by Dane Cobain
A waiter returned with the bill just as Maile and her date got up from their seats and prepared to leave the restaurant. Leipfold tried to hide behind the waiter, but the scene drew their attention and Maile glanced over.
“Boss?” she said. “Is that you?”
Leipfold surrendered and sat back. He nodded glumly and said, “Good food, right?”
Maile ignored him. “Why are you following me?” she asked.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “There’s a killer on the loose, remember?”
“I told you,” Maile growled, “I can look after myself. What I do in my spare time is my business, not yours. I can’t believe you followed me.”
“I just wanted to—”
“Check up on me, yeah,” Maile said. “Go home, boss. Worry about your own life and leave me to worry about mine.”
“And what about you?” Leipfold asked.
“Go!” she shouted.
Maile and her date walked out of the restaurant together, and Leipfold was left behind to apologise to the staff for the commotion. They guilted him into tipping them extra, and his wallet was almost empty by the time he got out of there.
* * *
The following day was Wednesday March first, and optimism was in the air across the city of London. Fishmongers were selling their wares in Billingsgate Market, stallholders were shifting legal highs in Camden, rickshaws were trundling up and down along the West End and James Leipfold was alone in his office.
Maile hadn’t turned up for work, and that worried him. He guessed she was still mad at him from the night before, and both of them knew she was too valuable to discipline her for missing a day. But she hadn’t even been in touch with him, and that was unusual. She usually kept him informed of her every move. On top of that, she wasn’t answering her phone when he called her, or replying to his instant messages and emails.
If business had been slow, he might’ve put in a couple of hours to check up on her, but business was still booming and he was starting to worry about how they were going to manage. He already knew that his finances were in a mess, and he wasn’t looking forward to calling his accountant and asking for a little help.
He sighed and picked up the phone.
* * *
Meanwhile, at the police station, Cholmondeley’s team was in low spirits. The investigation was progressing, slowly but surely, and there was the constant risk of another murder. Cholmondeley knew that he couldn’t afford that. The press already had their eyes on the case. The only thing that sold more papers was paedophilia.
Luckily for morale if nothing else, Jack Cholmondeley had some good news, which he revealed at the daily briefing. They had a full house with over a dozen officers packed into the tiny room. The detective inspector had seen it that busy before, but not for a couple of years.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking his place at the head of the room. “Please give me your attention for a couple of minutes.”
Cholmondeley explained how the case had developed, and how Asif Shaktar, like Marc Allman, had been released without charge.
“Despite the brutality of the murders,” he said, “the forensics boys are yet to report any findings.”
“How come?” Constable Yates asked. She was sitting near the front with a notebook in her hand.
“This isn’t a TV show,” Mogford supplied. “It takes time for them to carry out their tests. As soon as they find anything, we’ll know. Until then, we’ve got to do things the old-fashioned way.”
“Well said, Sergeant,” Cholmondeley said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Luckily, we decided to run some tests of our own. And now we have some results from the handwriting analysis.”
Cholmondeley explained how the analysis worked. The calligraphists could look at different handwriting samples and begin to draw deductions. It wasn’t exact, but it was still a science with its own set of rules and laws. With a single, short letter, they could ascertain with reasonable certainty the age, gender and education level of its author, key pieces of information that could make or break an investigation.
“In this case,” Cholmondeley continued, “they compared the letter that was delivered to the station with the letter that was sent to The Tribune. And guess what. It wasn’t a match.”
There was an audible gasp in the room as the officers processed the information and realised what it meant.
“Now at this stage,” Cholmondeley continued, “there are a number of possibilities. It’s possible that the killer has an accomplice, for example, or that the letter that The Tribune received was a fraud, sent by someone else who was looking for a little notoriety.”
“Are you sure that ours is genuine?” Groves asked.
“Good question,” Cholmondeley replied. “Truth is, we can’t be sure of the authenticity of either of them, but it seems like the real deal to me. The Tribune received theirs with a chunk of the victim, and ours came with a pouch of blood. Both would be tricky to fake.”
“Then that seems to suggest the accomplice theory,” Mogford said.
“It certainly does,” Cholmondeley replied. “And there’s more. The handwriting team said that the first note was probably written by a man. They couldn’t be certain, but they said it’s a pretty good bet. But here’s where it gets interesting. You see, they think the second letter, the one that went to our reception, is different. They think it was written by a woman.”
* * *
Cholmondeley was back at his desk after the briefing. The task force’s daily meeting had been cancelled, which freed up some much-needed time in his schedule. But it also raised a huge question mark when it came to the future of Operation Aftershock. He worried that the case was being transferred because even with a web of information passing between the different teams in the daily meeting, they didn’t have much to show for it.
The meeting’s cancellation turned out to have an unexpected side effect. He was at his desk when the early blood tests came in, which meant he was able to page the rest of his team with an update. The test they used relied on comparing blood types. While it was a rudimentary test and nowhere near as complicated as the DNA comparisons that the forensics team was responsible for, they had a high probability of success and could be carried out in a matter of hours.
The email with the results contained a bombshell, one that could change the way the entire case was viewed. He gathered the team members who were working from the station and delivered a quick, impromptu update.
“All right,” he said. “Listen up because we don’t have much time. We have the results back from the blood that was delivered to the station. Now, as you already know, the tests from the package that was sent to The Tribune confirmed that our killer had a third victim, because it wasn’t a match to either Jayne Lipton or Abu Adewali.”
Cholmondeley hushed the murmuring policemen with a look. “Pay attention, please,” he continued. “At this point, we’re treating the third victim as a John or Jane Doe, but Constable Hyneman here has pulled together a list of missing persons. It’s a comprehensive list and will need a little refinement, but it’s a start. Groves, Yates and Cohen, I want the three of you to follow up with each of the names. Talk to their friends and family and see if you can find out their blood types. That should help us to make a good guess on our evidence, at least until we hear from forensics.”
He paused for a moment to catch his breath, simultaneously refreshing his memory by flicking through his notes.
“Where was I?” he murmured. “Ah, yes. We have the results back on the most recent package, the one that was delivered to Constable Cohen on reception. This is where it gets interesting.”
“How’s that?” Mogford asked.
“The blood from the police station pouch wasn’t a match for any of the others,” Cholmondeley said. “As a matter of fact, it was type AB
, the rarest type. Could be that the killer is sending us a message. Could just be a coincidence. But one thing’s for sure.”
“What’s that, then?” Constable Cohen asked. He was sitting behind a laptop computer, still taking the minutes of their meetings and briefings even though he’d been promoted to a full member of the team.
“Figure it out, Constable Cohen,” Cholmondeley said. “If this new blood doesn’t match any of the others, it means there’s a fourth victim.”
“Holy shit,” Mogford said. “But we only have two bodies.”
Cholmondeley turned to look at him. “Correct, Sergeant,” he said. “Which means the other two could still be alive.”
Chapter Twelve:
Chinese Whispers
IT WAS LATER THAT DAY, and Leipfold still hadn’t heard from Maile. He checked his records and rang the number she’d listed for her next of kin. It put him through to her housemate, Kat, who seemed confused to be hearing from him.
Leipfold asked her if she’d heard from Maile, and Kat asked if she’d been into the office. The answer was no on both counts.
“I didn’t get home until late last night,” Kat said. “I thought she was in bed when I got in, but there was still no sign of her this morning.”
“She’s not answering my calls,” Leipfold said.
“She’s not answering mine, either.”
Leipfold paused for a moment to think it over. “Have you tried anything else?” he asked. “What about through those games she plays?”
“I have no idea how they work,” Kat said. “I sent her an IM, but no dice.”
“Hmmm,” Leipfold murmured. “If she doesn’t want us to find her, we’re not going to.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a clever girl,” Leipfold said. “And she knows what she’s doing. She’s good at covering her tracks.”
Kat laughed. Leipfold could hear voices in the background. They sounded angry, official.
“Listen, Mr. Leipfold,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I’m at work and my boss is giving me the heebie jeebies. Looks like he’s just stepped in something unpleasant, and I get the feeling he wants to take it out on me. Just do me a favour, okay?”
“What?”
“Text me when you hear from Maile,” Kat said. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, but it’d put my mind at ease. She likes to get herself into trouble.”
“Will do,” Leipfold said.
Kat cut the call, and Leipfold sat back in his chair. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He wondered where Maile was and if she was mad at him. He figured she probably was, but that didn’t make it any easier. It took her disappearance to make him realise how much he relied on her, as well as how much he worried about her. Suddenly, her mother’s insistence that she carried pepper spray around didn’t seem so unreasonable.
Leipfold made himself another coffee and sat back down at his machine, then tried to busy himself with a little paperwork. He had some invoices to send, a couple of contracts to prepare and a report to deliver on a pyramid scheme which had pissed one punter off enough for him to spend a little cash to uncover it. It was boring, tedious work, but it paid the bills.
By lunchtime, there was still no word, although he did take a call from Jack Cholmondeley, who wanted to meet up with him after work to talk shop and drink a lemonade. He promised to meet the old cop in the Rose & Crown, then told him about Maile before Cholmondeley had a chance to put the phone down.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cholmondeley said. “She’s probably nursing a hangover. You know the drill, James. Give her twenty-four hours and then report it if she’s still missing. My guess is she’ll show up to work tomorrow with her tail between her legs and some cock and bull story about her phone being nicked.”
“I guess you’re right. But what if she was attacked by another creep like Tom Townsend?”
“Tom Townsend is behind bars, James. I’ll see you later. The Rose & Crown, right?”
“Right,” Leipfold said. He cut the call and put the phone down on his desk. Then he massaged his temples and tried to think for a moment. He didn’t get far.
The phone rang and Leipfold answered it.
* * *
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Leipfold demanded.
It was a couple of minutes later, and Maile had spent the intervening time rattling off a single, long sentence that Leipfold had struggled to understand. He’d caught several apologies and several more excuses, but nothing concrete.
“I stayed out,” Maile said. “Sorry, it won’t happen again. I had a few more drinks at a bar and then stayed at my date’s place. But before you say anything, I don’t—”
“You don’t want to talk about it,” Leipfold said. “Got it. So what happened?”
Maile started to say something, but Leipfold cut her off.
“I don’t mean like that,” Leipfold said. “I mean how come you didn’t call? I’ve been worried sick.”
“You’re not my mother,” Maile reminded him. “I’m sorry. My phone died, and I didn’t have a charger. I meant to call in, but I was hanging to high hell. So I went back to sleep.”
“Great,” Leipfold said. “Well, thanks for letting me know. Your housemate was worried, too.”
“You talked to Kat?”
“Of course,” Leipfold said. “Are you coming in today?”
“No,” Maile said. “Sorry, boss. I’ll be back in tomorrow. My brain feels like it’s pressing against my skull.”
“Orange juice, bacon and a shower,” Leipfold said, automatically. “It used to work for me.”
“Already on it,” Maile said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Leipfold cut the call and put the phone down, then tried yet again to get his head in the game. It had been a disjointed day, one of those anxious, stressful days where he’d worked on a dozen different things and not made progress on any of them.
He filed the invoices and called it a day, then sat in his chair and drummed his fingers lazily on the desk, tapping out a tune by Blue Öyster Cult. He reached the bridge and sighed, then started pulling his things together. He packed his bag and left the office, hitting the lights along the way.
* * *
Half an hour later, a further thirty pages into The Brothers Karamazov, Leipfold looked up from his book and spotted Detective Inspector Jack Cholmondeley, wrapped up in a dark coat with a hat slung low across his brow. He raised a hand to wave at Leipfold, who marked his place and put his book away, then ordered a pint of lager and a half of lemonade and brought them over to the little table.
Leipfold was sitting in a corner, and Cholmondeley smiled as they made eye contact. Their spot in the corner gave both men a strong field of view, although Leipfold had the upper hand because he didn’t have to rely on a reflection. Cholmondeley slid the lemonade across to him and sat down to take a sip of his pint.
“I needed that,” he said, smacking his lips. “How are you, James?”
“I’m good, old man,” Leipfold said. “Yourself?”
“I’m grand. Did your assistant turn up?”
“Maile?” Leipfold said. “Yeah, she’s fine. Or at least, she showed up and she seems like her usual self.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, old boy.”
They chatted idly for half an hour or so, catching up on old friends and retelling stories about when the two men were young and had only just met each other. Leipfold talked about his business, how it was on the rise again and making money for once, and Cholmondeley talked about Mary, snooker and the horses. He explained that he was off duty, which is why he allowed himself a lager, and that he wasn’t supposed to be talking at all.
“So why are you here?” Leipfold asked.
“The usual. I need your help.”
“Again?”
“Again,”
Cholmondeley said. “We’re still receiving the killer’s packages. Only this time, it isn’t Asif Shaktar who’s delivering them. The Tribune got one when he was in the cells, and another one came to the station after we released him.”
“Who was the courier?” Leipfold asked.
“Good question,” Cholmondeley replied. “It was a woman. Ursula something. Ursula Doyle, if memory serves. We held her, of course, but I don’t think she had anything to do with it. In fact, she was warned that we might bring her in and paid a little extra for her trouble. And the killer is being more careful. This time, the order was placed online. The courier picked it up from a public location, just off Hyde Park. We’re going to run the cameras in the area and put out an alert, but I haven’t got my hopes up.”
“Surely someone must have seen him,” Leipfold said.
“Oh, we’ll find something.” Cholmondeley paused for a moment and took a deep gulp from his pint glass. He smacked his lips appreciatively and set the glass back down. “Problem is, it looks like we’ve figured out how he works. He likes to taunt us, to put himself at risk, but at the same time he does everything he can to cover his tracks. When it comes to his little parcels, it’s like the six degrees of separation. He pays a guy to pay a guy to pay a guy to pay a guy.”
“Like Chinese whispers.”
“Exactly,” Cholmondeley said. “He’s lucky that his little packages are even being delivered.”
“No,” Leipfold said. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“What do you mean?” Cholmondeley asked.
But Leipfold simply shook his head and said nothing.
* * *
Cholmondeley was two pints further in, and Leipfold was matching him drink for drink with lemonade. They’d started to gossip about the good old days, and Cholmondeley had twice checked his watch and murmured something vague about getting back home to Mary. But by the time he started his third, he already knew he was going to be in trouble. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d driven to the pub in his Beemer, which he was no longer fit to drive. He was facing a taxi home and then another one back in the morning.
