The Tower Hill Terror

by Dane Cobain

  Mogford scowled at his boss, but he beat a slow retreat at the heels of the other officers. When the rest of the cops had gone, Leipfold and Cholmondeley sat down in the reception area. They exchanged small talk and Leipfold gave Cholmondeley the name of a dozen dogs in the weekend derby. The old cop wrote the names dutifully down in his notebook and then abruptly clapped his hands and sat forward in his chair.

  “Now then,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “What business would that be?”

  “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,” Cholmondeley said, forcing out a slim smile and trying not to meet Leipfold’s eyes. “I’ve got some information.”

  “So have I,” Leipfold said. “Let’s hope it’s not the same information.”

  “It won’t be.” Cholmondeley folded his arms and looked sternly at Leipfold. “It’s police business. Don’t let this get out to the press.”

  “I won’t,” Leipfold promised. “What is it?”

  “Initial blood tests are back on the package that was delivered to The Tribune.”

  Leipfold jumped up from his seat, but Cholmondeley gestured impatiently for him to sit back down.

  “There’s more,” Cholmondeley said. “I guess you want to know whose blood it was. Well, I can’t tell you that. It’s still early days, and we’re waiting to hear back from forensics. They’re running a DNA test, and it’s going to take time to get results and to run it through the database. But we do know one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Leipfold asked.

  Cholmondeley shook his head. “The blood type,” he said. “AB negative. It’s not a match to either of the victims.”

  Leipfold paused and patted his pockets, hoping that his phone was still recording. Then he said, “So it belongs to someone else.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Cholmondeley said. “And so far, we haven’t got a lead on who.”

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed slowly, and Leipfold relented in the early afternoon and headed aimlessly back home while the sun was still shining. He spent the evening in bed rereading The Brothers Karamazov.

  The weather broke overnight. While Leipfold swore he remembered rain against his windows, the streets were dry in the morning and the clouds had cleared, allowing a mellow sun to shine down with the first, tentative promise of spring and summer. He left his room to use the shared shower, then picked up a change of clothes and hopped on Camilla. She was running well, and Leipfold felt the thrill that never got old and leaned into the corners as he wound through the streets towards his office. It was therapeutic, like popping spots or taking a long, hot bath.

  Maile was already there when he arrived, just finishing up a quick meeting with a client. Leipfold half-listened to the end of their conversation while catching up with his emails and eating a crumpet.

  Their client left at a quarter to ten, and Maile paused to hit the bathroom and brew a quick cuppa before sitting back down at her machine. She took an early coffee break so she could kill a few people on the latest MMORPG. Leipfold wandered over five minutes after she logged in and watched, bemused, as she finished kitting out and preparing for combat.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Taking a break,” she replied without looking away from the screen. “Gaming. You should try it sometime.”

  Leipfold laughed and leaned in closer to the screen. “What does Mailstrom13 mean?”

  “It’s my username,” Maile replied. “Or one of them. It’s what I’m called in the game.”

  Leipfold sighed and rubbed his chin. “I’ll never understand how these things work.”

  “That’s why you hired me,” she reminded him. “And don’t worry. I’m just blowing off a little steam. I’ll get back to work in a minute.”

  “Do what you want,” Leipfold said. “You worked for free for long enough to earn a break or two, and besides, I trust you.”

  He paused for a moment, and Maile grunted something as she squeezed the trigger and hit someone with a headshot.

  “You know,” Leipfold said, “you never told me about that dating app.”

  Maile grinned and continued her half of the conversation while chasing a half-orc warlord.

  “There’s not much to know,” she said. “You sign up and post a couple of pictures. Then you start matching with other people and if you both like what you see, it makes an introduction.”

  Leipfold nodded thoughtfully but didn’t say anything.

  “Why?” Maile asked. “You thinking of signing up?”

  “Not a chance,” he replied. “I’m just not sure you should be meeting people online when there’s a killer on the loose. I mean, how much do you really know about the people you’re agreeing to meet?”

  She shrugged. “We chat first,” she said. “If they send me a dick pic, I delete ’em. It’s worked pretty well so far. Besides, you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Why’s that?” Leipfold asked.

  Maile grinned and said, “Because if all else fails, there’s the pepper spray. Trust me. I can look after myself.”

  * * *

  Cholmondeley and Mogford had left the station for the day, but Constable Cohen didn’t have that luxury. He didn’t have much of a family to begin with, and he had to stay late to finish off some work on the case.

  Marc Allman was still in the cells, but they could only hold him for twenty-four hours before charging him or releasing him back into the wild. With most of the team at home, turning Allman over and over in their heads in preparation to vote on a decision in the morning, that left Constable Cohen to put in the extra hours to transcribe the early interviews and prepare a report for the rest of the team.

  And he had to do it all whilst simultaneously working the night shift on reception, but that evening wasn’t destined to be a quiet one. Cohen usually kept himself sane by people-watching, and the station’s reception was one of the best places to do it. He saw all sorts, from petty criminals, drug dealers, drunks and bums to sex offenders, lawyers, worried parents and good, old-fashioned members of the public. The reception staff had started playing Bing Who?, a combination of bingo and Guess Who?, where the first person to get a full house of different demographics got to leave a half hour early. That was one reason why Cohen was keeping an eye out. The other reason was that it was his job, and because Detective Inspector Jack Cholmondeley had privately briefed him to report anything that might be relevant to Operation Aftershock.

  He was pretty sure that the man in the motorcycle leathers and safety helmet counted as a person of interest, even if he didn’t score any points on the bingo card.

  The man had a parcel in his hands, which he held under one arm as he walked up to reception. Cohen triggered a silent alarm by hitting the button beneath his desk, then tried to stall the man as much as possible. He tried to engage him in conversation, insisted he needed his signature and even grabbed his arm when he put the package down. But the man shrugged him off and beat a quick retreat just as reinforcements arrived. Cohen pointed at the man in the leathers as he raced away from the station and watched as four constables chased after him. It was a cop thing. If a suspect ran, they were guilty. If a suspect was guilty, they needed to be brought to justice.

  Cohen, meanwhile, had his hands full. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from a drawer at his side, as Cholmondeley had ordered him to do if they received another package, and then he picked up the box. It was a small, red box, made of cardboard and with a detachable lid on top which was tied down with a black ribbon. Cohen unwrapped the bow and placed it delicately down beside him, then removed the lid from the box and looked inside.

  It was not a pleasant sight. Cohen, who was familiar with the case, had been expecting to see another body part. But it contained just a plastic pouch, filled with a congealing red liquid that could only be bloo
d, and a short note which was written in black ink on a light blue Post-it.

  Cohen picked the note up and placed it on the desk in front of him beside the black ribbon that had held the package together. The note was folded, so he opened it up and looked at the message. It was short, simple and to the point.

  You’ve got the wrong man, it said. Marc Allman is innocent, and now another victim’s blood is on your hands. There’s nothing you can do to stop us.

  The note was unsigned, but Constable Cohen had a good idea of who it was from. He sighed and picked up the telephone from its cradle on the desk in front of him. He dialled a number that was burned into his memory and waited for Cholmondeley to pick up.

  It’s going to be a long night, he thought.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Something casual

  TENSION WAS HIGH at the police station. Cholmondeley had cancelled all leave and increased the size of his team to follow up with the different leads.

  Two of his coppers had managed to catch the man who made the delivery, and he’d been dragged back to the station in handcuffs. They’d given Cholmondeley a full update, but he’d been more eager to hear from Constable Cohen, who’d already given him an update over the phone when he was sitting in front of the TV with a glass of red.

  Constable Cohen wasn’t at his best that morning, but Cholmondeley had expected as much. The young man had stayed at the station until the early hours, then made his way back at 6AM so he could be there for the briefing.

  He spoke in short, disjointed sentences, but it was enough for Cholmondeley to build up a picture of what had happened the night before.

  “Did we get an ID on the guy who delivered the parcel?” Cholmondeley asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Cohen replied. “His name is Asif Shaktar, and he works for a company called FunRunz. A little indie outfit trying its luck against the big boys. We questioned him straight away, of course, but we kept it generic. Figured it’d be best to hold him overnight and to wait for you and Sergeant Mogford.”

  “Good,” Cholmondeley murmured.

  The detective inspector was so impressed with Cohen’s work that he brought him onto the team, and not just as a stenographer to take the minutes. The first order of business was to vote on the fate of Marc Allman. They only had a couple more hours to decide whether to charge or release him, and they had another man in the cells that they needed to talk to.

  “Realistically,” Mogford argued, “there’s not much more we’ll get out of him. We’ve interviewed him again and again and again. We just don’t have enough to arrest him.”

  “I agree,” Cholmondeley said. “If we take him now, it’ll never make it to court, especially with the new note that says he’s innocent.”

  “It could be a set up,” Constable Groves suggested. “He could have prepared the package in advance. After all, it was his choice to visit Mr. Leipfold.”

  “It’s possible,” Cholmondeley admitted, “but I’m not so sure. No, I’ve decided. We’ll release him and focus our efforts on the new suspect, Asif Shaktar. We’ll see what he has to say and then pick our next move from there. Mogford, Yates, I want you to interview him and report to me when I get back from my meeting with the brass.”

  The two officers nodded and broke off to one side so that they could leave the meeting together and start to plan out their attack. Mogford always had a few questions ready, he was renowned for it, and Yates had a reputation for encouraging their less talkative suspects to open up. They said it was because she shared her surname with a popular chain of boozers.

  “Meanwhile,” Cholmondeley continued, “Groves and Cohen, I want you to process the release of Marc Allman. But make sure you get his details and warn him not to leave the city. We’re going to want to talk to him again.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “What about me, sir?” Constable Ian Hyneman had a hand raised. Cholmondeley had almost overlooked him, despite the fact that he was six foot one and built like a brick shithouse. Hyneman had a habit of lurking at the back during their briefings, slouching slightly or slumping in his seat on one of the station’s plastic chairs.

  “I’ve got a special job for you,” Cholmondeley said. “And it’s an important one. I want you to build me a database of missing persons. Anyone who disappeared in the last six weeks. Pull reports from around the country and give me a master list with your comments, then we’ll start sending coppers door to door to speak to their relatives. Any questions?”

  There was silence around the room. Cholmondeley smiled softly at his team and said, “Good. Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  A little later that morning, Leipfold and Maile were sitting down together in the reception area. They’d just finished The Tribune’s crossword and moved on to their daily update. Leipfold was most interested in her research into the vocoder, but that was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

  “No real progress to report,” Maile admitted. “But I’m still working on it. I’ve shortlisted a number of companies and I’ve been working through them, but it’s a thankless task. Most of them haven’t responded to me, and those that did have sent back a standard line about client confidentiality.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Leipfold murmured.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’m starting by taking the official route. If that doesn’t work, I’ve got a back-up plan. I have a lot of friends who love a challenge, like you, and who will give up a couple of hours to help me out. If we can get enough samples from the different devices, we can start to analyse them and try to find some points of comparison. Once we’ve narrowed down the type of device that the killer used, we’ll have a much better chance of getting through to them and being able to recover the original audio.”

  “Perfect,” Leipfold said. “How long will it take to get results?”

  Maile shrugged. “A couple of days,” she said. “A week at the most.”

  “Can’t you get it done tonight?”

  “I’m out tonight,” Maile said. “On a second date.”

  Leipfold looked up at her, sharply. “A second date, huh?” he asked. “Who’s the lucky man?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you that,” Maile scoffed. “Don’t worry, I can look after myself. You know I can look after myself. And besides, he’s a nice guy. It’s hard to believe that any of those are still around, but he seems all right.”

  “Only all right?” Leipfold asked.

  “I’m not about to fall in love, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Maile folded her arms and looked across at Leipfold. “That’s not my thing. I’m just looking for something casual. Someone DTF.”

  “DTF?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Maile replied. She blushed a little and tried to hide her face behind a computer screen. “Google it, if you have to. I’m saying nothing.”

  Leipfold grunted and a comfortable silence descended upon them. Maile got up to make a cup of coffee.

  Suddenly, Leipfold started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “I googled DTF,” Leipfold said. “Courting has changed since I was a kid.”

  * * *

  Maile left the office at 5PM, and Leipfold shut up shop and followed shortly afterwards. He’d played it cool when she’d talked about her romantic rendezvous, but the truth was that Leipfold was worried about her.

  It wasn’t that he had romantic feelings of his own. There was no doubt about that. She was like a niece or a daughter, not quite a best friend but a close family member who he was morally bound to protect. Leipfold liked being alone, worrying only about himself, his rent and his reputation. Whenever he got close to someone, it exponentially increased the odds of life serving up a bum deal, like a cancer diagnosis or a tragic accident.

  That was why he decided to follow her on foot and in a fa
ded blue duffel coat and a New York Jets baseball cap from the storeroom. He’d never been much of a believer in disguises. In Leipfold’s opinion, they tended to attract more attention than they diverted. But he did have a stash of old clothes that he’d used over the years to blend in when he had to. Leipfold knew that Maile would easily recognise him in his leathers, but with the off-blue coat and the cap pulled low over his eyes, he thought he had a reasonable chance of getting away with it.

  At first, Leipfold thought she was heading home, but she took a right when she would have normally turned left and made her way a half mile or so in the wrong direction. Leipfold stayed on her tail, sixty paces behind her and strolling along with an air of nonchalance. He followed her to a curry house called Mr. India and took a table for one in a far corner. Maile had been seated on the other side of the restaurant where her date was already waiting. A wooden partition separated the two tables, but Leipfold could just about make them out in the long mirror that lined one wall to create the illusion of a larger restaurant.

  Leipfold ordered a chicken vindaloo with pilau rice and a keema naan, then tucked into the complimentary popadoms and mango chutney. A messy eater, he’d spilled lime pickle down his shirt and scattered onion salad across the table before his main arrived, but he was too busy eavesdropping to feel awkward or embarrassed and he’d had enough meals by himself to be comfortable in his own company.

  Maile and her date ordered a second bottle of wine, and they both seemed to be laughing as they tucked into the food and struck up idle conversation. Leipfold had learned to lip read in the nineties by watching TV with the subtitles on, knowing it was a useful skill for anyone, whether deaf or not. Their conversation was difficult to follow, partly because it was littered with technological terms and partly because the mirror distorted the shapes of their mouths, but he was happy enough with what he saw.

  He asked the waiter for the bill and got ready to pay up and leave the place, satisfied that Maile had chosen wisely. Like an overprotective father, he just wanted to check up on the guy she’d chosen to spend time with, to see whether his asshole detector fired off a warning. He realised that he shouldn’t have worried.