A Cold Case

by Peter Turnbull

‘I understand.’ Maurice Mundy smiled.

  ‘She was a very nice lady and Josh became devoted to her. As I said, he got from Miss Tweedale what he didn’t get from our own mother.’

  ‘Yes, it all sounds to have been very difficult for Josh,’ Mundy commented. ‘Do you know if Miss Tweedale had any relatives?’

  ‘She had a sister,’ Jane Weekes advised. ‘She did mention her once but other than that I’m afraid I don’t know. Mrs Baxendale is the person to ask. She is … she was Miss Tweedale’s neighbour.’

  ‘Yes, I have met her … a very nice lady,’ Mundy replied.

  ‘She must be getting on now?’ Jane Weekes commented. ‘She was a bit less accepting of Joshua than Anne Tweedale was but, nevertheless, I remember her being a very pleasant lady, as you say.’

  ‘She is, and she is still healthy, though sadly she has lost her husband.’ Mundy shivered slightly. He hoped it wasn’t noticeable. ‘I might return and revisit her; I’d like to know more about Miss Tweedale’s family.’

  ‘Miss Tweedale would have told Mrs Baxendale if she told anyone,’ Jane Weekes replied. ‘She certainly did not and would not divulge anything like that to me; I was barely out of school myself in those days.’

  ‘Well.’ Mundy closed his notebook. ‘Thank you for the information, Mrs Weekes. I appreciate it.’ Mundy stood up. ‘It’s been very helpful.’

  ‘Not as much as I appreciate it, Mr Mundy. I now have renewed hope.’ Mrs Weekes also stood up. ‘It’s a long way for you to come for a face-to-face; we could have easily talked on the phone.’

  ‘Not true.’ Mundy smiled. ‘A stranger phoning you … about your brother? I could have been anyone. You would have been reluctant to talk and it’s always good to put a face to a name.’

  ‘Well, thank you, anyway.’ Mrs Weekes shook Mundy’s hand. ‘You’ll let me know of any developments?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mundy picked up his hat. ‘Of course.’

  Upon his return home to his house in Archway, the journey from Mrs Weekes’ house to his taking four hours door to door, Maurice Mundy, opening his front door, was assailed by a strong smell of house-cleaning materials and noticed that his home had been tidied. In the living room he found a handwritten note trapped under the clock on the mantelpiece. It read:

  Wise one … your house is a mess. Even for you it’s a real pigsty. Anyway, there’s a pre-cooked lasagne in the oven for you. You just need to heat it for an hour at gas mark 5. Better than a pizza after a long journey …

  Love,

  Roberta

  Mrs Felicity Baxendale opened her front door widely and beamed at Maurice Mundy.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me calling on Sunday?’ Mundy swept off his fedora. ‘As I explained on the phone, it’s really for my convenience.’

  ‘No bother at all, Mr Mundy, no bother at all. I find Sunday afternoons difficult to occupy so your company is most welcome. Do please come in.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Maurice Mundy stepped over the threshold of Felicity Baxendale’s house.

  Once seated, over a more-than-welcome cup of tea and with notebook and pen to hand, Maurice Mundy opened the interview by saying, ‘I am really interested in Miss Tweedale’s relatives. I believe she had a sister …?’

  ‘Yes, as in fact I told you when you visited me on the last occasion,’ Felicity Baxendale replied. ‘Her sister is called Phyllis and she has three sons. I also told you that there was ill feeling in their family … some issue …’

  ‘But you don’t know what?’ Mundy inquired.

  ‘You know, perhaps I just might. After you left the other day I did recall an incident or a comment, more like. She had received a postcard from her sister, sent from some cheap resort like Benidorm … in fact, I think it was Benidorm, and which she looked at with distaste and said, “She’ll be asking me to bail her out again. She always does within a few weeks of sending me a postcard but I won’t … not any more. She made her bed; she must lie in it. Father warned her what he’d do if she married that man … and he did it, he kept his word, so hell mend her. I feel that I have to honour my father’s wishes”.’

  ‘She was disinherited?’ Mundy observed. ‘The sister, I mean?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ Felicity Baxendale mused. ‘There is that suggestion. She lived – probably still lives – south of the river. I met her just the one time. We … that is, a group of neighbours, were having strawberries and ice cream in Anne Tweedale’s garden one blisteringly hot July afternoon and a strange woman called. She walked round the side of the house into Anne Tweedale’s back garden, bold as brass, calm as you please, saw the group of us and looked crestfallen. Anne introduced her to us and she gave her sister a bowl of strawberries and ice cream. You could tell that they were sisters … they looked similar. Anyway, an awkward silence fell on our little gathering and the sister, Phyllis, gobbled up her strawberries and ice cream, made her excuses and left. After she had gone, Anne said that she was probably seeking some money. It was the only reason Phyllis ever called on her, she told us – borrowing money she had no intention of paying back. But, you know, I think that the only person who might help you there is Anne Tweedale’s cousin.’

  ‘Cousin?’ Mundy replied in a saddened, disappointed tone. ‘If he’s her cousin, he or she …’

  ‘He …’

  ‘He will be in Anne Tweedale’s age group … elderly, and that is only if he’s still with us.’

  ‘Probably still with us,’ Felicity Baxendale replied with a ready smile. ‘It appears that Anne Tweedale’s grandmother was a woman who enjoyed or was cursed with a certain fecundity depending on how you view such things, and as a girl Anne apparently had many uncles and aunts spanning quite an age range, so she told me. And the youngest of her cousins was really some twenty years Anne’s junior so now he’ll be a man in his sixties. He is her uncle’s son … Anne’s paternal uncle’s son, so he will also be a Tweedale.’ Felicity Baxendale put her hand to her forehead. ‘She used to refer to him as “H” and said that he had brought shame on the family. He served a prison sentence, you see.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mundy smiled gently, ‘that is quite useful. You see, if that is the case it means that we can trace him. An H. Tweedale, possibly now in his sixties – that’s all I need.’

  ‘Yes, but I did know his name … “H” … but he wasn’t a career criminal, you understand. He apparently made a mistake, just one mistake, and it ruined his life. Apparently he gambled away a shedload of money that wasn’t his to gamble. Anne blamed the person who gave him the money to take to the bank, knowing that her cousin was a gambling addict. She said it was like giving a bottle of whiskey to an alcoholic.’

  ‘The temptation, you mean?’ Mundy tapped his pen on his notepad close to where he had written H. Tweedale.

  ‘That’s what Anne meant. It was too much of a temptation for him. Horace …’ Felicity Baxendale smiled broadly. ‘That was it … that was his name. Horace Tweedale. I remember now … Horace Tweedale.’

  ‘Horace.’ Mundy wrote the name on his notepad.

  ‘Anne was angrier for him than with him,’ Felicity Baxendale explained. ‘She wrote to him regularly when he was in prison and she also helped him out financially when he was released.’

  ‘Thank you … I will trace him.’ Mundy smiled with gratitude.

  ‘He’ll be able to help you much more than I can when it comes to the goings-on in Anne’s family,’ Felicity Baxendale advised. ‘Much more.’

  SIX

  ‘They were very unhappy.’ DCI Pickering clasped his hands together and rested them on the surface of his desk. He glanced away from Mundy and Ingram in a clear gesture of disapproval while they sat motionless, occupying a chair each in front of Pickering’s desk. ‘Seriously unhappy.’

  ‘I can’t see why they should be so upset,’ Mundy replied calmly. ‘We have provided them with a suspect. They were getting nowhere fast; we’re in the case and within a few days we provide them with a suspect.’ />
  ‘A damn good suspect as well,’ Ingram added. ‘Damn good. They should be taking a long, hard look at that man Cassey. A long, damn hard look.’

  ‘They were not getting anywhere, anywhere at all, like I said,’ Mundy continued. ‘It had all stagnated, and what do we do? Me and Tom … we make two home visits and hey presto, we hand them a very likely suspect. But they’re unhappy. What planet are they on?’

  Pickering took a deep breath. He once again glanced out of his office window at the buildings on the south bank of the Thames. He was a large, muscular man, even for a police officer. Mundy thought him to be a particularly large man. ‘You interviewed a suspect. CCRT officers do not interview suspects and they don’t interview anyone in respect of any inquiries not allocated to them. I made that perfectly clear to both of you.’

  ‘We did neither.’ Mundy remained calm. ‘Let me remind you, sir, with respect, that we did neither.’

  ‘We called on him in connection with a motor vehicle he once owned,’ Ingram reasoned, ‘and we did not mention any one of those murdered women that the Essex Police were investigating. We said we were investigating the murder of Oliver Walwyn. We made that crystal clear.’

  ‘Was the car seen in respect of the murder of Oliver Walwyn?’ Pickering asked. ‘That’s the issue.’

  ‘No,’ Mundy conceded. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘It was, though, was it not, seen in connection with the murder of Janet Laws?’ Pickering argued.

  ‘Possibly,’ Ingram replied. ‘Only possibly.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Pickering repeated, ‘and that possibility means that you have tipped Cassey off that he is a prime suspect in a series of murders. His car is a loose connection to the murders of those women. It’s loose … very loose, I grant you, but it’s a connection all the same.’ Pickering paused. Then he continued, ‘You’re getting to be a loose cannon, Maurice …’ Pickering paused, then he addressed Tom Ingram. ‘Tom, I’m sorry but could you wait outside, please?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Ingram stood and left the room.

  ‘A loose cannon,’ Pickering repeated when Ingram had closed the door of Pickering’s office. ‘I was puzzled as to why you never made it beyond detective constable. Now I know.’

  ‘The Tracy Black inquiry.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pickering sat slowly back in his chair. ‘You blew that, and you’ll blow the East Anglia murders inquiry if you’re not careful. If you can’t play with the team you’ll have to go …’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mundy replied softly.

  ‘It is just the way of it, Maurice. If you – if anyone – does not play with the team, they play against it.’ Pickering picked up a rubber band and began stretching it, relaxing it and stretching it again in an absentminded manner. ‘I don’t mean that you, or anyone, will deliberately oppose the team. I don’t mean that, you know I don’t, but if you are not a team player then you don’t pull your weight, or if you pull in the wrong direction or jump the gun, or if you tread on toes …’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mundy shifted awkwardly in his seat.

  ‘Anyway, the Essex boys at Chelmsford have brought Cassey in for questioning,’ Pickering spoke softly, ‘so their anger is tempered with not a little gratitude …’

  ‘Ah.’ Mundy smiled. ‘I am gratified.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pickering wound the rubber band around his fleshy wrist, ‘There is that compensation.’

  ‘Is he talking?’ Mundy asked.

  ‘No, not to them.’ Pickering snapped the rubber band. ‘He’s insisting on talking to you.’

  ‘To me!’ Mundy gasped. ‘Why so?’

  ‘Yes, to you. Why, I don’t know. To both you and Tom Ingram, so you might be interviewing a suspect after all.’

  ‘I see.’ Mundy took a deep breath. ‘I see … I see.’

  ‘The Chelmsford police think he’s playing games so they won’t be giving in to his demands … not easily. But if it’s the only way forward, they might agree. They have not charged him yet so the clock isn’t ticking. He’s apparently making no demands to be allowed to leave the police station – while he is there on a voluntary basis the Chelmsford boys are milking it for all it’s worth. He seems to like the attention – Cassey, that is, so they’re letting him have a lot of it, but it may be that they will ask you and Tom to return if they don’t think that they are making progress.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Mundy smiled his satisfaction. ‘I understand.’

  ‘What plans have you for today, Maurice?’ Pickering asked in a less angry tone.

  ‘None.’ Mundy leaned forward. ‘We seem to have come to the end of the road with the Oliver Walwyn inquiry and, as you say, Cassey now belongs to the Chelmsford crew.’

  ‘All right.’ Pickering once again snapped the rubber band against his wrist. ‘Better hang fire for the rest of the day … catch up on your administration or something.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mundy stood up. ‘There is in fact something I can be doing if I may have leave?’

  ‘All right.’ Pickering nodded his assent. ‘We have your mobile number if we need to contact you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mundy replied with an alertness in his voice.

  ‘Tell Tom Ingram what’s happening up in Chelmsford, if you would, please. Bring him up to speed,’ Pickering added. ‘He needs to know about Cassey.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Maurice Mundy turned and left DCI Pickering’s office. ‘I’ll certainly do that. Leave it with me.’

  Maurice Mundy walked to the canteen in New Scotland Yard and, it being yet mid-morning, he found that there was only a short queue at the counter. He bought a cup of tea and a toasted teacake and carried his tray to an unoccupied table against the far wall, not having sufficient status as a serving police officer to sit in the centre of the room. He had eaten the teacake and was sipping the remains of his tea when an officer, unknown to him, placed his hand on the back of the chair opposite his. Maurice Mundy did not like the man. He felt a strong and an instant dislike of him. Mundy saw cold, steely blue eyes. He saw great cruelty in those eyes. He saw a man dressed to perfection and with an unhealthy small knot in his tie. He smelled clouds of aftershave from the man. The man was clearly a police officer, but he was, Mundy was certain, the sort of police officer who, if he wasn’t a law enforcer, would be a law breaker. Such officers, Mundy knew, exist in all police forces the world over. Mundy guessed the ice man’s age to be late twenties.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ the young man asked in a distinct London accent, without a smile or a trace of warmth in either his manner or his voice.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mundy replied, but by then his new companion had already pulled the chair out from under the table and was seated opposite him, leaning forward and smiling a thin, cruel-looking smile.

  ‘You’re DC Mundy?’ the man asked. ‘Is that right? Do I have the right man?’

  ‘Am I?’ Mundy felt apprehensive. ‘What makes you think that is my name?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you are.’ The youthful detective smiled. ‘I think I have the right man.’

  ‘Well, you might very well be correct.’ Mundy also leaned forward. He was determined not to be cowed by the man or allow himself to be intimidated. ‘It really depends on who you are?’

  ‘Spate,’ the man said, ‘Detective constable. Same rank as you,’ he added with a sneer. ‘So far, but I am going places.’

  ‘Spate,’ Mundy echoed, ‘Spate … you wouldn’t be any relation to Duncan Spate?’

  ‘Son,’ Spate replied. ‘I am Christopher, the number three son. I have two older brothers – we are all serving police officers, though I am the only one in the Metropolitan Police. My eldest brother is with the Kent Constabulary and my other brother is with the Greater Manchester force.’

  ‘Quite a dynasty,’ Mundy observed dryly.

  ‘You could say that.’ Christopher Spate continued to smile a thin and – to Mundy’s eyes – a very insincere smile. ‘As you say, quite a dynasty.’

  ‘How is your father?’ Mun
dy asked. ‘I remember him well.’

  ‘He’s still with us. He’s pushing eighty now,’ Spate replied.

  ‘He would be.’ Mundy sipped his tea. ‘Heavens, none of us are getting any younger.’

  ‘So I have noticed,’ Spate replied with a hint of sarcasm. ‘It makes you determined to use your life well and to the full, don’t you think?’

  Mundy did not reply.

  ‘But yes,’ Spate continued, ‘the old man is still with us, though he’s beginning to lose his mind. It’s not unusual for men of his age to get confused.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Mundy offered, ‘but, as you say, men and women of his age tend to lose their faculties.’

  ‘It happens,’ Spate replied, ‘but the old boy has had a good innings. He enjoyed his retirement. He had a very good pension. He and my mother bought a villa in Spain.’

  ‘Nice,’ Mundy growled. ‘All that sun.’

  ‘They went there for the winter,’ Spate explained, ‘to escape the English weather, you see.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mundy put his cup back into the saucer. ‘So he didn’t retire there?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord no … no. He bought a house in Wimbledon and upon his retirement he splits his time between London and Spain.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Mundy replied. ‘Very, very nice.’

  ‘Yes. I grew up there – it is a rambling old Victorian house. He did retire with a senior rank, of course … received a lump sum and then went straight into an inflation-proof pension. He put his money into property. He said, “Buy land – they don’t make it any more”.’ Spate paused and then added, ‘I see you have done the same – that’s quite a neat little house at Archway you have there. Quite neat and compact.’

  Mundy scowled. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult … one copper to another.’ Spate grinned menacingly. ‘It wasn’t difficult at all.’

  ‘So how can I help you?’ Mundy spoke coldly.

  ‘I am just a little curious,’ Spate replied, still smiling insincerely.

  ‘About?’ Mundy asked quietly. ‘What are you curious about?’