by Dane Cobain
“Oh, that,” he replied. “Yes, well…it’s not easy. I wanted to make a confession.”
“I’m not a priest,” Leipfold reminded him.
“No, you’re not,” Townsend said. “But you are a detective, and maybe you can help me. You see, I didn’t attack your assistant. I was just trying to deliver a message. But I think I killed Marie Rieirson.”
Leipfold sighed while Maile stared, wide-eyed, at Tom Townsend. Without looking away from him, she pulled a stick of gum from her pocket and dropped it into her mouth. Townsend, meanwhile, was still sitting on the plastic chair with his head in his hands. He didn’t look like a murderer. He looked like a dog who’d crapped on the carpet and been confronted by an angry owner at two o’clock in the morning.
“Now,” Leipfold said, “before you tell me anything, I need to remind you of something.”
“What’s that?” Townsend asked.
“I might not be a policeman,” Leipfold said, “but if I feel I’m morally or legally bound to do so, I may share information with the police force. If you’ve come here to get me involved in something criminal, you might want to remember that.”
Townsend shrugged. “What’s the use?” he asked. “I’m done for either way, Mr. Leipfold.”
Leipfold turned to Maile and said, “Get him a dash of whiskey. There’s a bottle in my bottom drawer.” She hurried off to obey him as Leipfold turned back round to look at the man. “What is it?” he asked.
“Marie Rieirson,” Townsend said. “I think I killed her. Marie and I, we used to argue. Not often, but when we did, it was like a firework. A big scream and then an explosion, if you know what I mean. That’s how it happened.”
“How what happened?” Leipfold asked.
“She found out about the others,” Townsend explained. “We argued. Then we fought, and she pushed me. I pushed her back. Harder than I should have, perhaps, but it’s not like I raised my fists to her.”
Leipfold shrugged. “And then what happened?”
“Then she fell down the stairs and hit her head,” Townsend said. “And you know the rest. I panicked and left her there. I thought if I kept my head down, no one would know I’d been over there. But I just couldn’t live with it. I had to tell someone, but not the police. Mr. Leipfold, I don’t want to go to jail. I didn’t mean to kill her.”
Leipfold looked Townsend up and down, then nodded slowly and walked over to his desk.
“I believe you, Mr. Townsend,” he said. “But some things are out of my hands.”
“What do you mean?” Townsend asked.
But Leipfold held a hand up to cut him short. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out his spare mobile phone, then dialled the only number in its memory. Cholmondeley picked it up on the second ring and then listened, in silence, as Leipfold told him what had happened.
Townsend watched mutely, too numb to try to stop him. Leipfold ended the call with a final “goodbye” and put the phone back in the drawer. Then he walked back over to Townsend and pulled up a chair beside him.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve put a call in to a friend of mine.”
“Is he a policeman?”
“Yes,” Leipfold said. “But he’s a good man. I trust him. If what you say is true, he’ll help you. I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend. I’m just a private detective. It’s out of my hands.”
Townsend stared at him for a second, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. They darted to the door, and for a split second Maile saw the man as he’d appeared the night before, like a feral cat backed into a corner and ready to scratch someone’s eyes out. Then it faded and he was harmless Tom Townsend, the actor and director, all over again.
He ran for the door and let himself out, then fled on foot along the street. Four minutes later, the police arrived, and Leipfold and Maile led Jack Cholmondeley upstairs into the office.
* * *
Cholmondeley didn’t stay for long, and he refused the cup of tea that Maile offered him. Secretly, she was pleased. Her hands were shaking, her nerves were shot, and she wanted him to hurry the hell up and chase down Tom Townsend.
Leipfold filled him in on Townsend’s confession and handed over a copy of his file on the man. Cholmondeley thanked him for the information, tipped his hat and took leave of the office. Maile was about to chase after him to ask him to promise to catch Tom Townsend when Leipfold grabbed her arm to stop her. She glared at him.
“Let it be,” he said. “He’ll find him. And besides, something isn’t right.”
“Yeah,” Maile growled. “Tom Townsend isn’t right.”
“Maybe not,” Leipfold said. “His story definitely wasn’t. That man is innocent.”
“How can you say that?” Maile asked. “He stalked me and tried to attack me. If he says he killed Marie Rieirson, he killed Marie Rieirson. Why would he lie?”
“Why would he lie, indeed?” Leipfold murmured. He sat in a troubled silence for a moment or two, then added, “He was protecting someone. He must’ve been.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know, Maile,” Leipfold said, shrugging in his seat and massaging his temples to reduce the pressure that was building up and threatening to spill out like steam from a kettle on the boil. “I just don’t know.”
Maile stared at him for a couple of seconds as he slumped forwards on his desk with his head in his hands. She was worried, but then she always worried about him, and she had done ever since she first agreed to join him. She was about to offer him a glass of water when he stood up abruptly, pulled his leather jacket on and got ready to leave the office. She glared at him.
“You’re leaving me alone again?” she asked. “What if Tom Townsend comes back?”
“He won’t,” Leipfold replied. “And besides, you can look after yourself.”
Maile smiled. He trusted her, and that was good. But she needed to prove she was worth it, even if that meant getting into another altercation. But she wouldn’t go out asking for trouble. Her place was behind a computer screen.
“Where are you going?” she asked. Leipfold was patting his pockets and checking he had the only four things he needed: his keys, his wallet, his pen and his notebook.
“I’m going to pay a visit to Greg Bateman,” he said. “You know, the self-driving car guy. I want to ask him a couple more questions. Don’t wait up.”
* * *
Bateman’s Motors was too far away to cycle to, so Leipfold hopped on the bus instead. It was delayed, but he didn’t mind. He liked the hum of life that personified public transport, the interlinked web of relationships almost visible in the air, there for the taking for anyone with the patience and the desire to look for it.
It was dark outside by the time he made it to Bateman’s place, but the lights were still on and the car park, while not exactly overflowing, was home to a half-dozen vehicles of various makes and models. Leipfold laughed to himself. He could guess which cars belonged to which employees based upon the staff that Bateman employed. The boss owned the Merc, and the little blue Ford Focus was his receptionist’s. The nondescript white van and the VW Golf with the lowered suspension belonged to Bateman’s mechanics, probably bought from the lot at a discount.
Greg Bateman himself was behind the front desk when Leipfold walked through the automatic doors. He groaned audibly as he spotted him.
“Oh no,” Bateman said. “Not you again.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Leipfold replied. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Tom Townsend confessed to murder,” Leipfold said.
“No way,” Bateman replied, raising his eyebrows. “You mean he killed that girl with my car?”
“That wasn’t the murder he confessed to,” Leipfold said. “But someone killed Donna with your car, all right. And that’s why I’m here to talk to you. I need you to do
me a favour.”
“Whatever it is, forget it,” Bateman said, shaking his enormous head and bunching his hairy knuckles together. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Please,” Leipfold said. “It’s a quick one. I just need you to look at someone and tell me whether you recognise them.”
“Whatever,” Bateman said, but despite his reluctance he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the printout that Leipfold was holding. He stared at it for a couple of seconds and then shook his head again. “Nope, never seen her. Sorry.”
“Fair enough,” Leipfold said. “Thanks for your time.”
He took a couple of steps away from the front desk and pretended to look out through the windows. It was dark outside and so he couldn’t make out the car park, but he could see Greg Bateman’s worried reflection. Leipfold shrugged and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and dialled a number.
“Hello?” he said, his back still turned to the po-faced salesman. “Detective Inspector? It’s Leipfold. I’ve got a guy here obstructing the course of justice. You might want to get over here and have a word with him.”
There was a pause. Then Leipfold said, “Yeah, Greg Bateman, the car guy. You know, the one who owned the murder weapon? He says he didn’t see anything so I thought you’d like to take him for an eye test.”
Leipfold winked at Bateman and mouthed, “He’s on his way.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: It Could Be Worse
“OKAY, OKAY,” Bateman said, grinding his teeth and glaring at Leipfold, who still had his back to him. “I recognise her. Just put the phone down. I’ll talk.”
Leipfold touched the screen of his phone and put it back into his pocket. The device wasn’t even on. The battery had died a couple of hours earlier, and Leipfold was the kind of man who always forgot to charge it. But Bateman didn’t need to know that. Leipfold glared across at the man as he returned the phone to his jacket pocket.
Bateman called the receptionist and asked her to take over the front desk while he showed Leipfold to a room around the back. Bateman usually used it to schmooze potential customers by offering them high-end coffee and a short spell in his leather seats, but he liked it for its privacy and it was perfect for an off-the-record chat with a private detective.
“Okay,” Leipfold said, as they sat down on opposite ends of Bateman’s mahogany table. “So what can you tell me?”
“What do you need to know?” Bateman asked.
“Start from the beginning,” Leipfold said, showing him the photograph again. “How do you know this woman?”
“She came in to hire a car,” Bateman said. “I’ve got her records somewhere. I can dig them out for you if you’d like.”
“You do that,” Leipfold said. “I’ll get a copy of them before I leave. Go on.”
“Her name is Thompson,” Bateman said. “Eleanor Thompson. I only met her a couple of times. Didn’t talk to her much. That’s not my job. I just need to smile and hand over the keys once they sign the paperwork.”
“So how did you meet her?”
“She hired a couple of cars from me,” Bateman explained. “So what? A lot of people hire cars from me.”
Leipfold sat suddenly upright, a sense of urgency in his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Bateman,” he said. “But there aren’t a lot of people connected to my enquiry. I want you to tell me something, something important. I can’t overstate how important this is. I need you to tell me which vehicles she hired.”
“Oh,” Bateman said, “that’s easy. She only ever hired one of them.”
“Let me guess,” Leipfold replied. “Was it a black sedan? A self-driving model?”
Bateman glanced over at the detective and sighed. “How did you guess?” he said.
* * *
“James? Are you there?”
It was Detective Inspector Jack Cholmondeley calling the HTC, and he knew damn well that Leipfold was there because he’d picked up the call. He’d just been expecting his friend to say something by way of a greeting.
“I’m here,” Leipfold said. He was on the move and had reluctantly picked up the call while walking through the city. He hated talking on the phone in public because he hated the kind of people who talked on their phone in public, but he couldn’t turn down a call from Jack Cholmondeley. “What’s up?”
“Where are you?” Cholmondeley asked.
“Never you mind. What’s up?”
“I wanted to give you an update,” Cholmondeley said. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t hear this from me. Tom Townsend is on the run.”
Leipfold sighed. “I feared as much,” he admitted. “He seems like the type. Any idea where he’s gone?”
“No,” Cholmondeley replied. “That’s why I called you. I thought you might have some insight.”
Leipfold paused and thought for a moment. He considered everything he knew about the man and drew a tenuous conclusion.
“He’s a thespian,” Leipfold said. “The kind of man who believes in the power of narrative. He’s not the kind to go gently into that good night. He’ll want to go out with a bang and make some kind of a statement.”
“A statement?”
“Yeah,” Leipfold said. “A stand-off with the police, perhaps. Or maybe he’ll fake his death and flee the country. Your guess is as good as mine. The point is that he was never going to just hand himself in. He’s not that type.”
“But what do we do?”
“He’ll show up,” Leipfold replied. “He might have seen a few plays and read a few books, but he’s no criminal mastermind. Keep an eye out at the airports and the ferry terminals. Put some surveillance on his friends and family. Monitor his home and his studio. If you want to catch him, you’ll catch him.”
“Will you help me to look for him?” Cholmondeley asked.
Leipfold paused for a moment and the sound of the traffic filtered down the phone line.
“Well?” Cholmondeley said. He sounded tense and stressed. Leipfold didn’t blame him. Not with a job like that.
“I’ll think about it,” he replied.
* * *
Leipfold slept late on the morning of January twenty-ninth, nearly two weeks after Donna Thompson’s body was found. The light filtered in through the gaps in the blinds and cast bleak shadows around the single-room apartment that Leipfold called home because he hung his hat there.
He hated living there. He always had. But he didn’t have much choice – not with his income. Despite intending to stay for just a couple of months until he found somewhere better, he’d ended up living in the tiny bedsit for the best part of a decade.
Still, he reflected. It could be worse.
Leipfold sat up in bed with his back against the wall, then reached over to his dressing table and picked up his two mobile phones. His direct line to Cholmondeley had stayed silent. Leipfold suspected the old man was enjoying a well-deserved day off, probably taking Mary shopping or giving her a lift to the salon. But he had a message from Maile. Just two simple words that cut straight to the chase: Call me.
He sighed and crawled out of bed, took a quick shower to clear his head and then pulled on the first clothes he could find when he rooted through his wardrobe. Leipfold owned a dozen copies of the same three outfits: smart casual, smart and super smart. He even owned thirty-six pairs of the same socks so he didn’t have to worry about matching pairs after he picked up his clothes from the launderette. There was no chance of him owning a washing machine, not in a flat that was smaller than most caravans.
When he was clean, dressed and ready to roll, he picked up his phone and gave Maile a call. When she answered, he could hear explosions and gunfire in the background and he guessed – correctly – that she was spending her Sunday scoping headshots on her Xbox.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked.
“Not much,” Leipfold
replied, smiling to himself and wondering whether her place was nicer than his. “I just woke up and got your message.”
“Yeah,” Maile said. “I wanted to know how it went at Bateman’s Motors. You never gave me an update.”
“It went well. I showed him a photo of Eleanor Thompson and he recognised her, all right. It just took a little discussion.”
“Discussion?” Maile laughed. “That doesn’t sound like you. What did you threaten him with?”
“Never mind that,” Leipfold said, stifling a yawn. He cradled the phone against his ear while he filled the kettle and started to boil it. “The point is that Eleanor Thompson hired the car a couple of times. What’s an old biddy like her doing with something out of Silicon Valley?”
“Maybe she has a techie side,” Maile suggested.
“Bollocks to that,” Leipfold scoffed. “No, she’s involved in her daughter’s death. I just need to find out how.”
“So what put you on to her? I mean, how did you know to show her photo to Greg Bateman?”
“I followed her,” Leipfold said. “When I left you alone and Tom Townsend showed up. Eleanor Thompson is a creature of habit, just like I am. I made a few enquiries in the neighbourhood, found out when she leaves the house and then I followed her. She stopped by Bateman’s Motors on her way back from Waitrose, and I thought, ‘What’s she doing there?’ So, I decided to find out. Besides…”
“Besides what?” Maile prompted as Leipfold trailed off into silence. He looked at her and shrugged.
“Something about her doesn’t sit right with me,” Leipfold said. “The first time I visited her place – when Jack Cholmondeley was there – it reeked of bleach. But it wasn’t just the house that smelled. It was all over her clothes. But why? She has a cleaner, you know. A young lady called Jowie Frankowska. Remember her.”
“Of course,” Maile said. “Marie’s cleaner. The one the cops pegged for the same murder that Townsend confessed to.”
“The very same,” Leipfold said. “The plot thickens. Now is it just coincidence that links the cleaner to the two murders? And for that matter, why was Eleanor Thompson, an elderly woman who’s used to the finer things in life, on her hands and knees to scrub the floors when she has a cleaner to do it?”