Driven: Leipfold Mysteries, #1

By Dane Cobain

Meet private detective James Leipfold, computer whizzkid Maile O'Hara and good-natured cop Jack Cholmondeley in the first book of the Leipfold series. A car strikes in the middle of the night and a young actress lies dead in the road. The police force thinks it's an accident, but Maile and Leipfold aren't so sure. Putting their differences aside, and brought together by a shared love of crosswords and busting bad guys, Maile and Leipfold investigate. But not all is as it seems, as they soon find out to their peril...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781948338363

Book preview

A Note on the Text

MAILE AND LEIPFOLD live in a London that’s similar to, but not identical to, our own. It’s a London where the villains are straight from the pages of a comic book, where the heroes are unusual (but normal) people struggling to do the best they can in the knowledge that life doesn’t always turn out like it does in storybooks.

Because of this, not all of the city’s geography is one hundred percent accurate. If you walk along Balcombe Street, you won’t be able to follow it down an alleyway, up the stairs and into Leipfold’s office. You won’t be able to visit Cholmondeley at the Old Vic, either.

Likewise, all of the characters are creatures of the imagination. Any similarities with real people—living or dead, fictional or otherwise—are purely coincidental. Except for the bit about Justin Bieber.

Autonomous cars already exist, and trial runs are taking place around the world. But there’s work to be done before they become a common sight on British or American roads.

If you ever find yourself falling through a rabbit hole and resurfacing in Leipfold’s London, be sure to buy him an orange juice from me. And if he’s riding Camilla, give her a pat on the handlebars.

Chapter One:

Donna Takes a Walk

DONNA THOMPSON turned the volume up on her iPhone, tightened her scarf, and started to walk a little faster. It was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were the worst day for tips. Tony’s had been empty all day.

It was also night-time. After cashing up and waving goodbye to Tony, the eponymous boss who’d sunk his life savings into the place, she’d walked out of the café and started out on the long journey home.

She lit a cigarette, looked both ways, and crossed the road. The streetlights shone down and made monsters in the shadows. She tugged nervously at a lock of her hair. Her fringe hung down to her eyes. Her face itched with the concealer that helped to hide the bags that grew when she worked too many late shifts. The deception was completed by layers of eyeshadow and mascara and a thin line of eyeliner that made her look like a faux-Egyptian pharaoh queen.

Meanwhile, the cold air chafed at her lips, accentuating their pink tint and wearing away at her Carmex. She finished her cigarette and threw it into the gutter, then reapplied her lip balm without breaking her stride. It was a twenty-minute walk to the station. While her boots kept her warm and dry, the soles of her feet were perpetually blistered from walking across the café’s tiled floor.

A black cab motored past her. Donna thought about flagging it down but ignored the urge. She barely had enough to live on as it was, and luxuries were for other people. Besides, she knew she looked pretty good, a blue-eyed brunette with a reddish tinge and a hanging fringe, a size ten dress, and decent legs that were covered with a thick pair of grey leggings. She wasn’t a ten, but she thought she could pass for a seven or an eight if the lighting was good, and anything could happen in a sketchy area like this one. Like her mother had always told her, there were some bad people out there. And some of those people drove taxis.

It was a cold, quiet night, too cold to stand around, with hardly any traffic and no other pedestrians in sight. Donna shivered and thrust her hands into her pockets then continued to walk along the deserted street. It started to rain, and Donna realised just how impractical her clothes were. She was still a quarter mile from the station, and she had to walk back to her apartment once she reached her stop.

She shivered as the rain started to gather momentum. She thought about waiting it out and decided against it. Better to press on, surely. At least that way she’d be able to dry off once she got home. The water had started to soak through her clothes and into her bones, and her hair was already tangled and matted, a far cry from the comfortable bun she’d tied it in when she left the house that morning.

Her phone rang.

With the water still pelting down and tearing at her eyes like a harpy, she willed herself to forget it. But her FOMO was kicking in and the lure of the vibrating device was too much to ignore, so she crouched in a narrow archway outside a house on Wentworth Road and pulled it out of her pocket to glance at the screen. It was an unknown number and it caught her at a bad time, so she ignored it and packed her phone back away in her pocket.

Instead, she stepped back out into the rain and hit a right at the traffic lights. She didn’t notice the black sedan that was inching slowly along the road, a good hundred yards or so behind her.

Donna walked along in a world of her own, mindlessly thinking about the hum of the wind in her ears, the smell of fresh rain in the middle of winter, and the slick sound of tyres on grit. She reached a T-junction and looked to her left and then her right. Then she froze, illuminated by headlights.

The black sedan had skidded off course and was heading towards the pavement. By the time she realised what was happening, it was already too late. Donna tried to dodge out of the way, but the vehicle clipped her side and sent her tumbling through the air.

She died the second her head hit the asphalt.

Chapter Two:

Meanwhile…

SOMEWHERE ON THE OTHER SIDE of the city, private investigator James Leipfold was sitting in his office, hunched over his desk with a copy of The Tribune in one hand and a black biro in the other.

Leipfold thrived on challenges, even if they were the intellectual challenges of Mr. A. Phelps, junior reporter and crossword compiler at The Tribune. There was little else for him to do. He had the kind of mind that rebelled when left to its own devices. He needed something to focus on, something to niggle away at him, something to dwell on in the shower or in the early hours of the morning.

That evening, he was dwelling on eleven across. It was an anagram, and Leipfold hated anagrams. Clues were fine, and cryptic clues were even better, but anagrams were for people who dealt in words. Leipfold dealt in problems, not words. That was a job for journalists and other hacks. Leipfold hated journalists because he never knew where he stood with them. They took his words and turned them against him.

Not that anyone, journalist or not, had talked to Leipfold lately. His last major coverage had been a couple of years ago after the case of the crippled hipster. Now in his forties with a receding hairline and a criminal record, Leipfold was hardly a catch. Couple that with his thin face and his stocky shoulders, his worry lines and his eternal frown, and it was easy to see why the ladies passed him by. His male friends, meanwhile, were mostly on the force or in the slammer, and either way they didn’t have much time for a cheeky pint at the Rose & Crown.

Not that Leipfold drank anymore, either. Drink was a demon that he’d lived with for over a decade, but he’d been sober for the last four years and he meant to keep it that way.

He turned his attention back to the crossword. Eleven across: Go near fresh fruit.

He wrote orange in the little boxes and turned his attention to nineteen down.

Tom Townsend was at The Ledbury, the upper-class eatery at the Grosvenor House Hotel on prestigious Park Lane, enjoying dinner with a stunner of a woman who was all dark brown eyes and sparkling smile. The starter was so-so, but the main course, grilled kipper with mustard butter, was delicious.

He stared at the woman as he wiped his lips and reached for the wine. Her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the screen and then excused herself as she rose from the table to answer it. She was gone for five minutes. Five long, uncomfortable minutes for Tom Townsend, who took out his own phone and started to fiddle with it.

When the woman came back, her hands were sweating and her face was flushed, but if her date noticed, he pretended not to. He smiled as she sat back down at the table. Where were we? he asked.

The woman smiled back at him and reached across the table to cup his hands in hers. You were telling me how much you want me, she said. And I was telling you how much I want to be in your production.

Tom laughed. Yeah? I’m sure we can come to an agreement. Are you sure you’re ready?

Tom, I was born ready. Just give me a chance and I’ll prove it.

He paused mid-bite to look at her. She looked the part, but she was untested, a wild card. Business was business and pleasure was pleasure, but he was thinking with his crotch and not his wallet, again.

Please, Tom, she said. I’ll do anything.

He smirked and put his fork down on the plate. Anything? he asked.

Leipfold had finished his crossword, but his brain still craved something to keep it occupied. In years gone by, he would’ve reached for the bottle, but the bottle had let him down too often. With no booze and no crossword, he felt like he was out of options.

He picked up the paper and tossed it onto his desk. Then he stretched his arms, stood up slowly and began to pace around the room.

After ten minutes had passed, he paused and looked around. The office was dingy and shabby looking, but it felt more like a home than his apartment. His eyes wandered lazily over the cheap plastic kettle and his mismatched mugs, past the faulty intercom and the hooks on the back of the door and then further along to where two potted plants sat sadly on a bookshelf beside a bunch of old textbooks. His cool, grey eyes settled on the only part of the office he was proud of, the sign he’d bought when he first went into business.

It read James Leipfold: Private Detective.

He smiled softly, remembering the first time he walked into the place. After the accident and his subsequent imprisonment, it’d been hard to find a job. He had a record, a past and the kind of face that put prospective employers on edge. Even when he managed to land something, it didn’t last. Back in the army, he had a reputation for mouthing off to his superiors. As a civilian, he took no shit from anyone.

Leipfold walked over to the door and grabbed his jacket. He pulled it over his shoulders, turned off the lights and walked out of the office, locking the door behind him.

Meanwhile, Maile O’Hara was at home with four cans of Relentless and a controller. With her work done for the night, she’d powered down her laptop and kicked back with a console. Her housemate thought she was crazy to spend so much time on it. They didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but they both paid their rent on time and they’d settled into a comfortable routine. Kat cooked dinner more often than not, and Maile made it up to her by offering a sympathetic ear.

There was a knock on her door. Maile cursed and, without taking her eyes off the screen, shouted, Come in!

The door opened and Kat walked into the room. She perched on the end of Maile’s bed, crossed her legs and stared pointedly at her housemate until she paused the game and dropped her controller.

Maile turned to look at Kat, who was staring at her with an eyebrow raised. What? she demanded.

Kat was actually a Kathleen, at least on her passport, but everyone shortened her name and she was just fine with that. Half a dozen years older than her housemate, Kat was an ambitious woman in her early thirties. She worked for a recruitment company, but she hated her job and wanted to change it—like most of her colleagues.

That evening, while Maile was relaxing in her Pikachu pyjamas, Kat was dressed up for a night on the town. She’d straightened her hair and climbed into a pair of skinny jeans, then donned a black blouse and a leather jacket. She was wearing makeup but not too much, just enough to highlight her features and to subtly draw strangers’ gazes to her eyes and lips.

She smiled at Maile and said, Xbox again? There must be a better way to spend the night.

It’s better than getting loaded on white wine and listening to shitty music, Maile replied. Besides, I hate people. They give me a headache.

Kat looked at her. Is that why you carry pepper spray in your handbag? she asked.

Maile laughed. Hell no, she said. It’s an old habit. Better safe than sorry, right? There are some fucked up people out there. That’s why I do computers. Computers are predictable. You know where you stand.

Yeah, Kat said. And you can turn them off when you’re done with them. Anyway, listen. I’m going out with the girls. You coming?

Maile shook her head. I’m good, she said. But tell them I said hi.

Come out tonight, Kat insisted. You can tell them yourself.

Maile shook her head again, this time with more enthusiasm. Her fringe fell across her face and she brushed it haphazardly away. I can’t, she said. I’m busy.

Kat sighed theatrically and headed off to her room to finish getting ready.

Maile picked up her controller and unpaused the game. Then she turned the volume up.

While Kat and her friends were getting loaded on white wine and listening to shitty music, Donna Thompson lay bleeding in the road as a gaggle of pasty-faced onlookers waited for an ambulance to arrive. Someone had covered Donna with a towel to keep her dry, but she was unresponsive when people tried to talk to her.

The rain was still hammering down, and a small stream of Donna’s blood was already melting away across the surface of the road. On the other side of the street, a solitary car or two passed by before the ambulance arrived. A police car pulled up soon after and the two vehicles blocked off the road. The paramedics spilled out and rushed towards the body while the cops moved the onlookers back and started to take down names and addresses.

On the other side of the city, a black sedan was cruising beneath the streetlights. It had a big dent in the front and the engine was whining like an injured animal. It wound its way through the backstreets towards its final destination.

The city was half asleep, for now at least, and the heavy rain kept most people indoors. There were nearly nine million people in the city, and most of them, like James Leipfold, Tom Townsend and Maile O’Hara, were hiding from the elements and hoping for some sunshine in the morning.

For Donna Thompson, it was the end of the line. For the rest of the city, life was only just beginning.

Chapter Three:

The Old Vic

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JACK CHOLMONDELEY was running late for work. He hated being late, but he’d overslept and the traffic was worse than usual.

The night before, he’d had a dream about retirement. Even though it was a dozen years in the future, it was a prospect that seemed both too near and too far away. He woke up at quarter past seven, which was later than he’d slept for as long as he could remember. His wife, Mary, was fast asleep at his side. She was a couple of years younger than him, but she was also semi-retired and self-employed, so she usually got out of bed just in time to give Jack a quick kiss before he straightened his tie, picked up his briefcase and walked out the door.

On that day, they got up at the same time and Cholmondeley dressed in a hurry while Mary brushed her teeth in the bathroom. He pulled a jacket on over his shirt, hastily threaded a belt through his trousers and walked out the door with a slice of toast in his hand. A fastidious man, he held it in a napkin and took care not to drop it on his clothes. In Cholmondeley’s experience, image was everything, and he couldn’t lead his men if they were laughing behind his back at a stain on his suit.

Cholmondeley unlocked his car and settled into the driver’s seat, checked his pinstripe tie in the rear-view mirror and then buckled up tight before easing the Beemer out of the driveway. He made up some time by taking a couple of shortcuts, but by the time he reached the station he was eight minutes late and counting.

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 uninspired.

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