Driven (Leipfold Book 1)

by Dane Cobain

  He checked his pockets for his phone and wallet, then grabbed his keys and got out of the car. He locked it and made his way to the front of the precinct. There’d been a time many moons ago when he used to jog the hundred yards from the car park to the station’s entrance. Cholmondeley still had the same enthusiasm, but he wasn’t as fit as he used to be. His days on the beat were long gone, and he was fine with that.

  The cops called the station the Old Vic, although there were few on the service who remembered why. Officially, the building, with its high-ceilings, its whitewashed walls and its red-brick façade, was called the Metropolitan Municipal Building. But to the old-timers, the veterans who remembered what policing was like before the internet came along and forced them to diversify, it would always be the Old Vic. It was named after the queen who cut the cord to open it.

  Cholmondeley’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he entered the station, but he ignored it. It was probably the wife, asking him to pick up some food on his way back home. He had neither the time nor the inclination to talk to her.

  Instead, he walked into the office and discovered a shitstorm. He didn’t take a break until the early afternoon.

  * * *

  “He’s got five more minutes,” Sergeant Gary Mogford said. “If he’s not here then, we start without him.”

  Mogford had requisitioned one of the meeting rooms after forming a team as soon as the call came in. That was at four o’clock in the morning and now his patience was wearing thin. He was ready to start the meeting, and he’d waited long enough to lead one. True, it looked like an open and shut case, but there were formalities to observe, loose ends to tie up. Mogford knew it was the little details, like punctuality and efficiency, that could earn him his next promotion.

  Sergeant Gary Mogford was around Leipfold’s age, a man who was so devoted to his job that it had cost him his wife and kids. His unremarkable face was lined with perpetual worry and his baggy eyes betrayed the long-term lack of sleep that every senior cop was forced to wear like a badge of honour. His uniform looked as tired as he did. It had seen a lot of action, like its owner.

  Mogford and Cholmondeley had a love-hate relationship, and Mogford didn’t give a damn whether his boss was there or not. He was just about to start the briefing without him when the door opened and Cholmondeley ambled into the room with a hot cup of coffee and a scowl on his face.

  “Nice of you to make it, sir,” Mogford said, as his superior settled into a vacant seat at the front of the room.

  Cholmondeley stared at him, took a swig of his coffee and said, “Get on with it.”

  Mogford cleared his throat and looked uncomfortably around the room. There were a half-dozen officers present, mostly fresh faces from the day shift who’d been drafted in to replace the tired team who’d dealt with the initial call.

  “Okay, folks,” he said, clearing his throat and taking his place at the head of the task force. “Listen up. At approximately three fifteen this morning, emergency services received a phone call to report an accident on Wentworth Road. Paramedics responded immediately, but the victim was pronounced dead at the scene. At this early stage, she’s believed to be a young woman in her early to mid-twenties, and she appears to be the victim of a hit and run. Any questions so far?”

  The room was silent, but Mogford waited a couple of seconds before continuing. The atmosphere was neither tense nor electric. It was tired and a little on edge.

  “Okay,” Mogford continued. “Good. Now there’s no sign of a vehicle, but officers spotted chipped black paint at the scene, so that’s something for us to go on. The damn thing is out there, somewhere. And so is the scumbag that hit her and left her to die.”

  “Who called it in?” Cholmondeley asked.

  “We don’t know,” Mogford replied. Cholmondeley glared at him, but he shrugged his shoulders. “You know how it is, boss. The operator tried to get a name, but the caller hung up. Could’ve been the perp for all we know.”

  “Perhaps,” Cholmondeley murmured. “What else have you got? Anything on CCTV?”

  “On it already, boss,” Mogford continued. “But I wouldn’t hold your breath. Most of the shops have cameras inside, but most of them aren’t active. Either way, there’s not much on the road where the victim was found.”

  Cholmondeley cursed and shook his head. “Any ID?” he asked.

  “We found a purse with a driving license in the name of Donna Thompson. Looks like a match, but we’ll get someone to formally identify her. Next of kin is Eleanor Thompson, her mother. I spoke to her this morning, but she was babbling. You know how it is, sir.”

  Cholmondeley nodded. He knew how it was, all right. He was glad he didn’t have to face that part of the job anymore. But still, he wanted to see her.

  “Bring her in,” he said.

  “Will do,” Mogford replied. He waited to see if his boss wanted anything else before continuing with the briefing. It took over an hour, partly because Cholmondeley kept interrupting him.

  After the briefing, Cholmondeley left the room and stalked off towards his office. Half of the team followed him out. It was always the same when he started a shift. There was always something to talk to him about, an idea to run past him or an old case to be reopened. Gary Mogford made his way out of the room alone. He stopped at the canteen for a coffee and took one last look at the case notes before heading out.

  Some briefing, Mogford thought. The old man talked more than I did.

  * * *

  Cholmondeley was on his third cup of coffee by the time he’d caught up with his emails and finished reading the notes on the Thompson case. Mogford could be a nightmare to work with, but he was good at his job and his briefing and the subsequent notes were as comprehensive as anyone could ask for. And yet there was just something about the guy that grated on him, a feeling like he didn’t belong.

  The first order of business was to put out an APB for a black sedan with visible damage. It was a shot in the dark, but it was still a shot worth taking. Judging from the tracks at the scene, Donna had been struck by a large car with wide axles. Its big wheels had left marks on the road from where the vehicle skidded after the moment of impact. It was unlikely that the car itself had emerged unscathed. Not after a collision like that. The chipped black paint at the crime scene supported this theory, and Cholmondeley thought it was a good enough hunch to act on.

  After that, he made preparations to visit the crime scene. The victim’s body had already been removed by the coroner’s office but Cholmondeley had seen the photos and it was pretty obvious what had happened. Unless he was very much mistaken, Donna Thompson had died upon impact.

  At the crime scene, he knew he’d be able to get a handle on things. It all seemed simple enough. He just needed to get his hands on the driver, and then they’d be able to wrap up the case and push for a prosecution. But first he needed to catch the guy, and to catch the guy he needed to get a feel for the lay of the land. With any luck, they’d have a lead on the car by the time he got back to the station.

  His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. He looked up and called, “Come in.”

  The door opened and Constable Groves shuffled in with a fresh cup of coffee. She looked alert and awake, keen and on the job like she usually did. Cholmondeley smiled as Groves set the drink down on his desk, closed the door behind her and stood to attention.

  Constable Groves was one of Cholmondeley’s newest additions, a plain-faced but able recruit who’d served as a PCSO before joining the police force. She styled herself conservatively, an effect which was emphasised by her uniform. She was of average height and build with average brown eyes and average brown hair. Her only concession to her personality was a sparkling silver wedding ring on her left hand. She hovered nervously as she waited for Cholmondeley to acknowledge her. He nodded and asked her what she wanted.

  “Sir,” Gr
oves said. “I wondered if I could have a word with you.”

  “Of course,” Cholmondeley replied. “My door is always open.” He gestured for her to take a seat. “Would this have anything to do with the conversation we had a couple of weeks ago?”

  Constable Groves sat down and said, “Yes, sir. Could you have a word with them? They’re making it hard for me to do my job.”

  “Our job is always hard,” Cholmondeley said. “But I’ll have a word with them. You know how it is. Some of the lads get out of hand at times, but there’s no malice in it. Boys will be boys.”

  “They treat me like dirt just because I’m new and I’m a woman,” she said. “They give me all the dirty jobs and force me to change my shifts. They say things behind my back. Sometimes they say them to my face. How am I supposed to get anything done?”

  “Rise above it,” Cholmondeley replied. “Like I said, I’ll have a word with them. In the meantime, don’t let it bother you. Focus on proving you’re a better copper than they’ll ever be.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  Cholmondeley paused and thought for a moment. “I think you have the potential,” he said. “But the rest is up to you. Will that be all?”

  Constable Groves pursed her lips and looked across at him. “No, sir,” she said. “There’s something else. You’ve got a visitor. We brought Donna Thompson’s mother in and she’s ready to talk to you.”

  * * *

  Cholmondeley sighed and went over his notes again. Then he drained his coffee and looked across at the woman he’d been interviewing for the last half hour.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You don’t speak to your daughter because she’s—”

  “A spoilt little bitch with a sense of entitlement,” Mrs. Thompson supplied.

  Cholmondeley sighed again. “Of course,” he said. He paused. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thompson, but this is, after all, a police investigation. Your daughter is dead. Given the circumstances, I’m surprised you’re not upset.”

  The old woman glared at him. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” she said. “I’m sad that she’s dead. Donna is – or was – my daughter, after all. I wouldn’t wish death on anyone. But I fail to see what that has to do with my daughter’s personality.”

  “The two of you didn’t get on?”

  “You could say that,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “Donna has always been independent. She left home when she was eighteen. Said she wanted to make it on her own. She used to do it all the time. Trouble is, one time she left and never came back.”

  “And you never thought to report her disappearance?”

  “Why would I do that?” Eleanor Thompson snapped. “I knew she was safe, or as safe as she wanted to be. She called me from time to time, but I never asked her where she was. I never cared. The girl was as good as dead to me.”

  Cholmondeley winced at her choice of words. “But now she is dead, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “And we’ve brought you here to help us to find out what happened to her.”

  “I know. Mr. Mogford told me all about it.”

  “Sergeant Mogford,” Cholmondeley corrected. “He filled me in on what you talked about, but I want to hear the truth from you, not from him. We need to determine what happened to your daughter.”

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  “As far as we know, it is,” Cholmondeley said. “But we’d like to make sure of it. Can you think of anyone who had a reason to harm your daughter?”

  Mrs. Thompson thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t. Like I said, I barely knew her. It was probably just an accident.”

  Cholmondeley stared at her for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “But it can’t hurt to check these things.”

  Then, for the benefit of the tape, he added, “Interview terminated at twelve fifteen PM.”

  Chapter Four: Office Hours

  LEIPFOLD HAD A PROBLEM. He was running out of money and resources, and business wasn’t going so well. If it didn’t turn around in the next three months, he’d lose his beloved bike or have to default on the office. Or maybe he’d lose his apartment, a tiny, one-bedroom bedsit in Brixton. He spent as little time in the place as possible.

  Leipfold didn’t have a home, and he hadn’t had one since he joined the army. Now that his parents were dead and his own place felt like a coffin, he preferred to spend his time in the office. Not that the office was much bigger. He had the first floor in a poky little block behind Marylebone Station, a grotty little place with no access from the main road. Visitors to 19a Balcombe Street had to meander down an alleyway to find the entrance to the building.

  He thought back to his last case, a relatively simple investigation into a jealous husband-to-be’s fiancée. He’d tracked her around the city for the best part of two weeks before delivering a final report which left her in the clear, as he’d suspected all along. Leipfold had been able to document her every move, but the husband-to-be was unconvinced and had refused to pay his fees. So Leipfold did what he did best, digging up a little more dirt and threatening to blow the lid on the guy’s cocaine habit. He’d paid up quickly enough after that.

  His lack of budget was a worry. It was a chicken and egg situation; he needed the work to make a hire, and he needed to hire to be able to do the work. He knew how to carry out an old-fashioned investigation, but he didn’t have the know-how to keep up with the constant flow of new technology that was changing the world around him. Leipfold could just about handle simple electronics, but navigating the complex world of servers and cybersecurity was beyond him.

  And so Leipfold found himself looking for help with no way to pay for it. He did the only thing he could think of and advertised for an intern. After all, it cost him nothing to bait the hook. If nobody bit then whatever. He’d call in a few favours instead.

  Leipfold clicked a few buttons to post his ad, then sat back and finished his coffee before getting started on the next phase of his investigation.

  * * *

  Leipfold woke up at his desk again. It was a bad habit that he’d picked up during his drinking days and had never quite grown out of. His office felt more like a home than his apartment ever did, and it was usually more convenient to stay at work than to face the grim streets of the city. When he was a younger man, he’d enjoyed wandering around, especially at night. But these days, the prospect was daunting. He had enemies, and it wasn’t the ones he knew about that scared him. He feared the ones he’d pissed off with his investigations, usually by exposing secrets that their owners thought were dead and buried. He’d worked for hundreds of clients, and almost every investigation left someone with a grudge or a thirst for vengeance. A weaker man might have lost his mind.

  But Leipfold hadn’t.

  He wiped the crust from his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. Then he washed his face in the adjoining bathroom, smoothed his clothes as best as he could and nipped out to get the day’s papers. The headlines were typical, and typical of their publications. New Fears Growing Over Post-Brexit Britain. Reality TV Star Bares All for Charity. Deadly Earthquake in Myanmar: Two Brits Feared Dead. It paid to know what was happening in Leipfold’s line of work, but it grew tiresome to read the same stories over and over again with just the names and the details changed.

  Leipfold thought that the worst crimes of all were the international crimes – the wars, the genocides and the atrocities in the global game of life. They were followed by the stories in the national news, companies embezzling from investors and murders over drugs and money. Then came the local news, which usually focused on charity events and pensioners. He paid less attention to that stuff.

  On that day, nothing stood out. A spate of break-ins, a criminal hobo with a habit, a piece on an upcoming charity bash to raise money for injured ex-cops and a fatal hit-and-run just a mile or
so away from his office. It had been a slow news day.

  Leipfold reached the end of the paper and flipped back through to the crossword. It took him nine minutes to finish it. As he filled out the last clue and scribbled down the date and time beside it, he realised he’d arrived at a decision. With precious little work around and with no new cases on the horizon, he needed something else to keep him busy. And after finishing the crossword, he thought he had an idea.

  It’s about time I saw some action, he thought.

  * * *

  The sun was out by the time that Leipfold arrived at the scene of the accident, but the weather was still cold enough to make him wish he’d worn a warmer jacket. The articles that he’d read had been brief when it came to detail, but he didn’t have any trouble finding the location. The collision had taken place on a busy thoroughfare just a short drive away from the office. He arrived on the back of Camilla, his trusty motorcycle, and parked it in a space between a jeep and a dark blue Mercedes.

  The police had been and gone, and the traffic was coursing inexorably along the road. In the daytime, with better driving conditions than the night before, it was as busy as ever, although some of the motorists turned their rubber necks around to take in the yellow tape at the side of the road. None of the would-be mourners had known the victim. To them, she was just another casualty in the war for safer roads.

  Leipfold took it all in from a distance and began the long search for evidence by going from door to door. He picked the doors like he picked out the answers to his crossword puzzles. He was mainly looking for CCTV cameras, and they were only fitted to the bigger houses and the local businesses. Most conversations followed a pattern.

  “Good afternoon,” Leipfold would say. “My name is James Leipfold, and I’m looking into the accident that happened here last night. I was just wondering whether you have any CCTV cameras on your property.”