by Dane Cobain
“Ten grand,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “She called it a loan, but we both knew what it was. Of course, I refused her. Then she said she’d disappear if I didn’t pay her. Now, you can say what you like about our relationship, but Donna was still my daughter. I loved her very much, and that hurt. So I called her up to give her a piece of my mind. But she didn’t answer, so I left her a message.”
“And the flowers?” Cholmondeley prompted. “This is the first I’ve heard of them.”
“I had some delivered to the crash site,” Mrs. Thompson explained. “It was my way of making amends.”
Cholmondeley looked satisfied. Leipfold had further questions, but the time wasn’t right to ask them. Instead, he stayed stony-faced and silent. An idea began to form while Jack Cholmondeley was still jotting things down in his notebook.
* * *
After finishing up at the Thompson house, Leipfold and Cholmondeley caught up over a drink at The Rose & Crown. It was a proper boozer, a spit and sawdust public house full of men so old they made Leipfold look like a teenager. He asked for orange juice and Cholmondeley had a lemonade.
“Still on the wagon, then,” Cholmondeley observed.
Leipfold shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “And you’re on duty. I choose not to drink. You’re just not allowed to.”
“Fair point.” Cholmondeley lifted his lemonade up to the light, looked at it and laughed. “So, what do you make of Eleanor Thompson?” he asked.
“Hard to tell,” Leipfold said. “She’s a strange woman.”
“Did you pull your usual trick?” Cholmondeley asked. “Did you record it all?”
Leipfold winked and patted the phone inside his pocket. “Of course,” he said.
“And you know it’s not admissible in court.”
“Yeah,” Leipfold said. He patted his pocket again. “It’s probably not even legal. Don’t tell the cops, eh? It’s just for my notes. It’s harmless.”
“Harmless, eh?” Cholmondeley shrugged. “Whatever. Send me a transcript if you can. Maybe she said something that we didn’t pick up on. Maybe there’s something there, something we can learn.”
“Perhaps,” Leipfold said. “Perhaps not. I’ve met her type before.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“Do I think she did what?” Leipfold asked. “What are you boys calling it? A murder? An accident?”
“Officially, it’s an accident,” Cholmondeley said. “Until we prove otherwise. But between the two of us, I’m calling it murder. And if I had to put money down, I’d say the mother was behind it.”
Leipfold coughed but said nothing, and Cholmondeley looked shrewdly across at him. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that,” Leipfold replied. “It’s not that at all. But Eleanor Thompson? No, she didn’t kill her daughter.”
“But they hated each other.”
“So what?” Leipfold said. “Love is stronger, more powerful.” He paused to take a sip of his OJ. “How’s Mary?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” Cholmondeley replied. “Still healthy, still happy.”
“Good,” Leipfold said.
They slipped into an awkward, morose silence, the sure sign of a small, sober group in a place that was built for drinking. Cholmondeley got up to go to the toilet while Leipfold passed the time by checking his emails and draining his OJ. When Cholmondeley returned, Leipfold hopped to his feet and grabbed his jacket.
“Can’t stay,” Leipfold explained. “I’ve got a job to do. Listen, it wasn’t the mother. I’m sure of it. But it wasn’t an accident, either. I’ll look into it.”
“And I’ll do the same,” Cholmondeley said, setting his glass down on the table. “It was good to see you, James. Let the best man win.”
Chapter Nine: A Night at the Theatre
THAT NIGHT, at the theatre on Jermyn Street, Maile wore a stunning sleeveless red dress that showed off her tattoos. She made up her face with a little rouge and a lot of eyeliner. Leipfold was suited and booted, but he still looked scruffy and out of place. They didn’t talk much except for at the bar, where Maile had a beer and Leipfold had a Diet Coke. Then they headed off to find their seats.
The show, Driven, was about an immigrant girl who fell in love with an older man, a tragicomedy with too many one-liners, too much farcical humour and no real plot to speak of. In the final act, the heroine fell for someone more suitable, a pizza deliveryman who told her, “Life is a lie that you buy from the newspapers.”
Leipfold hated it, but Maile disagreed with him.
“You’re just pissed off because you’re overdressed,” she said. “Look at you, in your suit and tie.”
“What does smart casual even mean?” Leipfold murmured. “And while we’re at it, what’s that?
Maile followed his outstretched finger to a stranger with a bushy moustache. He was sitting three rows in front of them and drinking a fruit smoothie from a plastic bottle.
“It’s a hipster,” Maile said. “A hipster in a cravat.”
“And a monocle,” Leipfold added. He sighed. “I hate the theatre,” he said.
“Who cares?” Maile replied. “We’ve got a job to do.”
* * *
They finished their drinks in the foyer. Maile was leading the way to the dressing rooms when Leipfold stopped abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” Maile asked. Leipfold shushed her and grimaced as an older man in a funeral suit walked over and shook him by the hand.
“Fancy seeing you again,” Cholmondeley said, clapping Leipfold on the shoulder. The policeman looked strange out of uniform. Mary was standing there beside him in a lilac dress that made her look ten years younger. Leipfold noticed that she too was overdressed.
“How are you doing, Jack?” Leipfold asked. He watched the policeman’s face as his eyes tracked left. His pupils dilated a little as he spotted Maile and realised that the two of them had come together.
“I’m grand, thanks,” Cholmondeley replied. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“This is…”
“Hi, I’m Maile,” she interrupted, stepping forward to offer Cholmondeley her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Leipfold’s assistant.”
The old man was taken aback. Mary laughed and said, “You’ll have to excuse my husband. He’s a little slow today. They’ve been keeping him busy at work.”
“I’m sure they have,” Leipfold replied. “Good to see you again, Mary.”
“James,” she said.
Leipfold took the hint. “Well,” he said, “it was good to see you both. Look after yourselves, you hear?”
* * *
A quarter of an hour later, the milling crowd had all but dispersed and Leipfold and Maile found themselves talking to the show’s lead actress. She had a forgettable face but was still somehow beautiful with olive skin and long brown hair. She was tall – too tall – but she pulled it off with an air of easy confidence.
“Thanks for coming out,” she said. “What did you think of the show?”
“It was—”
“Wonderful,” Maile interrupted. “We loved it. Didn’t we, boss?”
“I suppose we did,” Leipfold said.
“Excellent,” the actress replied. “We all worked so hard on it. Come with me if you’d like. I can introduce you to Tom, the director.”
Leipfold shrugged politely and said, “I’m afraid we didn’t come here to discuss the show, Miss…”
“Rieirson,” she said. “Marie Rieirson at your service. You don’t want to talk about the show? That’s a new one. Most people want to tell me what they thought of it, even if they thought it was awful.”
“It was awful,” Leipfold murmured.
“What?”
“Forget it,” Leipfold said. “I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions.”
“Sure thing.”
“It’s about Donna Thompson.”
Marie’s face darkened and her smoky eyes flicked from Leipfold to Maile and back to Leipfold. “I think you’d better follow me,” she said.
* * *
“So,” Leipfold said, once the three of them were sitting in her dressing room and Marie was giving him her full attention. “You knew Donna Thompson.”
Marie stared at him for a second. Then her jaw dropped. “Knew? Has something happened to her?”
“She’s dead,” Leipfold said. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Did you not notice she was missing?”
“Of course,” Marie replied. “I took her role, after all. But…oh my goodness, is that what happened? Tom Townsend, the director, he told us that she’d handed in her notice. I just thought that she couldn’t cut it. I was glad that she’d left. But this…this is awful.”
Leipfold nodded and made a mental note to follow up with Tom Townsend. He wondered why the man had lied to her – or whether he even knew the truth himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s James Leipfold and I’m a private investigator. I want to find out what happened.”
“What about the police?”
“What about them?” Leipfold laughed. “Half of them can’t tie their shoelaces. But for what it’s worth, the police are already looking into it. Think of me as a second pair of eyes.”
“A second pair of eyes that I don’t have to talk to if I don’t want to?” Marie asked, crossing her arms. “I know my rights.”
“You don’t have to talk to us,” Maile said before her boss had a chance to reply. “But you should do if you have a heart. We just want to know what happened.”
“Why should I care? I never liked the girl.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Leipfold replied.
Marie sighed. She peered across at Leipfold, uncrossed her arms and said, “Fine. How can I help?”
“Let me get straight to the point,” Leipfold replied. “See, you have a motive. With Donna gone, you were the natural choice to take over her role.”
“Are you accusing me, Mr. Leipfold?”
Leipfold shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But I’d still like to be able to rule you out. All I want to know is where you were on Monday night.”
Marie looked confused, but she did her best to answer. “I was having dinner with Tom,” she explained. “You know, the director. He said the part was mine if I learned the lines in time.”
“You mean you were offered the role before Donna died?”
“Of course,” Marie replied. “Tom said he’d had enough of her. I told him if he wanted me to do it, I’d do it. As a favour.”
“I see,” Leipfold said. “And can anyone confirm that?”
“You could try the restaurant,” Marie replied. “The Ledbury. Ask if they remember Tom Townsend.”
“I will,” Leipfold said. Marie seemed relieved, but the conversation wasn’t over. Leipfold had one last question. “Why did you want to speak to us in private as soon as I mentioned her name?” he asked.
“That one’s easy, Mr. Leipfold. Donna’s name was mud around here. I know it’s awful, but I’m glad she’s gone. It’s horrible that she died, of course. But really, we’ll all be better off without her.”
“Motive,” Leipfold murmured.
“I have an alibi,” Marie reminded him. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to get out of here. Good luck with your investigation.”
Chapter Ten: A New Case
MAILE AND LEIPFOLD arrived on Park Lane as The Ledbury, the high-end eatery at the Grosvenor House Hotel, was winding down for the night. They ordered a couple of drinks from the bar and waited for the punters to finish their dinners. It was a typical Thursday evening.
Leipfold put the drinks on his credit card and started chatting to the barman, who turned out to be all too happy to talk to them.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“I wanted to ask a couple of questions,” Leipfold said.
“Can you ask them while I work the bar? I just called last orders.” The barman paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I hate closing time,” he murmured. “It’s a lonely place when you’re alone here.”
“I’ll make it quick,” Leipfold said. “I’m trying to see if my friends were here on Monday night.”
“I was on shift,” the bartender replied. “So maybe I can help.” He leaned towards Leipfold and lowered his voice. “What are you, some kind of cop?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Leipfold said.
“Jesus,” the bartender replied. “Did you fall out of a movie?”
Leipfold laughed. “There aren’t many of us left,” he admitted. “I guess I’m the last of a dying breed.”
Maile pulled up a photo of Marie Rieirson from DrivenThePlay.com and handed her tablet to the barman. “Do you recognise this woman?” she asked. “We think she was here with a guy called Tom Townsend.”
The barman glanced at the picture and pinched the screen to zoom in on it. Then he handed the tablet back to Maile.
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember her. Tom Townsend, huh? He was here, too. He was a big tipper.”
“Do you remember anything unusual about them?”
The barman laughed. “I get it,” he said. “He’s your boyfriend, right? That’s why you’re checking up on him.”
“Hell no,” Maile replied. “I’ve never even met him.”
“Townsend was looking around all night,” the man explained. “His head wasn’t in the game. A woman like that deserves your full attention.”
“What else can you tell us?” Leipfold asked.
“Not much,” the man replied. “But there was one other thing.”
Leipfold leaned closer. “What’s that then?” he asked.
“Townsend’s date got up from the table in the middle of her meal to take a call. It might not be much, but it’s something. She was gone for about five minutes.”
Leipfold nodded and thanked the man, then started to walk away.
“Hey!” the barman shouted. “What about a tip?”
Leipfold laughed and finished his drink, then walked out of The Ledbury. Maile reached into her purse and gave the man a fiver.
* * *
It was the following morning, and Jack Cholmondeley was sitting at his desk and trying to warm up after a short walk in the winter sun. It was a Friday. While most people were looking forward to the weekend and making plans to see their friends and family, Cholmondeley was facing hours of unpaid overtime.
It had been three long, hard days since Donna Thompson had been found in the middle of the road. Cholmondeley promised himself he’d give it a couple more days before turning the case over to Sergeant Mogford and, eventually, the coroner. If they couldn’t track down the owner of the car – which was looking increasingly likely – then they wouldn’t have much choice. They’d have to file it as an accident.
Cholmondeley didn’t want that to happen.
He checked his calendar and then made his way to one of the meeting rooms where he had an appointment to honour. Constable Groves had tracked down the guy who’d dropped Donna’s phone off and he’d agreed to come in for an interview.
After introducing himself and explaining the importance of the situation, Cholmondeley cut to the chase. “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions and then you can get out of here,” he said. “First off, for the record, could you please state your name and occupation?”
“Sure,” the visitor said. “My name’s Eddie Burns and I’m a carpenter.”
“Are you an Edward or an Edmund?”
“Just an Eddie,” Eddie said.
“Thanks, Mr. Burns,” Cholmondeley replied. “Do you mind if I call you Eddie?”
; “Call me whatever you like.”
“Great,” Cholmondeley said. “And could you tell me how you found the phone?”
“That’s easy enough,” Eddie replied. “I was on my way back from a job and thought I’d stop off for a bite to eat. I saw the phone while I was parking up, just lying there in the grass. I like to think I’m a decent bloke, so I decided to pick it up and drop it in.”
“So you didn’t know whose phone it was?”
“Nope,” he said. “It didn’t occur to me to check. Why? What’s with all the questions?”
Cholmondeley sighed. “The device in question is part of an active investigation,” Cholmondeley explained. “A woman is dead, and you were the lucky one to find her phone. I want you to think as hard as you can. Tell me everything you can about where you found it.”
“She’s dead?” Burns asked. Cholmondeley had been watching for the man’s reaction, but his shock seemed genuine and the cop was willing to believe it. His mouth hung open for a moment as he processed it. He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was hoping you might be able to give me some further information,” Cholmondeley said.
“All I know is I found it outside the chippy at the dodgy end of Wentworth Road.”
Cholmondeley had passed the place a thousand times over the years and he could picture it in his mind’s eye. He made a note to send a team over there and then nodded at the man. “You did the right thing, son,” he said, glancing discretely at his wristwatch. “I’d like to take your fingerprints before you leave if that’s okay.”
“Go ahead.”
“Great,” Cholmondeley said. “Constable Groves will see to that once we’re done here. There’s one other thing I’d like to know.”
“What’s that?”
“When you gave us the phone, why didn’t you stick around?” Cholmondeley asked. “It took time and resources to track you down.”
“Well, gee,” Eddie said. “Sorry about that. I was in a rush. Like I said, I was on my lunch break when I found it. Lunch was over and I had a job to get to. My bills don’t pay themselves. I wish they would.”
