Driven (Leipfold Book 1)

by Dane Cobain

  “So you called all two hundred florists?” Leipfold asked. He was looking at her in the same way that a scientist looks at a new species.

  “Hell no,” Maile replied. “I did a little detective work. I cropped the photo and shared the image on a couple of forums, which helped. I got a few leads on the bouquet. You saw the black lily in the middle, right?”

  “Of course,” Leipfold said, though he hadn’t.

  “They’re rare,” Maile explained. “They’re called calla lilies. Most places don’t stock them. I was able to find a couple of places that did, so I sent a few emails.”

  “Why didn’t you call?” Leipfold asked.

  Maile blushed. “I don’t talk on the phone,” she said.

  Leipfold stared at her for a moment. “Interesting,” he said. “Good work. File a report and I’ll read it this evening.”

  “I’ve already emailed it over,” Maile replied. “Send me the CCTV footage and I’ll see what I can do with it.”

  Leipfold did as he was told and then watched curiously as Maile made her way back over to her desk. He called her name and asked her to put the kettle on, then printed off a copy of her report.

  * * *

  Maile was starting to see the footage on the inside of her lids when she closed her eyes. Despite the lack of a timestamp, it hadn’t been difficult to spot Donna Thompson as she made her way home from work. The streets were deserted, eerily derelict of both pedestrians and motorists, so Maile could skip through until she’d isolated the footage and done her best to improve its quality.

  She was more familiar with cyber-spying and deep research than with the ins and outs of video software, but she did much better than Leipfold would have done. It wasn’t perfect, but Maile did what she could, enhancing the grainy footage by zooming in, sharpening the image and playing with the contrast. She also ran it through an algorithm so she could focus on the specific frames that she wanted to see.

  Her throat tightened as she watched Donna’s final minutes on the computer screen. She came into shot at the end of the Poplars’s driveway, two-thirds of the way down Wentworth Road. Maile watched as Donna paused for a moment, pulled something from her pocket, replaced it and then bowed her head as she walked off again into the wind and rain. Less than thirty seconds later, a black sedan came into view. It was only in the shot for a dozen frames, but Maile could see enough. There was no driver, and the car seemed to be cruising comfortably along with a mind of its own.

  Maile analysed each of the frames in detail, trying to make sense of it all. The car was behaving like a car should behave. It wasn’t driving erratically. If it wasn’t for the corpse in the morgue, she could’ve passed it off as a glitch or a trick of the light. And then there was the research she’d carried out on the victim. Leipfold hadn’t asked her to, but Maile had always liked taking the initiative. Besides, she was curious. That was why she was sitting in the dingy little office in the first place.

  She tried to focus on the task in hand: emailing Leipfold a copy of her findings. He’d disappeared again and asked her to send him regular updates. They’d talk it over when he got back, but he’d asked her to email him as soon as she had something.

  Okay, she’d written. It looks like Donna Thompson was an actress. In fact, she was due to star in a play called Driven. Its opening night is tomorrow. Do you want me to book tickets? I also found a couple of her old blog posts. Looks like she was a party girl. If she was murdered, maybe she got in with the wrong crowd and it snowballed from there. And then there’s the CCTV footage…

  Maile stopped writing for a second to replay the frames from start to finish. She honed in on the footage of Donna as she walked past The Old Moat House. She paused it, rewound it and watched it again. Then she realised what she was looking at. Someone had called Donna, a couple of minutes before the accident. And Donna had looked at her phone, saw who it was and decided not to answer it.

  Who was calling you? Maile wondered, staring at Donna’s final moments in the footage. And why didn’t you want to answer?

  * * *

  Leipfold was sitting in what his old sergeant used to call “an undisclosed location,” checking his emails while some civilian with a sanctimonious attitude was lecturing her audience about God and the Twelve Principles. Leipfold wasn’t paying much attention, but he felt better just for being there. And besides, it wasn’t like he’d taken time off work. He’d taken his laptop along and hooked it up to the Wi-Fi.

  He popped open his emails and scrolled through them, deleting the usual spam from Russian brides and horny matures before reading Maile’s update on the Thompson case. He opened the attachment to check that it worked, skimmed through the first couple of pages with mounting interest and then skipped back to the email itself.

  Leipfold read Maile’s overview and laughed into his coffee, then hurriedly hushed as he felt the eyes of the room turn to look at him. He read her email again and then forwarded it to the anonymous address that Cholmondeley used. He added a comment of his own.

  Thanks for the footage, Leipfold wrote. You sly old dog. Looks like we’re making breakthroughs on our end, too. I’ll keep you posted and let you know when I’ve got something. There’s a reward if I solve the case, right?

  He chuckled again, drained the rest of his coffee, crushed the cup and then tossed it in the trash. He couldn’t resist adding a final line to the email before he hit the send button: Have you figured out who called Donna Thompson yet?

  Leipfold laughed again. This time, the facilitator picked up on it. She turned his way, a troubled frown upon her brow.

  “Did I say something amusing, Mr. Leipfold?” she asked. “Perhaps you should talk about your struggle for a change.”

  The detective shook his head, told the woman he was fine and walked out of the room. He had a job to do.

  * * *

  Leipfold’s email was the last thing Cholmondeley read before leaving the office and going home to Mary, who’d promised him a fish supper. She said she’d even allow him a pint of bitter, as long as he promised to brush his teeth before he kissed her.

  He whistled softly under his breath and sat back in his chair. Then he shut down his computer and started to think about the question that Leipfold had asked him. Have you figured out who called Donna Thompson yet?

  Cholmondeley picked up his phone and called Constable Cohen at reception. Mogford had already left, but he was due back on shift in the early hours. Cholmondeley asked Cohen to pass on a message and waited for him to find a pen and paper.

  “Tell Mogford to find the phone,” Cholmondeley said. “Looks like the Thompson girl rejected a call on her walk home, but she had nothing on her person when we found her. We’re going to need to find that phone. Let’s see if we can figure out who was trying to get hold of her.”

  Constable Cohen repeated the message and bade Cholmondeley goodnight before putting the phone down. The Detective Inspector barely heard him. He was already thinking about Mary – and the fish supper he hoped was still waiting.

  Chapter Six: Eleanor Thompson Has a Visitor

  DAWN ROSE LAZILY the following day, and Leipfold was woken by a blood-red sun cresting slowly over the horizon. He’d started rising at dawn back in the army and it was a habit, like many he’d picked up while in uniform, that had stuck with him long after his discharge. As was his custom, Leipfold rose with the sun and leaned out of the window to take in the sights and smells of the city. It was where he’d been born and raised, but there was something about the place that made him feel like an intruder in his own neighbourhood. Everything changed so quickly that he couldn’t keep up with it. The streets he used to walk along were still the same streets, but they were also different.

  The people had changed, too. As Leipfold was getting dressed, he thought about the people he’d met throughout the years. At forty-four years old, Leipfold wasn’t as young as he used
to be, but he was still in pretty good shape, especially since kicking the booze. He wouldn’t have swapped places with anyone for all the money in the world. But he sometimes wondered whether those old acquaintances ever thought of him and what they’d think of him now if they knew about his plans for the evening.

  Even if they did, Leipfold reflected, they’d picture me passed out in some dive bar or waking up in a police cell.

  But that was the old Leipfold. The new Leipfold browsed through his wardrobe until he found what he was looking for, an old black suit with a bow tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried it on, but a quick check of the pockets revealed a couple of receipts that helped to place it at the wedding of a distant relative whose name he’d long forgotten. That had been six years ago, and he’d put a little weight on since. The tuxedo still fit him, but it was tight. He’d have to take a light lunch if he wanted to wear it that evening.

  Leipfold was planning on taking in a little culture. He’d booked a pair of tickets for the opening night of Driven and was surprised to find he was looking forward to it. It had been a long, long time since he’d been to the theatre, and even longer since he’d gone anywhere with a beautiful young woman on his arm. True, Maile wasn’t exactly a model, but she was a pretty girl with intelligent eyes and that was the best that Leipfold could hope for.

  He frowned as he inspected his reflection in the mirror. Then his expression returned to its usual neutral while he packed his suit into its carrier and got ready to head to work. It was shaping up to be a busy day.

  * * *

  After dropping his suit at the office, Leipfold’s first destination was the Thompson house. Maile was still working on an address for the victim, but she’d come up trumps by finding Eleanor Thompson, the victim’s mother, in an online database.

  “She probably doesn’t know she’s on here,” she’d said. “People usually don’t.”

  And so, armed with the woman’s address and his customary lack of charm, James Leipfold made his way across the city to a small suburban street. It was home to a curious mix of classes and incomes with beautiful townhouses on one side of the road and terraced communes and high-rise flats on the other. Eleanor Thompson lived on the more affluent side of the road in a small bungalow with a tidy garden and off-street parking.

  Leipfold paused to take a couple of snaps on his mobile phone before wandering up the driveway and ringing the old-fashioned doorbell. It echoed in the hallway and was followed by a shuffling sound and a soft click as Mrs. Thompson popped the latch. The door opened a couple of inches and then jammed. Leipfold guessed, correctly, that the old woman had a chain in place on the other side.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  Eleanor Thompson was pushing sixty, but she looked good for her age and clearly took care of herself. She was wearing a pair of white trousers and a blue shirt with a plain jacket on top. The colour had mostly faded from her hair and had started to thin out at the scalp. Her skin was clear and her face was positively radiant. She looked like she’d just got back from a holiday.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thompson,” Leipfold replied, jamming his foot in the door. “My name’s James Leipfold. May I come in?”

  “Like hell,” Mrs. Thompson growled. “Get your foot out of my door before I call the police.”

  “I’m with the police,” Leipfold lied.

  “The police? I doubt it. Show me your badge.”

  Leipfold frowned. “I, uh…left it at the station.”

  “Rubbish,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Who are you really, and what do you want?”

  “I’m looking into the death of your daughter,” Leipfold explained. “I’m a private investigator. The papers say your daughter’s death was an accident, but I don’t believe them. Call me crazy, but I’ve got a suspicious nose and some time on my hands. I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions.”

  “You’re crazy, Mr. Leipfold. You didn’t know my daughter. I did.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I knew my daughter better than you ever could,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Oh, it wasn’t an accident. I’m sure of that. But she wasn’t murdered, either.”

  Leipfold just stared at her with his shrewd, grey eyes. Experience had taught him that at times like these, it was better to stay silent, especially if the silence was uncomfortable. It forced people to say something to fill it. Mrs. Thompson didn’t let him down.

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, Mr. Leipfold? My daughter wasn’t murdered. She killed herself.”

  “Is that right?” Leipfold asked. “And where were you when this happened?”

  “I was at home,” she said. “Alone. Now please, remove your foot from my door. I’m in mourning. I wish to be left alone.”

  Leipfold hummed to himself as he left Eleanor Thompson’s place. He had the information he needed, at least from her. Besides, he’d enjoyed to-ing and fro-ing with the cantankerous old woman. She reminded him of himself, and she posed the first challenge he’d come across since taking the case. Not much of a challenge, but a challenge nonetheless.

  When he got back to the office, Maile was sitting in her usual place by the door. She greeted him with a pleasant smile and a quick update on the case.

  “I paid a visit to the flower shop,” she said. “Had a good chat with the woman who owns it. The order was placed on their website, but they can’t access their records to give us a name. It’s all encrypted.”

  Leipfold sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Keep digging.”

  “I might be able to break the encryption if you give me some time,” Maile said. “It’s not exactly legal, but…”

  “I’m not a copper, Maile,” Leipfold reminded her. “I don’t care how you do it.”

  “Yes sir.” Maile grinned. “This is turning out to be my kind of job.”

  * * *

  The clock ticked another hour away. Maile went back to work while Leipfold wandered over to his desk. He downed a cup of coffee and picked his way through the daily papers, but they contained nothing to pique his interest and the Thompson case had already been relegated to the seventeenth page. He spent a little time catching up with his emails, made himself another coffee and sat down to do the crossword.

  But someone had already done it. Every square of the complex cryptic crossword had been filled in with a delicate hand. Leipfold stared at it for a second and then scowled and looked over at Maile. She grinned and flashed him a thumbs up. He didn’t return it.

  Leipfold walked over and slammed the paper on her desk. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re mad because I finished the crossword.”

  “Something like that,” Leipfold replied. “Mad. Impressed. Slightly put out. Take your pick. I don’t like people messing with my routine.”

  “Then you’re not going to like this,” Maile said. “Because you might need to head back out again. I pulled a few strings and figured out who our anonymous shopper was. The flowers, remember?”

  “I remember,” Leipfold said. “Go on.”

  “The florist gave me a login to the database.”

  “And?”

  “I’m getting there,” Maile said. “The data was encrypted, but it was running old software and I found a few tools to make some sense of it. I didn’t have to do much to decode it. Eleanor Thompson bought the calla lilies the morning after her daughter died.”

  Leipfold thought for a moment. “I went to see her this morning,” he said. “Strange woman.”

  “Did she say anything about the flowers?” Maile asked.

  “No,” Leipfold replied. “And she didn’t seem too sorry, either. I wonder what it all means.”

  Chapter Seven: An Interview

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JACK CHOLMONDELEY and Sergeant Gary Mogford were going over the case together when Mogford’s phone rang and he excused himself to take the ca
ll. Cholmondeley was grateful for the break. The stress of the job was starting to get to him.

  Mogford came back a couple of minutes later. “Groves and Hyneman have got the phone,” he said. “Seems suspicious to me, sir.”

  “In what way?” Cholmondeley asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “It was nowhere near the crash site, sir,” Mogford explained. “It was handed in at the station by a member of the public.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “No, sir,” Mogford said. “It’s been a busy day. The guy handed it to Constable Cohen and ran off before anyone had a chance to take his details. But at least we know where he found it.”

  “Where he says he found it,” Cholmondeley replied, a stickler for detail as always. “Get me the footage from the CCTV. I want to see what he looked like.”

  “Will do, sir. He told reception he found it by the post office.”

  “That’s almost a mile away,” Cholmondeley murmured. “How did it get so far from the scene of the accident?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Mogford said.

  “The Superintendent isn’t going to like this,” Cholmondeley murmured. He sighed. “There’s no chain of command. How can we even be sure that it’s the victim’s phone?”

  “We’ll get the tech team on it,” Mogford said. “But we can be pretty sure that it’s hers. She’s still logged into a couple of apps and the photographs are consistent with what we know about the victim.”

  “And how do we know that it wasn’t tampered with before it was handed in?”

  Mogford shrugged. “I suppose we don’t, sir. Leave it to the tech boys. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it. They’ve already sent over a message that they pulled from voicemail.”

  “Very good,” Cholmondeley said. “See if you can find the chap who brought it in. I want a word with him.”

  “Already on it,” Mogford replied. “In the meantime, sir, there’s someone here that you might want to talk to. A man called Adrian Ford spoke to Constable Cohen on reception. He says he saw the victim on the night of the accident.”