The Tower Hill Terror

by Dane Cobain

  It was a Monday. The weather was cold and miserable, and an overcast sky hung over the capital and cast bleak, grey shadows over Wandsworth, Hammersmith, Fulham and Putney, threatening to roam further north towards the Houses of Parliament, where the Conservative government was in session to discuss the pressing matters of the week ahead. The newspapers were full of the usual trash: celebrity deaths, international espionage, tension between the Russians, the Chinese and the Americans, and a second-rate singer who’d caused a furore by dressing as a Nazi at a swanky costume party. There was no mention of the murder that Leipfold had discovered a couple of weeks ago. After an initial splash across the papers, the case had gone quiet. As far as Maile or Leipfold knew, no one had been formally charged.

  But that was in the past and today was a new day. Maile had been the first to arrive at 19a Balcombe Street. She put the kettle on, dropped the day’s newspapers on the boss’s desk, sorted through her emails and made a start on a little research for their latest case. Alan Phelps, a journalist at the local rag The Tribune, had commissioned them to follow the money at a nearby non-profit. Phelps thought it was a scam, and that the board was squandering the money on annual retreats, bonuses and parties, and Maile was inclined to agree with him. But so far they’d been unable to prove it.

  There was a faint tinkle as the office door opened, and Maile looked up briefly as James Leipfold entered his domain. At barely five feet six inches, with a hard, lined face and a thin crop of ginger hair that he spiked with a little gel, he looked more like a shopkeeper than a detective. He nodded wordlessly at Maile, hung his coat on the back of the door and strolled over to his desk, where a cup of lukewarm coffee was already waiting. He drained it in one gulp, made himself another one and then sat back down and started nosing through the papers.

  They worked in silence. Construction noise blended with the traffic and filtered in through the window. Maile hated working in silence, but Leipfold never seemed to notice his surroundings. She slipped her headphones on and listened to Killswitch Engage, looking up every couple of minutes to check what the boss was doing.

  Eventually, he finished the papers and beckoned her over. It was time to attack the day’s crossword. Maile steeled herself to ask her question and then wandered over to join him.

  * * *

  “You want a what?”

  Maile smiled nervously and chewed at her fingernails, a habit she’d picked up at university when her lecturers asked questions that she couldn’t answer.

  “I want an afternoon off,” Maile repeated. “Tomorrow, if I can. I am allowed to take time off, right? I still haven’t seen a contract.”

  “I need to write one,” Leipfold replied, waving his hand impatiently. “I’ve never hired before. It’s always been just me. What do you need an afternoon off for?”

  “I have a life,” Maile said. She laughed. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. Can I take it off or not?”

  Leipfold sighed. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly. “It’s not like you haven’t earned it. Just try to give me more warning next time. Shit, Maile, you’ve picked the worst possible time. Look at how busy we are.”

  “I know. If we keep this up, we’ll have to hire someone else.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Leipfold turned his attention back to the stack of papers in front of him. “Will that be all?” he asked.

  Maile paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Leipfold looked up at her and asked, “What is it?”

  “I just think it’s weird,” she said. “You know, that Jayne Lipton was killed just as we were closing in on her.”

  “You think her murder was connected to the previous case?”

  “I don’t know,” Maile admitted. “Maybe. I guess it’s possible. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s a load of crap,” Leipfold said. “No, Jayne Lipton’s death was something different, something new. Whoever killed her must have been planning it. It sure as hell wasn’t committed on the spur of the moment. An act of passion, perhaps, but one that required a heart of stone and a sick, twisted imagination.”

  “Hmm…” Maile paused for a moment, examining her fingernails with exaggerated nonchalance in a movement that didn’t fool either of them. “So what you’re saying is that there’s a psycho on the loose and nobody knows who they are or what they want?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Leipfold said. “But don’t worry about it. That’s what the police are for.”

  “Yeah, and they always do such a good job.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “How did you guess?” Maile asked. She didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “And you’re fine with that? I mean, you’re going to leave the cops to investigate? You’re not going to take the case on?”

  “How can I?” Leipfold asked. “We’ve got plenty of work to go around. Besides, Jack Cholmondeley’s on the case. If anyone can solve it, he can.”

  “Like he solved the Donna Thompson case?”

  “Enough with the sarcasm,” Leipfold said, but his eyes were twinkling and Maile could tell that he saw the funny side. She grinned.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “The same thing we always do,” Leipfold replied. “Pass me that pen. We’re going to nail the crossword and get back to work.”

  * * *

  While Leipfold and Maile were working on the crossword, Detective Inspector Jack Cholmondeley was chairing a meeting at the station. Sergeant Gary Mogford was there, looking as tired as always but wearing a fresh suit and too much aftershave. Constable Jenny Groves was there too, one of the newer recruits who had a reputation for following the rules and getting the job done, despite her low social standing as a former PCSO. Constable Ian Hyneman had joined the briefing at the last minute, a stubble-faced man with the early hint of an expanding waistline. They were joined by Constable Jessica Yates, a nondescript but attractive young copper with dreams of working undercover, and Constable Steve Cohen, who was taking a break from working reception to record the minutes.

  Cholmondeley surveyed the room with grim satisfaction and called the meeting to order. The hubbub died down as the cops put on their serious faces. Most of them were new recruits. Mogford was the only other copper in the room who he really knew and trusted.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thanks a lot for coming. As you already know, we’re here to discuss Operation Aftershock. Please save any questions you might have until the end of the briefing.”

  Aftershock was the automatically generated code name that their computers had provided for the case. While the choice of words was random—or as random as a computer could manage—Cholmondeley thought it was a good name for a murder enquiry. Especially one like this.

  “Now, as you know,” Cholmondeley continued, “the initial investigation was out of our hands. We have the report back from forensics, and while I can’t say it’s an easy read, I’d like you to look over it. Make it a priority, please. Gary, if you could do the honours?”

  Cholmondeley nodded at Mogford, who made his way around the room with a number of printed reports, stapled together and stored inside manila folders. There were only five copies, so Constables Cohen and Groves leaned in together to share one, at least for the initial briefing.

  “Now,” Cholmondeley continued, “I’d like you to forget about the report, at least for now. I need your full concentration while I go over the case to date.”

  For the next forty minutes, Cholmondeley recapped the murder of Jayne Lipton, starting with the call they’d received from the hotel staff and culminating with the discovery of a body in room 202 of the Grosvenor House Hotel.

  “The victim was in a state,” Cholmondeley explained. “The killer inflicted multiple lacerations and mutilated the body. We’re expecting the coroner’s report any minute now, which should take care of a few unanswered questions.”
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  “Such as?” Mogford asked.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Cholmondeley replied. “All evidence so far suggests she was killed by a sharp object such as a knife or a machete, which was used to cut her throat like a pig in a goddamned slaughterhouse. There are photos of the scene and the body. While I hate to ask you to look at them, you’re going to have to. Familiarise yourself with the scene. It might cost you a good night’s sleep, but it’ll give you a better idea of what we’re up against.”

  “Anything missing from the scene?” Mogford asked.

  “Not as far as we can tell,” Cholmondeley replied. “All of her clothes were present, but there’s a patch missing from the dress she was wearing. It doesn’t look like a tear. It’s more likely that the killer cut it out after her death, perhaps to take with him as a trophy.”

  “And what are we up against, guv?” Constable Groves asked, raising a hand half-heartedly like a kid who was too cool for school. “Are you sure that he’s actually a he?”

  “I don’t know,” Cholmondeley replied. “It’s an easy assumption, given the brutality of the crime, but let’s not take anything for granted. It’s our job to find that out. Now, we’ve been brought in to offer support to the Serious Crimes Unit. This is far beyond our usual remit, and I don’t want to mess this one up. There are a lot of eyes on us. I want to get results here. If we get this wrong, we’ll have a major incident on our hands. We’re just lucky that it hasn’t been reported. A story like this sells newspapers.”

  “Yeah,” Mogford grunted. “And puts other lives at risk. Especially if we have—”

  Sergeant Mogford stopped himself before he finished his thought and Cholmondeley scowled across at him.

  “We don’t,” Cholmondeley said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves and start looking for the next Peter Sutcliffe. What we have here is a murder, plain and simple. A grizzly murder, perhaps, but a murder nonetheless.”

  Cholmondeley surveyed the room again. The atmosphere had changed, and the solemnity of the crime had started to sink in. There were no jokes, no idle chit-chat or casual banter. Even Constable Cohen was solemn-faced for once, the gum in his mouth all but forgotten.

  Constable Groves raised her hand again and asked, “So what’s next?”

  “We put the feelers out,” Cholmondeley replied. “Here’s what I want you to do. Read the forensic report, keep your eyes peeled for the autopsy and speak to Sergeant Mogford to receive your list of duties. Cohen, I need you to type up and circulate the notes. Groves, pay a visit to the hotel and interview the staff. Find out who was on duty and see what you can learn from them. See who booked the room, when they booked it and whether they paid with cash or by card. Hyneman and Yates, I want you to find out everything you can about Jayne Lipton. If you check the files for the Thompson case and the Rieirson case, you’ll be able to find plenty to start with. Build on it. If she so much as bought a kebab, I want to know about it. Clear?”

  The coppers nodded and Gary Mogford said, “What about me, boss?”

  “I want you to stay at base and coordinate,” Cholmondeley said.

  “Me?” Mogford asked. His face flushed and he pushed his chest out. Cholmondeley realised belatedly that the man had taken the delegation as a sign of confidence. “Sure, I can do that. But what about you?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with some very important people,” he said. “See, we’re not the only team working on this. An investigation is already underway. I have superiors to schmooze with and reports to make of my own.”

  “Boss,” Groves said, “if we’re not the only team working the case, what happened to the others?”

  “They’re still on it, but they’ve hit a dead end,” Cholmondeley explained. “The top brass want it solved fast. Believe it or not, we’re the reinforcements.”

  Chapter Four:

  Not An Easy Death

  CHOLMONDELEY HEARD BACK from the autopsy team at quarter past four in the afternoon, and the report was in his inbox by four thirty. Unfortunately, most of his team was still out in the field, so he forwarded it on and printed off a copy of his own. By the time he’d finished reading, it was knocking off time. It was a Monday night, and Monday night was Slimming World night. Mary, his long-suffering wife—the kind of mild-mannered old woman who had a collection of plastic flamingoes, knitted blankets for charity and who’d opted for an early retirement—attended the weekly weigh-in like it was her religion, which it was. And Cholmondeley had to drive her there and back every week without fail or else there’d be hell to pay.

  By the time he got back to the station, the rest of his team was off-shift.

  There had been no major developments as of the following morning, and the kick-off meeting was subdued, not least because Constable Cohen was back on reception. The only good news was that the hotel had given some of its staff the day off work to talk to the police. Their PR team called it “helping the police with their enquiries,” desperate to put a positive spin on the worst thing to hit the place since salmonella in the Ledbury back in the eighties.

  Cholmondeley ordered Yates to join Groves for the day to help her to work through the couple dozen hotel employees who were expected to come in. Then he reported to the daily progress meeting with the heads of the other teams. After that, he had a meeting with a lawyer who was representing the Crown in the case against Eleanor Thompson, who was facing a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. The Thompson case had been the last one his team had worked on. After the meeting with the lawyer, he was off to meet the man who’d helped to solve it.

  He was off to meet James Leipfold.

  * * *

  “Where’s your assistant?” Cholmondeley asked after Leipfold answered the door and welcomed his old friend into the office.

  Leipfold shrugged and dunked a ginger snap into his coffee. He wheeled his chair over to the reception area and sat down opposite Cholmondeley, who was perched uncomfortably on one of the plastic seats.

  “No idea,” he said. “She’s got the afternoon off.”

  “Shame,” Cholmondeley replied. “She adds a bit of colour to the place.”

  “Colour?” Leipfold laughed. “She wears more black than a widow.”

  “True,” Cholmondeley murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and staring at his own reflection in the pallid brew that Leipfold had offered him. “Well, it’s probably for the best. Truth is, I’ve got a favour to ask.”

  Leipfold sighed. “You’ve always got a favour to ask,” he said. “What is it this time?”

  “Jayne Lipton.”

  “Oh no,” Leipfold said, jumping abruptly to his feet. “No, not her. Don’t talk to me about Jayne Lipton.”

  Cholmondeley took another sip of his milky tea. “Sit down, old boy,” he said. “At least let me finish. Just hear me out. If you still say no by the time that I’m done, I’ll leave you in peace. I’m not asking for much. Like I said, consider it a favour. This is unofficial and off-the-record. I could lose my job just for being here, but I trust you, James. I always said you’d make a good copper. Prove me right and help me out here. What do you say?”

  Leipfold shrugged and sat down again. “You’ve got ten minutes,” he said.

  “Great!” Cholmondeley exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Okay, listen. We’ve got teams looking into her murder already. At least three of us in different capacities, maybe more. But we’re at a dead end, and there’s a lot of pressure on us to get this done. It’s political. Sometimes I wonder whether they’d prefer us to get it wrong fast than to take our time and bust the guy who actually did it.”

  “So why do you need me?” Leipfold asked.

  “You don’t understand how vicious the murderer was,” Cholmondeley said.

  “I do,” Leipfold replied. “I saw the body.”

  “The autopsy reads like a horror novel.”

  “How so?”


  “She had her throat cut,” he explained. “But they say she was probably dead by the time that it happened. The girl was stabbed over and over again, but most of the wounds were superficial. She probably bled out. And that’s not the only thing. You sure you’re ready for this?”

  Leipfold frowned, reluctant to admit that his old friend had him interested. He sat down opposite Cholmondeley, nursing a fresh brew of his own, and said, “So what’s the deal?”

  Cholmondeley frowned. “Well,” he murmured, “where do I start?” He took another sip of milky tea. “Cutting her throat might have happened last, but it was only the beginning, if you catch my drift. They beat her, to begin with. She had pre-mortem bruises all over her, and the autopsy team thinks they used a bat or some other blunt instrument. It wasn’t an easy death. The killer…they…”

  “What?”

  Cholmondeley shook his head. “It’s awful,” he said. “They mutilated her while she was still alive. Cut big chunks from her breasts and took a knife to her genitals.”

  Leipfold inhaled sharply and asked, “Any sign of intercourse?”

  Cholmondeley shook his head. “That’s the strange thing about it,” he said. “Whatever else it was, this crime doesn’t seem to be about sex. It’s about something else, and I’m not sure what. Hatred, perhaps. I’d bet money that the killer knew her somehow.”

  “What happened to the flesh?” Leipfold asked.

  “Well, that’s just it,” Cholmondeley replied. “We don’t know. There’s no sign of it. But we do know that it was cut from her before she died. Forensics figured out the order of things thanks to the state of the blood. They put the cause of death down as exsanguination, meaning she bled out because of her wounds. It’s hard to say anything with any certainty because of the amount of punishment she received. But she suffered. She must have done.”