Driven (Leipfold Book 1)

by Dane Cobain

Cholmondeley smiled and stood up. “Me too,” he said, thinking about Mary and their credit card bills. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Burns. I’ll let you know if we need anything else from you.”

  * * *

  Meanwhile, at Leipfold’s office, there was a visitor. The woman identified herself as Doreen Fisher. Maile guessed she was in her seventies. Mrs. Fisher didn’t have an appointment, but business was slow and so they squeezed her in. Maile took her duffel coat and brought her a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits while Leipfold sat her down in their makeshift reception area and promised he’d be right with her.

  Five minutes later, when he’d finished checking his emails and the woman had settled in, Leipfold sat down beside her and asked how he could be of service.

  “I need your help, Mr. Leipfold,” she said. “I saw your ad in The Tribune. You’re just the sort of man I’m looking for.”

  Leipfold grinned in spite of himself. Even though money was short, he’d refused to cancel his adverts. It looked like he was about to witness that “return on investment” thing that his accountant liked to talk about. Good. He’d been thinking about selling Camilla. He still might have to unless a new client came in through the door. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

  “I want my money back,” the woman said. “I was taken in, hoodwinked. By one of those whatjamicallits from the internet. A slammer.”

  “A scammer?” Maile asked.

  “That’s the one,” she replied. “They swindled me out of my savings with some cock and bull story.”

  “A Nigerian prince?” Maile guessed.

  “Oh!” the woman exclaimed. “He emailed you too?”

  “No,” Maile said, “but please continue.” Leipfold flashed her a brief glance and she blushed a little.

  “Well, where do I begin?” the woman said. “It all started with an email. I don’t use the computer much – not with my eyes – but I log on every now and then to keep up with the grandkids. The first email must have been two or three weeks ago. It was a Wednesday. I remember that because on Wednesdays—”

  Leipfold coughed politely, apologised and said, “Go on.”

  “They said I’d inherited a sum of money,” Mrs. Fisher continued. “Now, I may be old, but I’m not stupid. I thought something seemed fishy, but he seemed to know a lot about me. He asked after our Trev, for example, and said he’d talked to Mr. Jennings at the bank.”

  “Interesting,” Maile murmured.

  “Anyway,” the woman continued, “I was asked to pay a processing fee before the money could be moved. So, like a fool, I paid it. I was told to wait three days for it to transfer. So I waited. When nothing arrived, I sent him an email, and then another one, and then a dozen more after that. Nothing.”

  “And you want us to find out what happened to your money?” Leipfold asked.

  “Damn straight,” Mrs. Fisher replied. “And I want you to get it back for me. How else am I supposed to pay you?”

  There was an awkward pause while Leipfold thought about what she’d said. Then he asked, “Does that mean what I think it means? You want me to take your case without paying a retainer?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Look, I’m not asking you to do this for free. I’m asking you – begging you – to get my money back. If you manage it, you’ll get a commission. And if you fail, well, you’ll only have yourself to blame for it.”

  Leipfold thought about it again. “Mrs. Fisher,” he said, “I can’t help you.” Then he looked over at his assistant. “Luckily,” he continued. “I know someone who can.”

  * * *

  Leipfold went back to his computer while Maile talked to Mrs. Fisher, but he was still listening to the conversation. Back when he was a kid, he’d learned to multitask by reading books while watching television, and it was easy enough for him to carry out a little research while eavesdropping.

  Maile, meanwhile, was in her element. She asked for a copy of the email and the old lady dutifully provided a printout from her oversized handbag. Maile asked her to forward a digital copy when she got home, then took the piece of paper and read through it. Then, she read through it again and laid it flat on the table in front of her.

  “Hang on a second,” Maile said. She jogged over to her desk to grab a highlighter, then sat back down and started scoring through different words and sentences. She stopped as suddenly as she started and held the paper up in front of her eyes. She squinted.

  “So what do you think?”

  “You’re right,” Maile said. “Interesting. I count at least a dozen personal references that – if they’re true, at least –suggest that the sender knows you. Plus, the spelling and grammar are impeccable.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “Mmmhmm,” Maile said. “It’s more uncommon than you’d think. Especially in emails like these. They usually deliberately add mistakes to make them look less legitimate. It’s a sort of idiot filter. Most people would recognise the email as untrustworthy, but the ones who don’t are more likely to fall for the next stages of the scam. Send something deliberately bogus and only an idiot would fall for it. Not that you’re an idiot.”

  Mrs. Fisher sighed impatiently and asked, “What does that mean for me?”

  “It means that this isn’t a typical scammer,” Maile said. “Mrs. Fisher, it’s likely that this email was written by someone you know in real life. Possibly a friend or a relative. Can you think of anyone who might be capable of this?”

  The old woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “And besides, I’m not exactly made of money. I just saved away for a rainy day. No one even knew I had it.”

  “Someone must have known,” Maile said, “or you wouldn’t be here.” She offered the old lady another cup of tea, which Mrs. Fisher gratefully accepted. Maile looked expectantly over at Leipfold, who glanced across from his screen and met her gaze. Leipfold scowled at her and mumbled something, but he took the hint and started clattering about in the open kitchen.

  Meanwhile, Maile handed Mrs. Fisher a pen and paper and started running through the list of what she needed.

  “We’ll start with the email itself,” she said. She leaned over and scribbled something down on the pad, then tore it out and handed it over. “This is my email address. Find the email they sent and any subsequent communication between the two of you and forward it over to me.”

  “Got it,” Mrs. Fisher said, scribbling a few notes down.

  “While you’re at it, I want you to give me a copy of your contacts,” Maile continued. “But I’m also going to need you to write a list of everyone who has your email address. I want you to think about forms you’ve filled out, mailing lists you’ve joined, anything that springs to mind where you gave someone your email address. It might not be someone from your address book.”

  “I’ll certainly try my best,” the woman said. “But it won’t be easy.”

  “Nothing ever is,” Maile murmured. “Oh, there’s one other thing. I want you to think about what I already asked you. Do you know anyone that might be capable of doing something like this?”

  “No,” Mrs. Fisher said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “That’s okay,” Maile replied. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask. If any names come up, write them down and send them over.”

  “And what will you do?” Mrs. Fisher asked.

  Maile grinned and reached for a biscuit. “I’ll do what I do best,” she said. “Just leave it with me.”

  Chapter Eleven: Milton Keynes

  LEIPFOLD WAS GETTING READY to leave the office. He’d completed the day’s crossword in record time, but he couldn’t take all of the credit. He liked to think Maile was just a spectator because it was Leipfold holding the pencil, but in reality they’d been working as a team.

  With the last clue
filled out and the pencil and paper packed away, Leipfold grabbed his jacket and left Maile in the office while he went to follow up with a lead. With Maile’s help, and a little stalking on some social networks, he’d been able to track down Tom Townsend’s rehearsal space in Shoreditch.

  He arrived at the space around lunchtime, just in time to catch a gaggle of actors lurking outside, smoking cigarettes and half-heartedly learning lines. Leipfold edged past without making eye contact and found himself inside a converted warehouse. From outside, it looked abandoned, but the inside was a labyrinthine mess of creativity from potteries and studios to rehearsal spaces for musicians, small rooms for bohemian business meetings and even a makeshift auditorium.

  Leipfold found Tom Townsend in the auditorium. He identified him on sight thanks to a photo from the production’s website. But the photo didn’t do him justice, and Leipfold was surprised by just how tall he was. At five foot six, Leipfold was shorter than average. He’d been the shortest in his unit back in the army days. Tom Townsend was at least six foot three, and maybe a little taller.

  “Mr. Townsend?” Leipfold asked.

  Townsend, who’d been fiddling with his phone while holding a sheaf of paper between his arms, stood up a little straighter and looked at him.

  “Yes?” he said. “And you are?”

  “My name’s James Leipfold. I’m a private detective. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  “No,” Townsend said. “Sorry.” He glanced at the door and started to walk towards it.

  Leipfold followed him and kept talking, even though Townsend had his back to him. “I promise it’ll only take a minute.”

  “I can’t help you, sir,” Tom Townsend said. His legs were longer and he could walk a little faster, but Leipfold was keeping up by sticking to his tail in a half-run. “My mother told me never to talk to strangers.”

  “Please, Mr. Townsend. It’s important!”

  Tom Townsend spun around and Leipfold almost walked into the back of him. “I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Lightfoot.”

  “Leipfold,” he corrected.

  “Whatever. It’s not important. I’m not going to talk to you. Please, just let me go. I have work to do.”

  Leipfold acquiesced, but only because he had no choice. Tom Townsend scuttled off and Leipfold spotted a group of the director’s cronies heading towards him. He frowned at them and tried to find his way back out of the labyrinth.

  * * *

  Cholmondeley spent the evening in Milton Keynes, hopping on a train after work and heading to a fancy ballroom in an upmarket hotel. Mary was with him and they were both dressed up in their finery, Cholmondeley in his uniform and Mary in a navy-blue ball gown. She’d treated herself to a haircut and painted her fingernails to match her dress, and she was wearing a touch of foundation and a subtle shade of lipstick.

  “You look wonderful, dear,” Cholmondeley told her as they piled into the back of a taxi at the train station. He meant it, too. Mary was on the wrong side of fifty and already in early retirement, but she scrubbed up nicely when she wanted to impress. And that, as Cholmondeley had explained to her a dozen times during the train journey, was exactly what the trip to Milton Keynes was all about.

  It was the night of an annual charity ball that was held to raise money for coppers who’d laid down their lives in the line of duty. It was a big event and anyone who was anyone would be there. They always were.

  Inside, they found themselves seated at a table with the wife of a police commissioner and a retired superintendent. Mary and Cholmondeley introduced themselves and were soon drinking glasses of Chardonnay and tucking into the five courses that the waiters brought over to their table.

  During the auction, Cholmondeley put in a couple of low bids that he couldn’t afford, just to impress his superiors. He’d open up the bidding and then sit back and relax as people with more money than sense paid through the nose. He wished them all the best for it. Everyone knew what the auction was about. Nobody wanted the signed football shirts, the champagne hampers and the music memorabilia. They just needed an excuse to open their wallets for a good cause.

  The last item of the night rolled around, and Cholmondeley dutifully sat forwards and raised his hand. But someone else started up the bidding and Cholmondeley’s heart leapt up into his mouth as he saw who it was.

  Is that…? he thought. No, it can’t be.

  But it was. Cholmondeley’s eyes weren’t as sharp as they’d been when he’d first joined the police force, but he could still see better than most and he knew exactly who he was looking at. James Leipfold was there, starting off the bidding in the same suit he’d been wearing at the theatre the night before.

  “I’ll be damned,” Cholmondeley murmured. “I guess he has a heart after all.”

  He turned his attention back to the auction and noticed two disturbing things at the exact same moment. The first was that everyone had turned to look at him. The second was that his hand was still in the air.

  “Sold!” the auctioneer boomed, his amplified voice echoing around the room, a sound that Cholmondeley would remember forever.

  He poured himself another glass of Chardonnay and tried to sink into the ground. He avoided his wife’s eyes and stared into the glass, wondering gloomily what he’d bought and how much he’d agreed to pay for it.

  * * *

  “But don’t you think it’s a bit…y’know…”

  “Suspicious?” Leipfold asked. “No, I don’t.”

  “But come on, boss,” Maile said. “You’re telling me that the theatre guy refused to speak to you and you don’t think it’s unusual?”

  It was the following day, a Saturday, but Maile and Leipfold were still in the office. There were crosswords to solve and cases to investigate, and neither of them had anything better to do. If he hadn’t been working, Leipfold would have spent the day at home, rereading his battered Shakespeare folios and watching repeats on TV. Maile would have stayed in bed with her laptop, throwing code around.

  “Lots of people refuse to talk to me,” Leipfold said. “I don’t take it personally. And I don’t think it’s suspicious.”

  “But you think there’s something suspicious about the case, right?” Maile asked. “I mean, what if it really was an accident?”

  “I doubt that,” Leipfold replied. “I doubt that very much. Donna Thompson was murdered. I’m sure of it. I just wish we knew who was behind the wheel of the car. If we can find them, we solve the case.”

  “If there was anyone behind the wheel in the first place,” Maile murmured.

  Leipfold glanced across at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Maile said, twirling a loop of her hair and avoiding Leipfold’s steely eyes. “It’s just that not all cars need a driver.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Technology moves fast,” Maile said. “Faster than you’d ever believe. A lot of companies have driverless cars. Google has one, and so does Tesla. Most of the major manufacturers are developing their own models. And there are plenty of hobbyists doing the same thing. It’s usually illegal, of course, but you’d be surprised at how easy it is to teach a car to drive itself.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” Maile replied. “I was working on the basis that someone was crouching down behind the wheel. That would explain why you couldn’t see them in the footage.”

  “That’s one theory,” Leipfold said.

  “But what if there’s another explanation?” Maile continued. “What if there was no one in the car at all? What if it was just following orders? Orders contained within its programming? Orders that told it to kill Donna Thompson?”

  Leipfold considered this for a moment and then shook his head. “It seems unlikely,” he said. “Too far-fetched.
There must be a simpler explanation.”

  “It would explain why no one found the driver,” Maile said. “And that’s not all. I checked online and these cars are more common than you might think. I found a club for enthusiasts and a half-dozen reports of recent sightings.”

  “Good work,” Leipfold said. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that she was on to something. “Get me the details of that car club. I want contact info and a member list. And look into those rumours as well. See if you can find out where the cars were spotted and if any of them were black sedans.”

  “Sure thing,” Maile said. She flashed Leipfold a winning grin. “I’m on it.”

  Chapter Twelve: Bateman’s Motors

  MAILE WORKED FAST while Leipfold pored over the papers. She printed out her report just after midday, then grabbed the stack of paper and plopped it down on Leipfold’s desk. He waved his hand impatiently and asked her to give him an overview.

  “Okay,” Maile said, dragging a chair over so she could sit down beside him. “I found reports of five different autonomous cars over the last two weeks, but only one of them was a black sedan. They’re pretty rare and they’re not exactly road legal, but a couple of people have them anyway. To be honest, I’m surprised I didn’t find more of them. A lot of these guys are using open source scripts to develop their own.”

  “I get it,” Leipfold said. “Nerds need flashy cars just like everyone else.”

  “No one says nerds anymore, boss,” Maile replied. “We’re not nerds. We’re geeks. But yeah, you’re right. And a lot of them have the cash to follow through.”

  Leipfold shrugged and thought about how quickly the world changed. He didn’t know it as well as he had when he was eighteen and taking his first tentative steps into adulthood. It scared him.

  “What else have you got?” he asked.

  “That’s just it.” Maile grinned, leaning forward in her chair and glancing through the stack of paper. “There’s only one place you’ll find a black, self-driving sedan. Bateman’s Motors in Clapham.”