by Dane Cobain
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Leipfold said. “Someone in this room is a murderer.”
* * *
Nobody moved and nobody spoke. If Leipfold was hoping for someone to give something away, he was shit out of luck. Unfazed, he flashed a cynical smile at Jack Cholmondeley.
“Let’s start with Donna Thompson,” Leipfold said. “After all, her murder was what started the investigation.”
“And it was murder,” Cholmondeley interrupted. “A clever murder, but murder nonetheless.”
“That’s right,” Leipfold said, “and so—”
“I’m sorry,” Frankowska interrupted, her voice calm and steady and her accent hardly noticeable. “But who’s Donna Thompson?”
“Please,” Leipfold said, holding a hand up, “no interruptions. I’ll get to it.”
Frankowska scowled at him but stayed silent. Leipfold took a moment to cast his eyes around the room before continuing. “As I was saying, Donna Thompson was murdered with a self-driving car. That’s why Mr. Bateman is here. Mr. Bateman, you’re already aware that one of your vehicles was used as a murder weapon. Care to tell us how that happened?”
“I have no idea,” Bateman replied. “I’ve already told you, Mr. Leipfold. I have nothing to do with this. I’m just here to clear my name, to get paid and to go home. Please don’t insult me by pretending I have something to do with this.”
“Pipe down, Bateman,” Cholmondeley warned. “The crime couldn’t have occurred without that car of yours.”
Bateman’s eyes flashed with anger, but he settled back down. Leipfold turned his attention to Eleanor Thompson.
“Now, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, “We all know that you didn’t get on with your daughter. Let’s face it, you’re better off with her out of the way. And, as Donna’s next of kin, you’re first in line to collect on her life insurance.”
“That doesn’t make me a murderer, young man,” she snapped.
“Perhaps not,” Leipfold conceded. “And yet you’ve been acting unusually for a woman who claims she did nothing wrong. The bleach, when Cholmondeley and I paid you a visit at the start of the case. The fact that you’d hired the car before, as Mr. Bateman here can attest to. And, if I may be blunt, the total lack of emotion you’ve shown since your daughter died.”
“That’s not true,” Mrs. Thompson protested. “That’s not true at all. I loved my daughter. I just don’t know how to show it. If you ask me, the silly cow brought this upon herself somehow.”
“It was nice of you to leave some flowers at the crash site,” Leipfold continued.
“You know about that?”
Jowie Frankowska stifled a yawn, and Detective Inspector Jack Cholmondeley flashed an annoyed glance in her direction. Leipfold nodded at Eleanor Thompson and said, “Of course. It’s my job to know things.”
“Still doesn’t mean I’m guilty,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “I felt guilty, that’s all. I pushed her away, I always have done. Perhaps she’d still be alive if I’d been a better mother.”
“Makes sense,” Cholmondeley murmured, but Leipfold didn’t share the sentiment.
“I don’t think that’s it at all, Mrs. Thompson,” Leipfold said. “I think you felt bad because you played a part in your daughter’s death. You wanted to make amends.”
“What?” she screeched. She stood up slowly with the aid of a collapsible walking stick. “I will not be insulted like this, Mr. Leipfold. I’m leaving.”
“Sit!” Cholmondeley shouted, his voice booming out like a firework on a quiet night. “Mr. Leipfold is talking. You can either listen to him now or listen to him back at the station.”
“The station?” Mrs. Thompson asked. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not at the moment,” Cholmondeley said.
“Good,” she replied. “I didn’t kill Donna.”
“No,” Leipfold agreed. “You didn’t. But you know who did.”
* * *
Leipfold’s latest revelation was greeted with a mixture of shock and apprehension. Eleanor Thompson was speechless for once, and the whole room held its breath.
Then Tony Barlow piped up. His face was flushed and his eyebrows were raised, and he looked like an angry cat. Leipfold hoped he wasn’t getting ready to pounce.
“Excuse me, Mr. Leipfold,” Barlow said. “I don’t want to interrupt you or anything but…well, I hope you’ll pardon me for asking, but what the hell are you talking about?”
Leipfold sighed and crossed his arms, simultaneously shooting an I-told-you-so look across at Jack Cholmondeley. The cop winked at him and gestured for him to continue.
“You shouldn’t even be here, Mr. Barlow,” Leipfold said. “I don’t believe you have anything to do with the crime.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” Barlow insisted. “But nobody seems to be listening. Why did you even bring me here?”
“You’d better ask Jack Cholmondeley,” Leipfold replied.
The cop simply shrugged and said, “He was on our list of suspects. You said to bring everyone who played a part in the case. Mr. Barlow here more than qualifies. He was at the scene of the accident, a fact that he first denied and later admitted, and his fingerprints were found on the victim’s phone.”
“I worked with her,” Tony said. “I must have touched her phone a hundred times. That doesn’t mean I had anything to do with her death. I already told you, I found her after the accident.”
“Yes,” Cholmondeley said. “You found her and you took her wages back and then just left her there like a piece of roadkill. And let me tell you right now, I know how your prints got on the phone. The forensic boys carried out some tests and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that the print was more than half a day old, especially not with the weather on the night in question. No, you touched her phone that night.”
“So what if I did?”
“You picked it up,” Cholmondeley said. “That night, when you took her wages. You took her phone as well. My guess is you were planning on selling it. After all, it was still in working condition when it finally made its way to us. But something spooked you and you decided to toss it.”
Tony Barlow was taken aback. His flushed face had blanched and the colour had drained away from it. The change was remarkable, as though he’d had the blood sucked right out of him in the space of a heartbeat.
“If this was true,” he spluttered, “and I’m not saying that it is…”
“Don’t worry,” Cholmondeley said. “We’re not going to press charges. We could, but we don’t want to. We have better things to be doing with our time.”
“Speaking of which…” This came from Eddie Burns, who was sitting off to one side of the group and watching the conversation with a half-smile. He’d risen from his seat and was looking towards the door.
“Sit down,” Cholmondeley said. Burns did as he was told. “Your prints were all over the phone, too. This affects you just as much as it affects Mr. Barlow over there.”
“But it doesn’t affect me,” Barlow protested.
“It does,” Cholmondeley said. “At present, I’m not going to charge you, but make no mistake. I’ll want to see both of you in court to testify. We need to establish the chain of events that led to Donna’s phone being returned to the station.”
Barlow and Burns exchanged glances, but they both piped down again and waited for Leipfold and Cholmondeley to continue. The tension in the air was palpable. It felt electric and smelled like metal, and people shifted uncomfortably in their seats while they waited for whatever would happen next.
Then Adrian Ford, the taxi driver, cleared his throat and asked, “What about me?”
“I don’t believe you had anything to do with Donna’s death, either,” Leipfold said.
Cholmondeley nodded absentmindedly and added, “I had my suspicions at first, Mr. Ford, b
ut I can’t find a motive and I’ve got nothing on you except your failure to stop and report the accident.”
“I already told you—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Mr. Ford,” Cholmondeley said. “You’ll have plenty of time to air them in court. I don’t believe that you’re responsible for Donna’s death, but I certainly don’t think you did anything to help us to progress the case. You’re lucky you’re not nicked for obstructing the course of justice and failing to report an accident. But if you come along to testify, we’ll cut you a deal. You won’t face charges.”
“I, uh…”
“It’s okay, sir,” Groves said, blushing slightly as a roomful of eyes turned to look at her. “You don’t have to decide right now. We’ll give you some time to think about it.”
Leipfold coughed and brought the attention back over in his direction. Then he turned to look at Greg Bateman, the bald and bulky car salesman who looked far too big to be sitting on one of the agency’s uncomfortable reception chairs. Leipfold smiled at him.
“Mr. Bateman,” Leipfold said. “You said that you lent your car to Mrs. Thompson and Tom Townsend.”
“That’s correct,” Bateman replied.
“Call me crazy,” Leipfold said, “but I don’t think either of them was responsible for Donna’s death. Who else hired the car?”
Bateman looked at Leipfold, searching his impassive face for some sort of clue about what he was hinting at. He came up short and spluttered something vague and unintelligible.
“Jayne,” Leipfold said, gesturing to the young woman who was sitting beside him. “Do me a favour, please. Show Mr. Bateman a photo of Marie Rieirson.”
“What makes you think I have one?” she asked.
“Your generation always does,” Leipfold replied. “You must have her on a social network or something. You millennials take selfies, right? Or did Radio 4 lie to me?”
Jayne Lipton murmured something beneath her breath, but she was also able to pull up a picture of her friend with a few quick clicks and a Google search. Then she held out her phone to Greg Bateman.
Leipfold and Cholmondeley watched Bateman’s face as he looked at the screen. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and he looked up from the screen and back across at them.
“That her?” Bateman asked. “Yeah, she took the car out a couple of times. So what?”
“Well, that settles it,” Leipfold said. “The coincidences are starting to pile up. Did Tom Townsend tell her to come to you?”
“No,” Bateman replied. “She’s been a customer for years, ever since she first got a license. In fact, I’m pretty sure she referred Tom Townsend. That’s why he wanted to hire the damn thing. Told me he wanted to impress her with it to show her he was listening.”
“I see,” Leipfold said. There was an awkward pause as he stroked his chin and mulled things over. “Strange, that. See, I happen to know that Mrs. Thompson transferred a large sum of money into Marie Rieirson’s bank account, shortly before her daughter’s death.”
“What are you trying to—?” Eleanor Thompson began, but she was cut short by Leipfold and Cholmondeley, who both turned on her and told her to shut up at the same time.
“What’s that got to do with me?” Bateman asked.
“Nothing at all,” Leipfold replied. “In fact, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you knew what your customers were up to. Ever notice anything unusual when the vehicle was returned to you?”
“You mean other than the damage from the crash?”
“Yeah,” Leipfold said.
“Well,” Bateman replied, “now that you mention it, there was one thing. Last time Marie took it out, it came back with some sort of problem. Nothing serious, not as such, but…” He waved his hands expressively, but Leipfold couldn’t grasp what he was talking about. He wished that Maile was there to talk tech with him, then realised that she wasn’t and that she was almost certainly in danger. And then he remembered that Jack Cholmondeley had his men out there searching for her and that the best thing he could do was to keep his head in the here and now.
“What was the problem?” Leipfold asked.
“Something to do with the guidance system,” Bateman explained. “It kept veering from side to side like it was avoiding an obstacle that wasn’t really there. I gave it a factory reset and that did the trick.” He paused. “Why do you ask, Mr. Leipfold? Does it have something to do with the case?”
Leipfold closed his eyes and paused for a moment. Then he opened them up again and looked Bateman dead in the eye. “It has everything to do with the case, Mr. Bateman,” he replied. “Believe it or not, Marie Rieirson knew her way around a computer. I got my assistant to do a little digging. Turns out that she’s just as interested in autonomous cars as you are, Mr. Bateman. Perhaps more so. She certainly knew enough to bypass the inbuilt software and to run her own routines. You can get guides for that from the internet, you know. It’s easier than you might think.”
“Is that true?” Cholmondeley asked. Leipfold jumped, and so did Greg Bateman. They’d both forgotten he was in the room.
“It’s true enough,” Bateman agreed, reluctantly. “I’ve tested a few mods myself, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Too much hassle. Besides, it invalidates the warranty.”
“Well,” Leipfold said, “you’re not the only one who messed with the software. Maile, my assistant, was able to bypass it in an hour or so. And Marie Rieirson managed it, too.”
“What do you mean?” Cholmondeley asked.
“It was Marie,” Leipfold said. “She killed Donna Thompson. Granted, she probably didn’t mean to. I think she just wanted to scare her.”
“Scare her?” Frankowska asked.
Leipfold whirled around to face her. “Yes!” he cried, tucking his arms behind his back and leaning towards her. “You see, Mrs. Thompson pair her to do it.”
“Lies!” Eleanor Thompson screeched, shooting back up to her feet with a surprising lick of speed. “All lies! I’m leaving now. Get out of my way please, Mr. Leipfold.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Cholmondeley boomed. “Constable Groves, restrain that woman. Mrs. Thompson, if I want you to leave, I’ll give you permission to leave. Until then, sit down and shut up.”
Leipfold was in his element again. He winked at Mr. Phelps from The Tribune, who had given up on taking notes and was watching the proceedings with a morbid fascination.
When the hubbub had died down again and Eleanor Thompson was back in her seat, Leipfold said, “The paper trail betrays you, Mrs. Thompson. You paid Marie Rieirson to scare your daughter. I’m guessing you wanted her to leave the theatre. What was the plan? Were you going to follow it up with a threat? Were you going to bully your daughter until she gave up her dreams to follow yours?”
“This is preposterous.”
“Preposterous and true,” Leipfold said. “Only something went wrong.”
Eleanor Thompson said nothing. She just sat there in her plastic chair, shaking with rage and steely eyed.
“Can you prove all of this?” Cholmondeley asked.
“Yeah,” Leipfold replied. “To my satisfaction, at least. Proving it in a court of law is up to you boys. In the meantime, I guess we’ll let The Tribune and its readers decide.”
“Trial by media,” Cholmondeley murmured. “I like it. But what about Tom Townsend?”
“And what about me?” Frankowska added. “Mr. Leipfold, why did you bring me here?”
“I’m getting to it,” Leipfold replied. “But first, let’s talk about Tom Townsend.”
* * *
“Now,” Leipfold began, “you might have seen the story in today’s Tribune.”
“It was one of mine,” Phelps added.
“Indeed,” Leipfold said, nodding at the journalist before pacing backwards and forwards across the creaking floo
rboards. “As much as I don’t want to offend you, Mr. Phelps, I’m going to assume that not everyone in this room is a regular reader of your newspaper.”
“None taken.”
“Excellent,” Leipfold said. “Well, as I’m sure Mr. Phelps here remembers, he wrote an article about the mysterious disappearance of Tom Townsend. As Phelps correctly stated in the article, Townsend has prior experience when it comes to disappearing in the middle of a show and leaving people in the lurch because of it.”
“That’s right,” Phelps confirmed. “He scammed an arts centre out of some money. Agreed to put on a show, took the cash they gave him for expenses and then disappeared into the night. I thought it possible – and indeed likely – that the same thing had happened again.”
“That’s where you were wrong,” Leipfold said. “The great crossword compiler, finally beaten. Tom Townsend is on the run all right, but not because of the money.” He paused to take a swig of water from a plastic bottle. He drained it, threw the bottle at the bin, missed it, scowled and wandered over to the fridge. He continued to talk as he rooted around for another bottle. “This crime wasn’t about the money, and Tom Townsend was an innocent man, at least in the eyes of the law. Until today.”
“But he confessed to killing Rieirson,” Cholmondeley said. There was a hushed silence in the room. Everyone was fixated on the back and forth between the two men as they puzzled over the case and tried to make some sense of it.
“That he did,” Leipfold replied. “But that doesn’t mean he did it. He’s a clever guy. That’s why he told me instead of you, old friend. I’m not a copper, so he can’t be done for wasting police time.”
“But why lie?”
“Easy,” Leipfold said. “The fool is in love. Oh sure, he’s linked to both of the murders. It’s easy to think that he did it, but that’s not the case. He’s not the murderer. He’s the motive.”
“He’s a horrible young man,” Mrs. Thompson said. She looked defeated, tired and spent and ten years older than when she entered the room. “He took my daughter away from me.”
“I’m guessing you met Marie when you went to visit him,” Leipfold said. “You wanted him to drop your daughter from the play he was directing.”