of her failed relationship. Why didn't you tell me about this threat when we first spoke, four months ago?"

  Ula frowned and allowed herself a sip of tea. "I sometimes have trouble remembering," she said. "As a result of my injury."

  "Yes, I appreciate that," Boyd replied. "And it's a reasonable explanation for why you might've forgotten your conversation with Mia. But there's another point that's not so easily explained."

  "Yes?"

  "If you weren't present when Peter confronted Mia outside the college, or at the party, and you're certain that he never came to the house, how is it that you recognised his photo?"

  Ula had no satisfactory answer. She couldn't tell the truth, of course, and Boyd wouldn't have believed her even if she did. In the end, she mumbled something about Mia showing her a picture on her phone, but Boyd knew a blatant lie when she heard one.

  25.

  The streets were jammed with Sunday evening traffic heading back into the capital so it was after seven by the time Boyd pulled into the drive. She'd tried calling Leonard several times along the way, but kept getting the 'Please Try Again Later' message. His phone had likely run out of battery, as was often the case, but it was still a concern.

  She'd spent most of the journey thinking through her conversation with Ula. None of the information she provided could be used to make the case -- even if it wasn't hearsay, you could hardly find a worse witness than someone who keeps telling you they suffer from memory loss. But while her account was confused, and even a bit strange, Ula had established in Boyd's mind that Mia and Peter Greene had been involved in a romantic relationship, and that when she dumped him he stalked her and threatened her life. A crime of passion certainly fit the particulars of the attack, and this wouldn't be the first time a woman died because a man couldn't handle rejection. But she would need some pretty conclusive evidence to charge him with the murder. Or a confession.

  She found Leonard in the kitchen, carving up a roast chicken. "Hello sweetheart!" He turned and gave her a broad grin as she entered. "Perfect timing. I thought I'd do us a chicken. I hope you're hungry."

  "Now that you mention it, I'm absolutely starving."

  "Good. I've got roasties and cauliflower cheese in the oven. I can't guarantee the gravy, but I've had a go at it."

  "Wow... You did this all yourself?"

  "Oh, well, now you've caught me out. The truth is I've got bloody Jamie Oliver tied up in the back room. Of course I did it myself! I'm not totally incapable, you know. Not yet!"

  "I know that, I just... I don't remember you ever cooking, that's all. It was always mum."

  "Well, everybody's gotta start somewhere. So why don't you get us each a lager from that secret hiding place you've got under the carrots and then set the table. We'll eat in the dining room for a change."

  "All right then," Boyd said, pretty close to speechless. "Two lagers coming up."

  It had been ages since they'd used the dining room, which was usually reserved for visitors, and they'd stopped coming months ago. The normal routine was to sit in front of the telly with a takeaway or a ready meal and watch the news or some nonsensical game show until they were both too tired to keep their eyes open. It was a pleasant change to see the good plates and cutlery out on the table, and to have the comforting scent of a Sunday roast fill the house.

  Whatever had passed between the two brothers at the hospice, it seemed to have taken a great weight off Leonard's mind. He was more relaxed and engaged than Boyd had seen him a very long time. She had hung back, in the outer room, chatting with cousin Alice while Leonard sat at his older brother's bedside, holding his hand as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Boyd knew there were issues between the two men that had gone unresolved for many years, but her sense was that it had all melted away without having to be directly addressed. Just being there, and perhaps sharing a memory or two, was enough to make things right.

  "Have you ever seen a Sunday roast as pretty as that?" Leonard stood back from the table and admired his work.

  "Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks," Boyd replied with a smile.

  "Well, let's dig in and find out!"

  The conversation continued to focus on how wonderful the meal was for several minutes, and that led into memories of Sunday dinners past, which were always preceded by a long walk in Trent Park.

  "Do you remember the time we lost Roxie?" Boyd asked, referring to the black Dachshund who was a constant companion for the first ten years of her life.

  "Oh, yes, I do," Leonard replied even though he didn't. "She wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, was she?"

  "She was sweet."

  "Right. Sweet and thick as a brick."

  Boyd smiled at the memory. "I remember when I asked how you knew where to find her, you said you had to think like a dog."

  "Is that what I said? Think like a dog?"

  "I had no idea what it meant."

  He chuckled. "I suppose it means follow your nose."

  "Well, I was very impressed. And grateful."

  Leonard paused, then reached over and put his hand over his daughter's hand. "Listen, sweetheart," he said. "I want to tal
k to you about something."

  Boyd suddenly understood what the dinner was all about. It was a conversation she dreaded, but she'd known for some time that it was coming. "All right, Dad," she said. "You have me well primed. But you know how I feel."

  "Yes, I know how you feel, darling. But we have to face facts. There's going to come a time..."

  "That may be, but we're not there yet."

  Leonard sat back in his chair and frowned. "I'm afraid we might be getting pretty close. And, you know, the last thing I ever wanted to be is a burden."

  "You're not a burden, Dad. I think you proved that today."

  "Listen, sweetheart. You have to get on with your own life. How are you going to do that while you're stuck here looking after me?"

  "Dad -- "

  He raised his hand to stop her. "Now listen," he said in his father voice. "It's not all about me being noble and unselfish, either. I have a certain amount of pride -- as you well know -- and I don't particularly like being treated like a five year-old by my own daughter."

  "Dad, I try not to -- "

  "I'm not saying I don't deserve to be treated like a five year-old. I'm saying I don't like it."

  Boyd leaned forward, folded her hands onto the table, and gave her father a look. "Okay, now you listen to me, Dad. You're not going anywhere. We're both going to stay right here and make this work, just as we have been for the past seven months. If it gets to the point where I can't handle it, I promise that I'll let you know, but until then, that's the plan. Okay?"

  Leonard gave her a gentle smile, nodded his head, and said, "Okay. For now, anyway."

  That settled, they returned to a discussion on how good the dinner was. Boyd volunteered for clean up duty, but Leonard insisted on giving her a hand. As she finished scrubbing out the last pot and gave it to him for drying, she ventured a question that she'd wanted to ask for some time, but hadn't had the nerve.

  "Can you tell me what it's like, Dad?"

  "What what's like, sweetheart?"

  "Your episodes. I mean, do you feel them coming on, or... I don't know. Perhaps it's too difficult to describe."

  Leonard thought about it for a moment. "Well..." He tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling as he thought about it. "It's not as though I'm aware of anything happening. And it seems to come out of the blue, without any warning whatsoever. At least none I'm aware of. I could be feeling quite clear and sharp -- as I am right now -- and then... How to explain it? I suppose it’s a bit like going into a tunnel, but without knowing you're in it. And the tunnel keeps getting more and more narrow, until it finally goes totally dark and..."

  He frowned, struggling to find the words. Boyd wished she hadn't put him on the spot like that.

  "You lose yourself," he finally continued. "Perhaps that's the best way to describe it. You lose yourself. Does that make any sense?"

  "Yes... Yes, it does. Thank you."

  "I wish I could explain it better."

  "No, you did well."

  "Good." He winked and his expression went from serious to suddenly mischievous. "How about I ask you a question now?"

  "Okay," she replied cautiously. "Go on."

  "What did you think of that detective chap this morning?"

  Boyd hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't that. "Detective Nichols?"

  "That's the one."

  She laughed. "I don't know what to think of him. I don't know him."

  Leonard shrugged. "He seemed like a nice chap. And he's a cop. You two would have a lot in common."

  "All right, Dad. That's enough."

  "I'm just saying, that's all. I mean, you know, sweetheart, you have to keep an eye out. You're not getting any younger. And I could tell he liked you by the way he -- "

  "Leave it, Dad, before you dig that hole any deeper."

  Leonard shrugged and Boyd flicked the kettle on. "I'm going to have a cup of tea. Would you like one?"

  "No, darling, that's me done. I'm off to bed." He gave her a peck on the cheek. "Don't stay up too late."

  "Goodnight, Dad."

  Boyd decided to make it an early night, as well. She checked the doors, carried her tea up to bed, and was soon in a deep, comforting sleep, taking one of those long Sunday walks in the park. The world was so detailed, so vivid and real, that she had to wonder how she had ever come to believe that mum and Roxie were gone forever.

  26.

  It was absolutely ridiculous to feel awkward, she knew that, but Leonard's comments the previous evening made Boyd hesitate for a beat before dialling. Yes, Detective Nichols seemed like a nice man, and he certainly wasn't hard to look at, but she never would've considered him in that light if her father hadn't said what he said. It was a bit annoying.

  "Ah, Boyd..." Nichols picked up on the first ring. "I was just about to call you."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Our man seems to have secured himself a duty solicitor. So if you want another go at him, you've got the all clear."

  "I would, yes. As soon as possible."

  "Right. I'll get on to counsel and get you a time."

  "Great. Thank you."

  "No problem. I'll give you a buzz."

  "I'll wait to hear from you."

  Boyd put the phone down, shook her head, and frowned as she checked her email. It had been over a year since things petered out with the paramedic, but she was quite happy with the way things stood at the moment. Between her case load and looking after Leonard there was no room for anything else, not now and not in the foreseeable future. She was getting on just fine without a man, in spite of what Leonard thought, so she would just have to put those thoughts out of her mind and get on with the tasks at hand.

  No response from Baynard yet. She'd sent the Chief Inspector a message on the departmental system about an hour earlier, detailing the developments in Mia's case. She didn't expect anything other than the usual "follow up and don't screw up" reply, and she would've preferred to wait until there was something a bit more conclusive to report, but it was wise to keep the C.I. in the loop. He always seemed to find out anyway.

  Retrieving the case file, which she kept locked in the bottom drawer of her desk, she opened to the top sheet. Skimming over the basic facts -- nineteen years old at the time of her death, 168 cm in height, hazel eyes, dark brown hair (dyed blonde), one small tattoo of a red rose on her left ankle, and no discernible scars -- she skipped ahead to the transcripts of various statements taken from friends, neighbours, and family until she found the one she was looking for.

  Katherine Anne Ellis. The interview had been taken by a colleague, but Boyd remembered that the girl -- who went by the nickname "Kat" -- had become extremely distressed when she was informed of her friend's fate. Boyd also recalled, although her memory was a bit vague, that when she was interviewed on the day after the murder, she'd indicated that Mia had recently split up with a boyfriend. Locating the relevant exchange in the transcript, she read the following:

  Question:​Did Mia ever discuss with you, or are you aware of, any intimate relationships she was currently involved in?

  Response:​No, she wasn't seeing anyone. Not that I know about anyway, and she would've told me if she was.

  Question:​Are you aware of any relationships that she might have been involved with in the recent past? One that might have ended recently?

  Response:​No, not really.

  Question:​As far as you know, was she seeing anyone in the ten month period that you shared a house with her?

  Response:​Well, yes, she did, but I wouldn't call any of them a relationship, as such... She was sort of seeing one until pretty recently. But like I said, I wouldn't call it a relationship.

  Question:​What can you tell me about it?

  Response:​Not a lot, really. I never met him and Mia didn't say much about it. I don't think she took it very seriously. Met him at a pub, I think, and... well, you know. It was just a thing.

  Question:​Yes, of course. Can you remember his
name?

  Response:​God... No. She might have told me but if she did, I don't remember it.

  Question:​All right. If it does come back to you --

  Response:​Peter. That's it. I remember now. His name was Peter.

  Question:​How about a surname?

  Response:​No, she definitely never told me that.

  The interviewer went on to ask if Kat could recall any other information that might help identify the mysterious Peter, such as where he lived or his occupation, but to no end. Boyd recalled that other friends and fellow students at St. Martins had been asked about him, but none of them knew anything about the relationship.

  Well, now the connection was made.

  The phone interrupted her thoughts. "Okay, done," Nichols informed her. "Ten-thirty this morning work for you?" Boyd checked her watch. It gave her ninety minutes to get across the river.

  She wasn't sure what pissed her off more, the smug look on Peter Greene's face or the fact that his solicitor was twenty minutes late. She was tempted to go ahead and start the interview, but anything she got now was certain to be excluded in the courtroom. So she sat there at the interview table, Detective Nichols at her side, pretending not to care.

  "Looks like your counsel doesn't have a lot of time for you," Nichols said, if only to break the silence.

  Peter just kept grinning.

  "That's all right," the detective continued. "It gives me a chance to apologise for the accommodation."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. But not to worry. We're working on getting you an upgrade to The Scrubs."

  Boyd couldn't help smiling. The infamous Wormwood Scrubs was widely known as a violent hell hole, a hard time prison infested with rats, cockroaches, and the dregs of humanity. Its mention did manage to wipe the smirk off Peter's face, albeit temporarily.

  "Sorry I'm late!"

  The door opened and a birdlike man in a disheveled blue suit entered the room. In his mid-thirties, with a scruffy beard, he wore rimless glasses and was going prematurely bald. After a terse smile and a nod in the detectives' direction, he took a seat beside his client. "I hope you've respected Mister Greene's right to remain silent," he said.