by Dane Cobain
“The first set of prints belonged to Donna Thompson,” Groves explained. “But the phone belonged to her, so that’s hardly surprising. Next up, we’ve got Eddie Burns, the guy who dropped it in.”
“That’s no surprise, either,” Cholmondeley said.
“Agreed.” Groves paused for a moment while Cholmondeley flicked through to the next page of the report. “Sir, it’s the third print. That’s the one you’ll be interested in.”
“Why?” Cholmondeley asked. His ears had pricked up like the ears of a hound who’d caught the scent, and he leaned still further across the mahogany. “Who did they match?”
“Tony Barlow,” Groves said. “The owner of the café where Donna worked. He was good enough to give us his prints when he came in to give a statement. It looks like it paid off.”
“So Barlow handled Thompson’s phone?” Cholmondeley said. He frowned and stared thoughtfully into space. “So what? He could have done it any number of times. Maybe she left it on the counter and he took it over to her.”
“Maybe,” Groves admitted, “but wouldn’t you rather find out?”
Cholmondeley stared at her for a moment or two. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Bring him in. I want to talk to him.”
* * *
A couple of hours later, when Leipfold had finished trading his grip on sanity for a grip on the case, he decided to head back out into the cold. He pulled on a long coat and locked the door of the office behind him before climbing onto the seat of his bicycle and heading out into the inner-city traffic. The roads were emptier than usual, but they were also damp from a recent rain. Leipfold’s tyres weren’t flat, but they needed more air and he kept forgetting to fill them. With the winter well on its way, he told himself that it was a tactical move and that flatter tyres gave him more traction in the rain and snow.
Not that it did him much good. As he skidded to a halt outside Eleanor Thompson’s house, his tyres caught in a hunk of gravel and sent him spilling from the saddle into the road. He was stunned for a moment when he hit the asphalt, but he had the presence of mind to pull himself up – and not a moment too soon. He was still dragging his bike onto the pavement when a car barrelled past into the night. Leipfold guessed it was running at fifty, and Eleanor Thompson lived on County Drive, a suburban twenty zone with speed bumps in the road and cars parked haphazardly along the side of the street. Leipfold cursed and tried to catch the number plate, but the car was too far away. He could only make out the first couple of letters. But that was all he needed, and more significant than the number plate was the identity of the driver.
There wasn’t one.
The black sedan skidded on the road and disappeared into the night, just like Donna Thompson’s murderer.
He shrugged his shoulders, leant his battered bicycle against the fence at the end of the drive and then made his way towards the front door. He pressed his ear against it and listened in. Nobody answered when he knocked.
Leipfold frowned and knocked again, but still nothing. He bent down and opened the letterbox, then shouted, “Is anyone in there?”
He was answered by an oppressive, imperfect silence, like the sound of a room full of people who are getting ready to spring a surprise.
That settles it, Leipfold thought. There’s someone in there.
A terrifying thought occurred to him. Perhaps the old lady was dead as well, lying at the foot of the stairs like Marie Rieirson. Leipfold thought about kicking the door down and decided against it. The movies made it look easier than it actually was. Besides, he caught a glimpse of movement in the window. Even in the darkness there was no mistaking the sharp features of Eleanor Thompson, her feline eyes glinting as she peeked through the curtains.
The two of them made eye contact and there was a flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes before she scuttled away and let the curtain fall back into place. Leipfold knocked at the door again and shouted once more through the letterbox, but she still didn’t open the door.
Leipfold needed to talk to her, and his questions were too sensitive to be shouted from the street. He took out his notebook and scribbled a short letter while leaning against the wall, before tearing the page out, folding it in half, writing her name on it and posting it through the letterbox.
He whistled as he climbed back into the saddle and cycled away into the night.
* * *
Maile’s research into the Fisher case continued, slowly but surely and with plenty of Xbox breaks. When she paused between headshots, she picked up an email with a new lead and some extra information.
A couple of days earlier, she’d contacted Companies House. After a little to-ing and fro-ing, they’d handed over some information that she’d been unable to find elsewhere. Whatever else it was, Fulwood Scientific was also a real organisation, at least in the eyes of the law.
The company was registered to a man called Will Rickman, and it had a registered address right there in the capital, half a mile away from her flat. And so, with nothing better to do with her day, she decided to pay Mr. Rickman a visit.
Before she left, Maile scribbled a quick note to her housemate, explaining where she was going and what to do if she didn’t make it home by the time that darkness fell. Then she grabbed a coat and her handbag, checked her pockets for her keys, purse and phone, and hit the street. She was a fast walker. She always had been, despite her height, especially when she was alone. The cold weather drove her on even though the wind stung her face and dried her lips out.
It took nine minutes from door to door, about the same amount of time it took Leipfold to finish a crossword. Even from a distance, it didn’t look like a business address. When she knocked on the door and found herself invited inside, she realised that she was right. It was just a house; no more and no less.
The door was answered by a young man who was lounging around in tracksuit bottoms and a plain blue T-shirt. He introduced himself as Will Rickman and didn’t seem to listen when she explained what she was doing there. Inside, Maile was smiling. Sometimes her appearance came in handy, and this was one of those times.
“So,” the man said, after leading her into his office-come-living room, “how can I help you?”
Maile smiled politely and explained who she was and who she worked for. Then she said, “I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure,” Rickman said. “Go ahead. I’m supposed to be working, but…”
“You’re working?”
“Supposed to be,” he said. “I work from home. Mostly freelance stuff: web development, marketing, that sort of stuff. Whatever I can get.”
“So you’re unemployed,” Maile joked.
“Pretty much,” he replied.
Maile smiled politely and said, “So tell me, Will. What can you tell me about Fulwood Scientific?”
Will Rickman looked confused at first and then angry. He covered his mouth with a hand and stared at her like she’d brought the wrath of some god down upon him.
“Holy shit,” he cursed. “You know about that?”
Maile nodded but said nothing, gesturing for the young man to continue. He looked back at her for a second, saw the determination in her mascaraed eyes and realised how futile it was to try to argue.
“Whatever,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Fulwood Scientific? It’s not a real company. It’s just a front.”
“A front?”
“A front,” Rickman repeated, glancing nervously around the room. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Maile said. “Just tell me what you know and I’ll hit the road. I’m not a cop, Will. I just want to know the truth.”
“The truth,” he murmured. “I can do that. Fulwood is just a shell, a fake company for a fake man with a fake name.”
“But it’s registered to you,” Ma
ile reminded him.
“So what?” Rickman replied. “Fulwood is a sham, but it’s not my sham. You need to speak to a friend of mine, a man called Mark Baxter.”
“How does he come into it?”
“Fulwood belongs to him,” Rickman explained. “My name’s on the paperwork, but he’s the owner and managing director. I have nothing to do with it.”
“I see,” Maile said, although she didn’t. “But in that case, why register it in your name? Why not let Baxter do it?”
Rickman shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “Mark’s a good friend of mine. I’ve known him for years. But he’s never had much luck with money. He went bankrupt a couple of years ago and never quite got over it.”
Maile smiled but said nothing, waiting for Rickman to continue his story. He stared back at her and ran a hand through his chin’s fluffy stubble.
“Fulwood is what Baxter uses when his name gets in the way of business,” Rickman explained. “That happens a lot, from what I’ve heard.”
“I bet it does,” Maile said. “Any chance you’ve got an address for him? Or a phone number?”
Rickman smiled and said, “I’ll give you Mark’s number if you give me yours.”
“In your dreams,” Maile said, crossing her slender arms and looking at him like he was a piece of shit she’d stepped on.
“Worth a shot,” he murmured. “Better make yourself comfortable. I’ll go grab a pen and paper.”
* * *
Leipfold was about to shut up shop. With Maile away, he’d had plenty of headspace, but he’d also realised that she brightened the place up with her esoteric clothing and her colourful language. Leipfold worked better when he was alone because there were fewer distractions and no obligations to make a fresh pot of coffee. But he had more fun when Maile was around.
Leipfold shut his computer down and tidied the papers in his in tray. He wiped down the surfaces, did the washing up and bleached the toilet, and then he had one last pass over the office to make sure everything was in order. Maile often teased him and told him he had OCD, but Leipfold disagreed. He was both obsessive and compulsive, but not at the same time. He just knew that all things had their place, and he worshipped efficiency like other men worshipped money. Wasting time trying to find things had no place in the Leipfold methodology, and Maile had picked that up within a day or two. She’d even found a way to optimise the server so the two of them could dig through his old case files and find anything they needed within a couple of seconds.
Leipfold surveyed the office and smiled like a proud father on sports day. It wasn’t much, but it was his and he wanted to keep it. Even if it meant losing his apartment.
The buzzer rang, and Leipfold checked his watch and murmured a soft statement of surprise. Nobody called at this hour – nobody called ever, for that matter – and he knew straight away that it wasn’t a client or a social call. His suspicions were confirmed when he opened the door to Eleanor Thompson, who was dressed all in black and holding an umbrella to fend off the winter drizzle.
Leipfold gestured for her to enter the office. “Come on in,” he said. “I had a feeling I’d hear from you.”
Eleanor Thompson scowled at him and walked into the relative warmth of the office. She shook her umbrella, spattering the walls with rainwater, and then hung it up to dry on the rickety old coat stand beside the door. “I got your letter,” she said.
“I thought as much,” Leipfold replied. “You could have saved us both a lot of trouble if you’d opened the door when I came over.”
“I don’t open the door to strangers,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Not even strangers that I’ve met before.”
“So why did you come to my office?”
“Why do you think?” she snapped. “It was that damned letter of yours. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
Leipfold smiled. “Mrs. Thompson,” he began, delicately. “I know you didn’t love your daughter.”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t have loved her, either. And what of it?” she snapped.
“I’m going to ask you again. Do you have any idea how the accident happened? Any idea at all?”
“Why would I?” Mrs. Thompson scowled. “And even if I did, why would I share it with you?”
“To bring her murderer to justice,” Leipfold said. “Let’s face it, thanks to the message you left and your own admission that you didn’t love her, you’re currently sitting at the top of the suspect list. Besides,” he added, hoping that his hunch was right. “You’re her next of kin. Her assets will go to you. And not just that, either. It’s funny how the youth of today thinks they’re invulnerable. Did you tell her that you had her covered with life insurance?”
Eleanor Thompson scowled again. “She knew about the policy,” she said. “The silly girl didn’t want to pay her premiums. Would you believe that she wanted me to cancel it?”
“But you didn’t cancel it, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, staring straight into her eyes and spotting a faint fog, the early signs of cataracts. Leipfold recognised the symptoms from some work he’d once done for an optometrist. For a moment, he felt sorry for the old woman, but the moment passed. “Mrs. Thompson, do you realise that as the sole recipient of your daughter’s life insurance policy, you have more reason than anyone to wish her dead?”
“I do,” she replied.
“So did you do it?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen: The Thrill of the Chase
THURSDAY ROLLED AROUND SLOWLY, as it often did. Maile was full of unfounded optimism as she entered the office and sat at her desk. Leipfold was already there, sipping on a glass of water while catching up with his emails. Maile dumped the papers on his desk and he started to work through them, putting the crossword on hold until he’d caught up with the world.
“Anything good?” Maile asked.
“Nope,” Leipfold said. “Just the usual. Viagra spam. Nigerian princes.”
“Any work?”
Leipfold shook his head. “One guy wants us to work for free,” he said. “So I told him to do one.”
The detective sank back into a gloomy silence. Maile tried to leave him to it. But she was bored, impatient for him to finish, so she put the kettle on and made them both a drink. Then she pulled her chair across the room and sat down on it. She crossed her legs and stared at Leipfold until he sighed, put a finger down to mark his place on the page and looked up at her.
“What?” he asked. “Can I help you?”
“Nope,” Maile said. “But I can help you. Get this. I did a little digging on Tom Townsend. You know, the theatre guy?”
“You mean the asshole who stole money from a charity to put on a show that never happened?”
“The very same,” Maile said. “Listen, I managed to hack into his emails. Idiot set his password as ‘password041175.’ Anyone could have guessed it.”
Leipfold frowned. “Why the numbers?” he asked.
“His birthdate,” Maile replied. “It’s easy to find if you know where to look. You’d be surprised at how many people do that. Of course, I had a little help from my friends.”
“Like the Beatles?”
“Whatever,” Maile said. “I downloaded his emails into an archive so you can take a look at them. His outbox is in there too, but it’s the stuff in his inbox that’s most important. He has a folder called ‘Abubakar’ in his archive. It’s password protected, but it’s the same password as before. Write it down, so you don’t forget it.”
“How do you spell it?”
“Like it sounds,” Maile said. Leipfold glared across at her and she grinned. “Okay, boss. It’s alpha, bravo, uniform, bravo, alpha, kilo, alpha, Romeo.”
“The phonetic alphabet,” Leipfold observed. “Nice. Why do you know that?”
Maile shrugged. “Gaming,” she replied.
Leipfold laughed and turned his attention back to the notes on the pad in front of him. “Abubakar,” he murmured. “What does that mean?”
“I googled it,” Maile said. “It’s the name of a Nigerian guy with ninety-seven wives. I guess Tom Townsend saw him as a kindred spirit. Did you know he was seeing Donna Thompson before she died?”
“I did.”
“What about Marie Rieirson?”
“I had an inkling,” Leipfold admitted. “What of it?”
“He was seeing Jayne Lipton as well,” Maile said. “His archive is full of messages from all three of them.”
“Jayne Lipton?” Leipfold asked, looking sharply across at her. “Are you sure?”
“It’s all in the emails, boss.” Maile grinned. “Jeez,” she said. “It’s the love triangle from hell – it’s a fricking love rectangle – and now two of them are dead. What do you make of that?”
“Could just be a coincidence.”
“You’re right,” Maile said. “It could be. But maybe it’s not. Who knows? Have you talked to Jayne Lipton? Maybe we should check her side of the story.”
“I’ve talked to her,” Leipfold said. “But I didn’t know she was screwing around with Tom Townsend.”
“What did you find out from her?”
“Not much,” Leipfold replied. “But this changes everything. You see, it was Jayne who reported Marie’s disappearance. And now we know she had a pretty good reason to make her vanish.”
“Could be a coincidence,” Maile murmured.
“That it could,” Leipfold replied. He paused. “There are a lot of them about at the moment.”
* * *
Maile’s report on the case of the rogue creative was well-received by the client. The PO had cleared, the funds had been received and the company had asked to book the duo on a three-month retainer. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to cover the rent. Leipfold had amped up the prices to almost double his usual rate. He reasoned that they were getting two for the price of one and that Maile’s unusual set of skills gave them a unique perspective on the case, something that the client wouldn’t find elsewhere.
