by Dane Cobain
* * *
Mr. Ford turned out to be a weasel-faced man with hairy arms and a bald head, bad psoriasis and lobster-like skin that was blistered and peeling. While Cholmondeley was talking to him, he found it hard to concentrate because the guy kept on scratching and picking at his head, examining his fingernails and flicking the dead skin onto the floor.
Cholmondeley introduced himself with his name and rank and asked the man what he could do for him.
“Right,” Ford said. “Well it’s like this, see. I saw the girl in the paper. The girl who was hit by the car. The papers are saying it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I was there. I saw it.”
“You were there?” Cholmondeley repeated. He looked the man up and down.
“I was indeed,” Ford replied. “I’m a taxi driver, see. If you check with HQ, they’ll confirm I was on duty. All of our vehicles have built-in GPS and telematics so they can keep an eye on us. It’ll show you exactly where I was that night.”
“Did you have a passenger?” Cholmondeley asked.
“I didn’t,” Ford said. “I was trying to find another fare. That’s why I remember the girl. I thought she was going to flag me down but she just carried on walking. I felt bad for her, out in the rain like that.”
Cholmondeley nodded and took down a couple of notes. Then he gestured for Mr. Ford to continue.
“The paper said it was an accident,” he said. “Bollocks to that. I saw the car hit her. It all happened in my rear-view mirror.”
“Did you get a good look at the driver?” Cholmondeley asked. He sat forwards in his chair, his pen and paper forgotten. In the background, the digital recording spun on.
“Well, that’s just it,” Ford said. “There wasn’t one.”
“There wasn’t one?” Cholmondeley repeated. His expression remained deadpan. Two days earlier, the claim might have seemed preposterous, but the CCTV footage gave Ford’s testimony some gravitas. And then he remembered the black cab that they’d seen. The tech team had been unable to sharpen the picture enough to get the plates from it, but he was willing to bet that it would have been a match to the vehicle that Ford was in.
Not that he’d admit that – not yet. He reminded himself of rule number one of police work: everyone’s a suspect.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Adrian Ford crossed his arms defiantly and looked Cholmondeley dead in the eye. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. But that doesn’t make it a lie. There was no one behind the wheel. I’ll swear by it. I’ll take a polygraph.”
“We might hold you to that,” Cholmondeley said.
“Be my guest.” The man sighed. “Look, I’ve been driving these roads for most of my life. I could get across the city with my eyes closed. When I tell you that there wasn’t a driver, I know exactly what it sounds like. But I also know that my eyes don’t lie. I saw what I saw.”
“Interesting,” Cholmondeley murmured. “Of course, we only have your word for it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well who’s to say that your story is true?” Cholmondeley asked. He smiled at the man. “You must understand, it’s my job to ask questions. What if, for example, you mowed the girl down yourself and came here to try to cover it up?”
“I told you,” Ford said. “Check the telematics.”
“But can you prove that it was you behind the wheel?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Ford growled. “I came here to help. You have to listen to me. I saw how it happened. The damn car drove itself straight into the back of her. Sent her flying through the air like a rag doll.”
“Even if that’s true,” Cholmondeley replied, “why didn’t you talk to us sooner? Why didn’t you call for an ambulance?”
Ford stared across the table at him. He was on edge, deeply concerned about this new line of questioning and intimidated by the high, white walls of the interview room. He shivered.
“I was on shift,” Ford said. “Making money. Paying the bills. Okay, there was no one in the cab, but I didn’t want to write the rest of the night off. She was dead. You could tell she was. No one survives an impact like that. And besides…”
“Besides what?” Cholmondeley asked.
“There was someone walking down the street behind her,” he said. “When the girl was hit, he ran over to her. I figured he was going to call it in.”
Cholmondeley sat up like he’d been shot in the spine by a pellet gun. He remembered the man in the CCTV footage, a chap who’d been too grainy to make out properly and whose identity was still unknown. He opened the door to the interview room, stuck his head out into the corridor and bellowed for Constable Groves. When she came scuttling across the station towards him, he told her to fetch a sketch artist as quickly as possible. Then he came back into the room and sat down again.
“What did this man look like?” Cholmondeley asked. “Think you could describe him?”
* * *
Jack Cholmondeley was thinking of something else entirely when the CCTV footage from reception filtered through and he was able to take a look at it. He didn’t recognise the person who brought the phone in, but that didn’t mean much. The quality of the footage wasn’t great, but it was good enough to make out the basics.
The guy was wearing a black suit and carrying a satchel, and he produced the phone from an inside pocket and dropped it on the desk. He had short black hair and a slight stubble with a pair of sunglasses hanging from his breast pocket. Cholmondeley asked Groves to pull a few stills from the footage and to follow up with the reception staff, but he didn’t have much hope of tracking the guy down. Not that he thought it would matter.
Cholmondeley was watching the footage for a third time when his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He answered it reluctantly and was greeted by a sweaty-faced Sergeant Mogford, who declined his invitation to enter the office and spoke to him through the doorway from the corridor.
“Can’t stop to chat, sir,” he said. “Lots to do.”
“Likewise,” Cholmondeley said, his mind drifting to his plans for the evening. Mary had booked some tickets to a play he’d never heard of, and Jack had gloomily agreed to go with her. It wasn’t his sort of thing – he preferred the television – but he felt like he owed it to her. A policeman’s wife had a lonely life, and a night at the theatre seemed like a small price to pay to keep her happy. “What have you got for me?”
Mogford shrugged. “It’s the Thompson girl,” he explained. “I don’t understand why we’re still investigating. It’s an open and shut case, an accident. Why bother tying up resources?”
“It’s an open case,” Cholmondeley said. “There’s no shut about it. Until we confirm what happened that night, I want you to assume the worst and hope for the best. Either way, we’ve got to find out.”
“But, sir,” Mogford protested. “It’s obvious. It was an accident, or maybe a suicide. The silly girl was probably drunk and walked out into the middle of the road.”
“Suicide?” Cholmondeley murmured. “I wonder. If it was a suicide, why not do it at home? And if it was an accident, why hasn’t the driver come forward?”
“Beats me,” Mogford said.
“Besides,” Cholmondeley continued, “there’s this.” He booted up a file on his computer. “The tech boys found it. Looks like they recovered some of the data after all.”
Cholmondeley hit the play button, and Mogford walked into the room and closed the door behind him. The quality of the recording was terrible, and even with post-processing it was difficult to listen to. Mogford could just about hear a woman’s voice over the sound of the snowy static. It was distorted, but it was good enough to tell who it was and what they were saying.
It was Eleanor Thompson, and it sounded like she’d been recorded against her knowledge. They could hear the muffled sound of traffic, and every now and then a door opened or closed
. Eleanor’s voice was low, like she was in a public place and she didn’t want to be overheard. But there was no mistaking it.
She was angry. No, more than that. She was furious. And Cholmondeley wanted to know why.
Chapter Eight: A Rocky Relationship
JACK CHOLMONDELEY was having a busy day.
He hadn’t had a break since he pulled into the car park outside the Vic and hit the keys to lock the Beemer. Mogford had caught up with him before he entered the red brick building, and his time had been taken up ever since with meeting after interminable meeting.
That was why he was in a bad mood when Constable Groves came to collect him and to lead him into one of the poky interview rooms.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Groves said, flinching a little. “Sergeant Mogford and I are going to see Tony Barlow. He owns the café that Donna Thompson used to work at. We wondered if you wanted to tag along.”
Cholmondeley didn’t want to tag along, but he didn’t want to admit it, either. He wanted a good, long sit down and perhaps an hour or two to catch up on his paperwork, but the fates had something else in mind. So instead of complaining, he said, “I’d love to.”
That was how he found himself sitting in the passenger seat of a panda car with Mogford driving and Constable Groves in the back. It looked like some weird family outing, made stranger by the fact that Groves was the only one of the three in uniform.
Tony met them at the door and showed them inside. He spoke to them in public, sitting them down on a table beneath his logo and positioning himself with his back to the wall.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “I’d take you out back but I’m short on staff at the moment and…well, you know. I like to keep an eye on things.”
“Indeed,” Mogford said. When they were still in the car, Cholmondeley had told him to take the lead on the interview. Mogford was pleased because he thought it showed that the old man had faith in him, and Jack Cholmondeley was pleased because he didn’t have to do as much of the work. He could relax, somewhat, and watch as events proceeded.
“How can I help?” Tony asked. From the corner of his eye, he tracked the progress of a customer as she walked up to the till and placed an order for a bacon buttie.
“We’re here to talk about Donna Thompson,” Mogford said. “Does the name sound familiar?”
“It sure does,” Tony said. “She works here.”
Mogford whistled softly. He hated this part of the job. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Barlow,” Mogford said. “She’s dead. I’ll understand if you need a moment or two to let it sink in.”
“She’s dead?” Tony looked surprised, but Cholmondeley noticed that he also looked a lot like the unidentifiable figure he’d seen walking down the road in the CCTV footage. “How?”
Constable Groves was nudged forward and she did her best to tell Tony what had happened after Donna left the cafeteria.
“That’s awful,” Tony said. “But what has this got to do with me?”
“Two questions,” Mogford said. “First, can you think of anyone who might have wanted Donna dead?”
“No,” he replied. “No one. She was a lovely girl. Never had any problems with her.”
Mogford nodded at the man. “Very good,” he said. “Second question. When was the last time you saw her?”
“When she left work that night,” Tony said. “I was locking up when she went home.”
Mogford nodded again, but Cholmondeley scowled across at him. “I think that’s a lie,” he said. “I think it was you in the CCTV footage. You saw her body.”
Tony blanched. The colour drained from his face so quickly that it was as though an invisible bag of flour had exploded in the air above his head. “You know about that?” he asked.
“It’s our job to know about it,” Cholmondeley said. “So you don’t deny it?”
“There doesn’t seem much point,” Tony admitted. “I was there all right.”
“Why didn’t you call it in?” Mogford asked.
“I, uh…” The man was starting to sweat, and Cholmondeley watched in fascination as his face appeared to crumple in on itself.
“You knelt down beside her,” Cholmondeley said, casting his mind back to the grainy footage that had been secured from the crime scene.
“I did,” Tony admitted.
“Why did you kneel down beside her?”
Tony looked uncomfortable. “I checked her pulse,” he mumbled. “And then I took her wages. I’m sorry, sir. I figured it’s not a theft if the person is dead. Besides, it was my money. I was just taking it back.”
Cholmondeley stared at the man with a look that could have sliced through diamond.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Leipfold got ready for a repeat of the morning’s performance. He didn’t want to go, but Maile insisted that he needed to return to the Thompson house for a second interview. Leipfold thought it was a waste of time, but he agreed to do it anyway because he had nothing better to do, especially without the day’s crossword to ponder. Besides, maybe she was right. Maybe he’d discover something that he hadn’t learned the first time. But he doubted it.
The skies were clear, but the streets were bitterly cold as Leipfold wound his way towards Eleanor Thompson’s house for the second time that day. He was feeling sorry for himself to begin with. Then he spotted the squad car parked on the kerb at the end of her driveway.
He weighed up his options and walked along the gravel path to Eleanor Thompson’s front door. He knocked at it heavily and heard a murmur of voices from inside, the deep baritone of a man and the trembling falsetto of an elderly woman who smoked too many cigarettes. Then the door opened and Leipfold found himself staring into the gunmetal eyes of Eleanor Thompson.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. What do you want?”
“Just a quick word, Mrs. Thompson,” Leipfold replied.
“I’ve already said what I have to say,” she reminded him. “And right now I have company.”
Leipfold grimaced. “Just tell me about the flowers and I’ll be on my way.”
“What flowers?”
“Mrs. Thompson, you’re a terrible liar,” Leipfold said. “I’m talking about the flowers at the crash site. The ones you didn’t attach your name to.”
Eleanor Thompson stared at him defiantly, held her head up high and then gracefully admitted defeat. She sighed and said, “I think you’d better come in.”
Leipfold nodded and followed her into the house, observing from the state of the walls and the sweet smell of bleach and pine-fresh disinfectant that this was a woman who was living above her means, too poor to redecorate or refurbish. She was also a proud woman and one who kept a clean house. He followed her as she led the way into the chintzy living room. When he saw who her guest was, he wasn’t surprised.
“We meet again, Jack,” Leipfold said.
Cholmondeley pulled himself up from an armchair and reached over to shake his hand. Leipfold took it and the two men smiled awkwardly at each other.
“Afternoon, James,” Cholmondeley replied. “Fancy seeing you here. How’s the investigation going?”
“Not bad,” Leipfold said. “I just stopped by to ask Mrs. Thompson a couple of questions about the flowers at the crash site. What about you?”
Cholmondeley smiled. “I wanted to talk to her about a voicemail message,” he replied. “We found it on her daughter’s mobile phone.”
Eleanor Thompson coughed and lowered herself gently into her usual space on the sofa. “Gentlemen,” she said. “You seem to have forgotten that I’m in the room with you.”
* * *
“My daughter and I had a rocky relationship,” Mrs. Thompson began. “We didn’t always get on. You know how it is with kids.”
Leipfold and Cholmonde
ley looked uneasily across at each other. Neither man had children and nor did they want them.
“Just tell us about the flowers,” Leipfold said.
“What more do you want to know?” she asked. “That I sent some flowers to the crash site? I loved her in my way and I wanted to make it up to her. I felt bad about the message.”
“The message?” Leipfold asked.
“The one on the voicemail,” Cholmondeley supplied. “They had an argument. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Donna wanted some money,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Ha! As usual. I told her to go out and get a proper job. My daughter was spoiled as a child, but now that I’m retired, I just can’t give her handouts willy-nilly whenever she gets herself into a sticky situation.”
Leipfold and Cholmondeley exchanged another look but said nothing. It was an old tactic, but it worked. Mrs. Thompson had been brought up to be polite, and the uncomfortable silence was too much for her. She started to fill it.
“Donna always wanted to be an actress,” she explained. “Ever since she was a little girl. I wanted her to go to university but she insisted on going to stage school. Oh, I helped her out enough to begin with. I even paid her tuition fees so she wouldn’t be burdened with one of those dreadful loans. But I had my heart set on her studying law. I was hoping she’d eventually leave all that acting nonsense behind her, but no such luck. After she finished training for the stage, she went off the radar. I believe she was working in a cafeteria, if you can imagine that.”
“Go on,” Cholmondeley said, scribbling furiously away in his notebook. Leipfold, meanwhile, was recording the audio on his Dictaphone, which was tucked safely away in his jacket pocket.
“She came to visit one day, out of the blue,” Mrs. Thompson said. “That must have been…let me see now…oh, maybe three or four weeks ago. She wanted money.”
“How much did she want?” Leipfold asked.