Access Point Page 3

  "He’s what we call a person of interest."

  "What sort of interest?"

  "He was seen in the area on the night of the murder." Ula picked up the drawing and inspected it more closely. It was a photocopy of what looked like a composite, taken from various previously drawn pieces. Like a child's puzzle. "I realise that the hood and sunglasses make it difficult," Boyd said, watching her closely. "But I wonder if it rings any bells for you."

  "Should it?"

  "Well, as I said to you at the time, I believe it’s highly likely that the victim -- "

  "Her name is Mia."

  "Yes, of course. I’m sorry." Boyd frowned, angry with herself. She knew better than to depersonalise the victim. "I believe that Mia may have known her killer. Does this man look at all familiar to you?"

  Ula shook her head. "No."

  "A former boyfriend perhaps? Or an unhappy suitor?"

  Ula shook her head. "I didn’t get involved in Mia's personal life."

  "I understand. I just thought that you might've seen someone as they were coming or going. Or that she might've mentioned someone who fits the description."

  "No," Ula said. "We never talked about that sort of thing."

  "I see. Well..." Boyd stood up. "Thank you for your time. Once again, I’m sorry to have disturbed you."

  "May I keep the drawing?" Ula asked.

  "Yes, of course," Boyd replied. "Why? Do you feel there might be something you’ve forgotten?"

  "I don't know," Ula said, studying the drawing again. "But it might help me remember." She looked up at Boyd. "I have this problem with my memory."

  "Yes." It was in Boyd's notes from the night of the murder. "A bicycle accident, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, a bicycle accident," Ula echoed. "Two years ago."

  Boyd nodded and offered Ula a business card. "Well, if anything comes back to you, feel free to contact me on this number. Night or day, someone will always answer."

  The rain had abated by the time Boyd stepped into the cold January mist. "Well, thank you again," she said as she buttoned her coat.

  "Do you think you'll find him?" Ula asked.

  "You can rest assured that we'll do everything in our power. No stone will be left unturned."

  It sounded to Ula like something straight out of the police training manual. But if they were doing everything in their power, why had it taken four months to put together a bloody drawing? And not a very good one, at that. The detective's visit had done nothing to change her negative opinion of the authorities' competence. They used laughably outdated methods, relying on fallible witnesses to describe dubious memories so that untalented artists could create a useless composite drawing. No wonder an innocent young girl like Mia could be mercilessly stabbed to death less than a hundred yards from her home.

  Ula consigned the business card to the top drawer of her bedroom dresser as soon as the detective was gone. She clearly wasn't going to help her find Mia's killer.

  But the drawing just might.

  6.

  It was past nine o'clock by the time Boyd pulled into the driveway of the two-story semi-detached house on Culloden Road. Killing the engine, she took a deep breath and sat there a moment, unloading the day's stress before heading up the path to the front door. Being back in her childhood home still felt a little strange -- sleeping in her old bedroom, seeing all the old neighbours, shopping at all the old shops. She'd returned seven months earlier, shortly after losing her mum to a stroke, in order to look after her father, who'd been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's the previous year. It wasn't easy juggling the demands of the job with his care, and there would come a time when it would prove to be impossible, but for now she did her best to appreciate the time they had together.

  The only source of light in the house was coming from the television set in the sitting room, where Leonard was ensconced in his favourite armchair, watching an old variety show. In his late sixties, he was a small man, physically fit, with kind eyes and a warm smile. A former detective himself, he'd always been fastidious about his appearance, but more often than not these days, Boyd found him unshaved, in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

  "Hello, Dad." She turned one of the floor lamps on.

  "Oh, hello, sweetheart." He glanced over. "How was your day?"

  "All right, she replied, adding, "The weather's dreadful."

  "Is it?" He smiled at her then disappeared back into his programme.

  "What are you watching?"

  "Oh... Just a bit of nonsense."

  She held up a bag of takeaway. "I picked up fish and chips."

  "Oh, very nice." His smile turned into a perplexed frown. "Is it Friday?"

  "No, dad. Tuesday."

  "Yes, of course it is."

  "Shall we eat in front of the telly?"

  "Why not?"

  Boyd went into the kitchen to prepare the plates and open the daily beer that she allowed Leonard. Studies had shown that moderate consumption of alcohol among patients with mild Alzheimer's could increase their lifespan, so she kept a secret stash at the back of the fridge, behind the fruit and veggies, where he wouldn't find it. Not that he was ever a heavy drinker, but with him being home alone all day, she worried that he might overdo it without even realising it. She worried about a lot of things these days.

  After dinner in front of the ten o'clock news, Leonard went up to bed and Boyd retired to the spare room, which she was using as an office, to catch up on paperwork. And there was no shortage of paperwork. Aside from the witness statements, case papers, and evidential filings, her mum had left behind a backload of unpaid bills, un-filed tax documents, and unresolved pension issues, along with the numerous other bureaucratic requirements brought about by her sudden demise.

  Boyd kicked off her shoes and worked through the various piles until she couldn't take any more. At midnight she checked on Leonard and she was in bed herself a few minutes later. Lying there, waiting for sleep to come, her thoughts turned to the Mia Fraser case. There had been a firestorm of media coverage back in September -- a beautiful young American art student brutally stabbed in Highbury Field for no apparent reason. The case had gone cold until a few days earlier, when a witness came forward. The woman, a neighbour, had said she'd been afraid to get involved at first, and in fact it was her son, a solicitor, who'd eventually contacted the police. A frightened woman with failing eyesight spotting a suspicious-looking character through the window on a dark, rainy night hardly made for the most reliable witness, and the composite itself was of little use. Still, it was all she had at the moment. Perhaps it would be worth putting the drawing out to the media, see if anything useful came back. She resolved to bring it up with the Chief Inspector at the next opportunity.

  7.

  Ula had been staring at the drawing for over an hour before she finally made up her mind. Returning to the attic, she activated the mainframe, then went to the subject chair and strapped the E.I.R. onto her head. Using the system's dedicated iPad, she dragged the memory folder onto the subject icon, prompting a message to pop up on the screen: "Send Mia to Ula?"

  Ula confirmed the action, then lay back, closed her eyes, and waited.

  "Hey, sweetie. Sorry I'm late."

  Kat plopped herself down in the chair opposite and did a quick survey of the cafeteria.

  "Meet any hot artists in need of a muse?"

  Mia smiled. "Not today."

  "Well keep me in mind."

  "Of course." Mia pushed a plate across the table. "I got you chicken salad."

  "Thanks. So how was the first night in the spook house? Meet any ghosts?"

  "Very funny."

  Kat shrugged and picked up a fork. "Seriously. How was it?"

  "It was fine. Yeah. No problem."

  "You don't sound too sure."

  "No, it was fine."

  "Did she lighten up after I left?"

  "I didn’t actually see her. She works at night."

  "She has a job?"

  "
She works at home."

  "Doing what?"

  "I'm not really sure. I met this scientist-type guy this morning. I think he's German."

  Kat scrunched up her face. "A German scientist-type guy?"

  "Yeah. I think they're doing some kind of experiment up in the attic. They were up there all night."

  "Hold on a sec... She works all night in the attic doing experiments with a German-type scientist guy? Okay. I mean, hey... what could possibly go wrong?"

  Mia laughed. "Shut up, Kat. It's not like that."

  "Sorry, but let's get real. Your housemate is a bit on the weird side."

  "You saw her for like two seconds."

  "It was enough."

  "I don't know. I think she’s just painfully shy."

  Kat stabbed a piece of chicken. "Well, I guess you're stuck with her now."

  "I think it'll be fine once we get to know each other a bit."

  "Or you could just avoid her."

  "How am I supposed to do that? She lives there."

  Kat shrugged. "She doesn't seem like the type that's gonna be easy to make friends with."

  "I thought I'd cook dinner for her tonight," Mia said. "You know, a nice bottle of wine to help break the ice."

  "Good idea."

  "Really?"

  Kat nodded. "Sure, why not?" She leaned forward and whispered. "But I'd stay away from that attic."

  Mia shook her head. "You’re sick, you know that?"

  "But in a good way, right?"

  "I’m not so sure."

  The graphics studio felt stuffy and airless, the toxic smell of the ink overpowering, making it difficult for Mia to concentrate. Slipping out of the afternoon workshop an hour early, she headed east across Granary Square toward the canal, thinking she'd take advantage of the sunny Autumnal day and walk home. The fresh air was already starting to clear her head when she spotted Peter out of the corner of her eye, sitting on one of the stone benches in front of the fountain. In his mid-twenties with a slender build and short bleach blonde hair, he was wearing his usual black leather jacket and, in spite of the cloudy day, sunglasses.

  Pretending that she hadn't seen him, Mia adjusted her route, taking the long way around to York Ave. But it was too late. Peter tossed his cigarette aside and was soon walking beside her.

  "You blocked me, didn't you?"

  She picked up her pace, but so did he.

  "Don’t ignore me, Mia."

  She kept walking.

  "I must'a texted you a hundred times," he said but she still didn't respond. "Jesus Christ, Mia! What d'you want me to say?"

  "Nothing." She gave him a cursory glance. "I don't want you to say anything."

  "So what then? That’s supposed to be it? The end?"

  "Yes."

  "I don’t accept that."

  "You have no choice."

  "Hey, come on, baby. For fuck's sake. Don't be like that." He stepped in front of her, trying to block her way, but she went around him. He caught up again.

  "Are you seeing somebody else?"

  "That’s none of your business."

  "Oh, really?" He was quiet for a beat, but Mia could tell he was churning. "Right. Well, I'll tell you something. I really hope you're not seeing someone because if I find out you are, I swear to god I'll -- "

  Mia stopped abruptly and swung around to face him.

  "It’s over, Peter!" Her voice was steady and clear, but her heart was racing. "Do you understand? Finished! And nothing you say or do is gonna change that! So get over it! Move on!"

  She slipped past him and walked away as quickly as she could.

  "So what d'you want me to do then?" he called after her. "Apologise? Okay then! Jesus Christ, I fucking apologise! I’m sorry!"

  Mia didn't look back until she reached Caledonian Road, and then he was nowhere in sight. Okay, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe he got the message. She wondered how the hell she ever got involved with a jerk like that. He'd been fun at first, a free spirit who liked to break the rules, and she'd always been drawn to rebels, even back home. But no one had ever hit her before, and one thing was absolutely certain. No one would again.

  Not ever.

  8.

  After a couple of false starts, she gathered her courage, stepped up to the bedroom door, and knocked softly. She could hear movement inside, but it took a moment for Ula to appear behind the crack in the door.

  "Hi." Mia smiled nervously. "I hope I’m not disturbing you."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No, no, everything’s great. It’s just that... Well, I was about to cook dinner... this vegetable pasta thing I do. It’s not bad, really, and, well, I thought maybe you might wanna, you know, join me."

  Ula looked skeptical. "You don't have to do that," she said.

  "Do what?"

  "Invite me to your dinner. You're allowed to use the kitchen without including me."

  "Oh, I know... Thanks. But I just thought... You know, being housemates and everything. It might be nice... I got a bottle of wine. Two in fact. Chianti. I don't know if it's any good, but... anyway. It's up to you."

  Ula opened the door a little wider. It was hard not to be taken by the young girl's charm.

  "Hey, come on!" Mia smiled. "You can help me chop!"

  Ula gave up a little smile of her own. "All right," she said, a little bashfully. As she stepped into the hallway she added a an almost imperceptible, "Thank you."

  The kitchen was well stocked with pots, pans, utensils, and everything else you might need, but Ula didn't seem to know where anything was kept. Once they managed to locate a knife and a cutting board, Mia sat her down at the table with a half dozen tomatoes, a couple of courgettes, a red pepper, and a carrot, with instructions to cut them all into bite-sized pieces. Mia sat opposite, doing the onions and garlic.

  "You don't need to be so precise," she said, looking at the board where Ula was painstakingly cutting each tomato into eight equally sized cubes, then organising them into a series of absolutely straight lines. "They’ll just get squished up in the sauce."

  "Sorry." Ula looked down at her work. "I guess I can be a bit obsessive."

  Mia pushed the chopped garlic and onion aside. "Why don’t I finish that while you open the wine? My pasta always turns out better if I’m a bit drunk."

  Ula put the knife down and looked over at the Chianti. "I don’t usually drink wine."

  "Well, that’s not good."

  "I'm not even sure I have a corkscrew."

  "Then it’s a good thing we don’t need one!" Mia picked up the bottle and twisted the cap off. "Ta-da!" she exclaimed. "Corks are so old-fashioned, don’t you think? However, we will need glasses."

  Ula smiled. "Right. I know I have glasses." She retrieved two spotty water glasses from the cupboard and placed them on the table.

  "Let the drinking begin!" Mia said as she filled them to the top. "Here’s to us. Housemates!"

  "Housemates," Ula echoed as they clinked glasses.

  9.

  "How long was it?"

  The voice roused Ula out of her reverie. She looked up from the candle's flame and smiled at Mia, who sat across the dining room table.

  "What?"

  "You were saying about the coma."

  "Was I?"

  "Yes."

  "What was I saying?"

  "You were telling me about the accident."

  "Oh..." Ula laughed, a little uncomfortably. "I guess I’m not used to the effect of the wine. It sort of blurs the edges, doesn’t it?"

  Mia smiled. "That’s the idea."

  Ula reached out to touch the soft wax at the top of the candle. It felt warm and malleable, pleasant against her fingertips. "I suppose my edges can be quite sharp," she said.

  "Not at the moment."

  "No," she agreed. "Not at the moment."

  The glow of the candlelight on the dining room's rich red walls gave the space a warm, womb-like ambience. Ula couldn't remember the last time she'd been
in there, but it felt good, for the moment anyway. Safe.

  "So how long were you in the coma?" Mia asked again.

  "A little over a year," Ula replied. "Three hundred and ninety-two days, to be exact."

  "God. It must've been awful."

  Ula shrugged. "It was nothing. Like being dead, I suppose. Except that I woke up."

  Mia wanted to ask if there had been anyone there for her when she regained consciousness, but it seemed too personal, so she asked instead whether Ula remembered anything about the accident. She shook her head.

  "One minute I was on my bicycle and the next I was lying in hospital with a broken body and no memory of what put me there."

  "That must've been so frightening."

  Mia instinctively reached across the table to touch Ula's arm. It was a simple gesture, expressing nothing more than empathy, but it took Ula by surprise and she recoiled. There was an awkward moment, which Mia used to fill their glasses with the last of the second bottle of wine.

  "It’s probably just as well that you don't remember," she said. "It would give you nightmares."

  "I don't know," Ula mused. "I'd like to remember."

  "Maybe you will, you know, with time."

  Ula shook her head. "My neocortex was damaged in the accident. It's irreparable."

  "Neocortex..." Mia scrunched her face up. "That's like, part of your brain, right?"

  "It's where long term memory is stored," Ula replied. "The brain's hard drive."

  "So... You have amnesia?"

  "It's more specific than that. I have the facts -- name, date of birth, where I went to school -- all of that. But I have no memory of it. No pictures in my head to give it meaning."

  "How awful. They just disappeared?"

  "No." Ula placed her hand on top of her head. "They’re still in there somewhere. I just can’t access them."

  "No memories." Mia shook her head in a show of sympathy. "I can't imagine what that's like."

  "It's like..." Ula paused to consider the best way of putting it. "Like knowing a room full of precious stones is trapped behind a collapsed tunnel, but having no way to get to them."

  "How frustrating." Mia sipped the wine. "What do the doctors say?"