by Tom Gabbay
"He's not exactly chatty," Nichols replied.
"Glad to hear it." He gave Peter a nod then reached across the table to offer Boyd a handshake. "Mark Bailey," he said with a smile. "I'll be representing Mister Greene."
Boyd introduced herself as the lead investigator and asked if he was ready to begin the interview.
"Absolutely." He placed his briefcase on the table. "Ready when you are."
Boyd activated the recording system and began by logging the time, date, location, and names of the four individuals in attendance. Then she paused, taking her time to fill her glass from the jug of water that was provided.
"Good morning, Mister Greene," she finally said, looking up at Peter. He looked to his solicitor for permission to speak, and got the nod.
"Yeah, hi," he said.
"Firstly," Boyd began. "I want you to be aware that this interview is being conducted in connection with the murder of Ms. Mia Fraser, in Highbury, London, on the night of the twenty-third of September of last year. Is that clear for you?"
"Yeah, whatever."
"And I would also like you to be aware that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?"
Again, Peter looked to his solicitor and again got the go ahead. "Yeah, I got it," he said.
"Right then." Boyd forced a smile. "Let's start with the newspaper clippings that were found in a shoe box at the bottom of your wardrobe when you were arrested at 45 Strathan Close in East Putney yesterday morning."
"What about them?"
"Can you confirm that they are, in fact, your clippings?"
Peter looked to his solicitor for the third time, and once again he nodded. "Yeah, they're mine."
"You cut them out and kept them?"
"That's right."
"And you made certain notations on the clippings."
"Yeah, I wrote on them."
"Right," Boyd continued. "Can you explain why you would have done that."
"Not really," Peter replied.
"Would it be fair to say you had a special interest in the details of this crime?"
"I wouldn't say it is."
"All right. We can come back to that." She paused again. "Let's talk about the nature of your relationship with the victim."
"Who says I had one?"
"Did you know Mia Fraser?"
Another look to his solicitor and another nod. "Yeah, I knew her."
"Can you describe your relationship with her?"
The smirk took on a depraved bent. "How much detail do you want?"
Boyd met the look head on. "I take it from that response that you and Ms. Fraser had a sexual relationship. Is that correct?"
"Yeah, we had a sexual relationship," Peter replied. "She couldn't get enough of me."
"Until she dumped you," Nichols interjected.
"Who said she dumped me?"
"You were playing out of your league, mate. You got lucky one night and when she woke up she realised what a loser she'd hooked up with."
"You got no idea what you're talking about." Boyd noted that the smirk was gone, replaced by something resembling a scowl. "If anyone dumped anyone, it was me what dumped her."
"That's not what I've heard." Boyd picked up the interview again. "I heard she ended it."
"Well, that's bullshit. She probably told her friends that because she was embarrassed about it."
Both Boyd and Nichols were surprised by the duty solicitor's silence. They would usually make an objection here and there, even if groundless, if only to interrupt the flow of the interview. But this one seemed quite happy to sit back and listen.
"In fact," Boyd continued, "I have information that you were quite upset when Mia ended the relationship. So upset that you stalked her -- "
Bailey finally spoke up. "I don't think the word 'stalked' is quite appropriate," he said. "It has connotations that could be misleading."
"All right." Boyd turned back to Peter. "You were so upset that you waited outside the art college she attended and accosted her -- "
The solicitor piped up again. "Not sure about 'accosted' either."
"How about confronted?"
"Yes, I'm happier with that."
Boyd gave him a look and continued. "You confronted her as she left the college. Is that accurate?"
Peter shrugged. "Don't remember."
"Do you remember following her to a party and confronting her there? And by confronting, I mean you grabbed hold of her wrist and tried to forcibly remove her from the premises. Do you recall that episode?"
Peter, who was looking increasingly nervous, turned to his solicitor. "It's all right," he said. "Answer truthfully."
Peter shrugged. "We might'a had a little spat. You know. Like you do."
"Were you angry with her?"
"No," he lied. "I weren't angry. It was nothing. No big deal."
"Did you threaten to kill her?"
"What?! Hey, no! No way!" he turned to his lawyer. "They can't say that, can they? It's total bullshit!"
"I've spoken with an individual who claims that you threatened to kill Ms. Fraser. They said your exact words were..." Boyd read Ula's quote from the notes she made after their meeting. "...'If you're fucking somebody else, I'll fucking kill you both.' Did you say those words, Mister Greene?"
"No way! I never did!"
"Are you quite sure about that?"
Peter turned to his lawyer. "Are you gonna step in here, or what?"
"Yes." Bailey sat forward. "At this point, as it seems quite clear that you have decided to consider my client as a suspect, I'd like to assure you that Mister Greene had nothing to do with the gruesome murder of Ms. Fraser."
"Excuse us if we don't take your word for it," Nichols said.
The lawyer looked to Boyd. "Am I correct that he is being considered a suspect?"
"He's a person of interest," she replied.
"Well..." Bailey opened his briefcase. "Allow me to disabuse you of that interest." He removed two grainy black and white photographs and pushed them across the table.
"These images were taken by the security camera at the Ladbrokes betting shop on Putney High Street on the night of the murder. They clearly show that my client, Peter Greene, entered the shop at 8:47 PM and left the premises approximately three hours later, at 11:58 PM. Since Mia Fraser was murdered sometime between 10:15 and 10:40 PM, there is no conceivable way my client could be in any way involved in her death. So... Would you like to proceed with the interview, or shall we agree that it would be pointless to continue?"
27.
Dreams. Deep, dark, disturbing dreams, steeped in blood and charged with fear. Fragments of rain-soaked violence playing out in a random, disjointed narrative, the images too graphic, the sensation too powerful to be contrived. A dog barked, a scream pierced the night, and --
Ula sat up sharply, heart pounding, unable to catch her breath. It took a moment to process her surroundings. The four poster bed, the dancing clown print on the wall, the cane by the side of the bed. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then fell back onto the pillow and reached for her phone. Half past ten. How could that be? She never slept past eight o'clock, and even that was a rarity.
What day was it?
Monday, the phone said. Monday, the twenty-fifth of January. She tried to remember Sunday. What time had she gone to bed? It was a blank. In fact, most of the day was missing.
The piano. Ah, yes. She'd played Moonlight Sonata. How odd, she thought, to sit down, after all the years, and to play so effortlessly. But what then? What happened after that? The detective. That's right. She'd been rude, prying into things that had nothing to do with her. Private things from the distant past that are better left alone. Ula had many times considered destroying her mother's diary, along with all the other unpleasant reminders, but something had prevented her. Somethin
g she couldn't explain.
She suddenly realised that Erik was coming. In fact, he might already be in the house. He had a key to the front door, perhaps he'd let himself in and was already at work. Pulling herself out of bed, Ula threw some clothes on, picked up her cane, and went straight up to the loft.
It was dark and empty, the equipment undisturbed. Turning around, she made her way back down the stairway onto the first floor landing. Something made her stop in front of Mia's room. Pushing the door open, she half expected to see the young girl sitting at her drawing board, working on her latest project. She would look up and smile and say, "Hey, Ula. How's it going?" and Ula would smile back and say, "Fine. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Of course it was all a fantasy. Nothing remotely like that had ever happened. Not that Ula could remember, anyway. But it was a nice moment to think about anyway.
Erik wasn't in the kitchen, either, or out in the garden, having a smoke, as he sometimes did. It was strange, Ula thought. He'd never been late in the past. Why today, after he'd made such an effort to take control of the study? Why, on the day that he expected to start hosting Mia's memory, would he fail to appear?
A wave of panic took hold of her. What if he had decided that he no longer needed her? What if he planned to keep Mia's memory to himself, to continue the study without her? He was selfish and underhanded enough to do something like that. He'd certainly proved that he couldn't be trusted.
Her alarm grew as she dialled his number.
"Hello..." The familiar voice came on the line. "This is the phone of Erik Berg. You may leave a message of any length after the tone. Please speak slowly and clearly and I will return the call at my earliest convenience. Thank you."
Ula hung up and stood there, frozen in thought. Be rational, she told herself. Don't jump to conclusions. Erik was an egotistical back-stabbing bastard, but he wouldn't be able to access Mia's memory files without the software. The security system she'd created would make it impossible to copy the programme and, on his own, Erik was incapable of re-creating it. Even if he went to someone who could -- if such a person existed -- it would take years of development to reach the level of sophistication she had achieved. No. Erik needed her as much as she needed him. Unless...
What if he'd stolen the programme disk at the same time he took Mia's memory drive? Given time, he would be able to figure out how to bypass its defences, and to build his own Impulse Receiver would be a relatively simple operation.
Moving as quickly as she could, Ula struggled up the stairs to the attic, her fears growing with each hobbled step. But as she approached the control panel her apprehension was replaced with bewilderment. Not only was the programme software intact, but Mia's memory drive was sitting on the worktop. A yellow post-it note was attached with two words written in big bold block letters:
YOU'RE WELCOME!
28.
"We arrive."
Nico pulled the car to the kerb in front of the house, turned the engine off, and killed the lights.
"Thanks," Mia said as she reached for the door. "Thanks for everything."
"No problem." The model flashed a smile. "You're okay now?"
"Yes, I'm fine, just really tired. But thanks again for your help." She started to open the door but Nico reached across and pulled it shut.
"You should stay," he said. "We can have a chat."
"Thanks, but I don't feel much like talking." His arm was pressing against Mia's breasts, his face so close she could smell the cheap cologne. "I'll see you at college," she said, feeling vaguely nauseous. "I just want to go in now."
"Tell me something." He sat back and withdrew his arm. "This asshole boy who makes the trouble. He was your boyfriend?"
"I guess so, more or less. But it's over now."
"Good." Nico looked her over. "Because you deserve something better than this."
Mia didn't want to be rude, but she was exhausted. "I'm sorry, Nico, but I'm not really up for talking right now. I appreciate everything you've done for me, but -- "
He moved closer. "Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Appreciate what I have done."
"Yes, of course I do, but -- "
"Then you can show me."
Mia's heart started to beat wildly. "Show you what?"
"The appreciation."
"Hey... listen... I don't know what you thought was going to happen here, but -- "
Before she could complete the sentence, he reached over, grabbed her hand, and pulled it onto his hard cock, which he'd somehow managed to slip out of his trousers. Mia yanked her hand away.
"Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you?!"
"Hey, don't worry!" Nico smiled again. "You gonna like it, I promise." He tried to grab her hand again, but Mia shoved it away.
"Asshole!"
She fumbled for the door but he grabbed her by the collar, pulled her back toward him, and tried to kiss her. Mia clenched her fist and brought it around hard, landing a direct hit on the side of his face. It took a beat for the blow to register, then he exploded in anger.
"Fucking bitch!"
He reared back and delivered a hard backhand, his pinkie ring cutting a gash above her eye. As blood spilled out from the wound, Mia went for the door again, but he dragged her back in. Grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, he pushed her head down into his lap and thrust his pelvis up into her face.
"You wanna make it like this?" he snarled. "Okay! We make it like this!"
Mia tried to resist, but he was too strong. She flailed about, struggling to breathe, until she was spent, unable to fight back. Nico had her jeans down around her knees and was groping her panties when there was an almighty CRASH! and the driver's side window exploded inward, showering the interior of the car with a cascade of sparkling glass fragments.
"What the fuck!"
Nico sprang bolt upright to find Ula standing at the window, wielding her cane like a bat, ready strike the next blow across the side of his head.
"Let her go," she said quietly.
"Are you crazy?!!"
Ula stepped forward and swung again, this time shattering the windscreen.
"Jesus fucking Christ! What's wrong with you?!!"
Ula brought the cane down yet again, this time blowing out the rear window.
"Okay! Okay!" Nico frantically reached across, opened the passenger side door, and pushed Mia out onto the pavement. "Get the fuck out! GO!!"
Scrambling for the ignition, he shoved the car into gear, and with a last indignant look at Ula, put his foot down and shot up the road, tyres squealing as the car spun around the corner and disappeared into the mist.
Ula lowered her cane and looked over at Mia, who was on the ground, sobbing as she pulled herself together. "You don't have to worry," she said in a whisper. "Nothing like this will ever happen to you again. I'm in control now."
29.
The day was not going well for Boyd. Following the disastrous Peter Greene interview, she headed back to Enfield, which meant sitting on the North Circular for roughly two hours, much of which was spent steaming over the duty solicitor -- whatever his name was -- for having set her up like that. The proper way to handle it would've been to take her aside before the interrogation began and show her the exculpatory evidence he'd uncovered. Of course, that would've robbed him of the story he'd be telling his colleagues over a pint that evening, recounting in full detail the look on the detectives' faces when he hit them with his client's air-tight alibi. The only consolation was knowing that the patently sick Peter Greene would be doing some significant hard time for the drug charges he still faced. Perhaps that would wipe the silly grin off his face once and for all.
The PING of an incoming text distracted her long enough that she failed to see the car in front come to stop. There was hardly a scratch on his rear bumper, but the driver -- a stocky northerner who claimed to be a driving instructor -- was concerned that there might be "untold internal damage to the vehicle" and insisted that he
would have to "have me neck looked at by a doctor." Boyd didn't like using her badge in this sort of situation, but this guy was a tosser and she just wasn't in the mood, so she made sure he saw her credentials as she took out her licence. The man was suddenly very friendly and all his health and safety issues miraculously disappeared, as did he.
The text was from Nichols. Nothing consequential. Just "thanks again for the coffee and let me know if I can do anything." The two detectives had commiserated over a latte after leaving the detention centre, and though nothing was said openly, Nichols left little doubt that he would be keen to move their association into a more personal arena. As Boyd pulled her car back onto the road, she found herself entertaining various signals she could include in her response to the text, but quickly dismissed the exercise when she realised what she was doing. Timing is everything, she told herself again, and quite simply, this was not the right time.
Perhaps it was just a matter of bad timing for Mia Fraser, as well, she thought. A case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That scenario couldn't be ruled out, of course, but Boyd felt in her gut that the young girl's murder hadn't been some random act of violence. The killer was too careful in covering his tracks to be some arbitrary psycho with a knife. At any rate, with Peter Greene eliminated, it was back to square one.
Turning north off the Church Hill roundabout, Boyd decided to check in on Leonard before returning to the precinct. It was already half-past three and the school kids, in their blue and grey uniforms, were massing around the same sweet shop that she and her gang used to frequent, filling their bags with Jelly Babies, Kola Cubes, Black Jacks, and a dozen other sugary treats. She remembered it like it was yesterday.
The telly was on in the sitting room, but Leonard wasn't in his usual armchair. Or in the kitchen or the back garden. Boyd found him in his bedroom.