‘Oh, that’s not funny.’ Janet Thackery looked uncomfortable.
‘Yes, that explains why I’m a little threadbare.’ Mundy forced a smile. ‘I get my clothes from the charity shops.’
‘Well, I must get this meal,’ Janet Thackery insisted. ‘Let me get this.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ Mundy protested.
‘Yes, I want to. It was my idea to have something to eat anyway so it’s only fair,’ Janet Thackery reached for her handbag, ‘and it’s been a long time. I have not had male company for a meal for a few years until we met up the other day. And I did enjoy it. Thank you for telling me the story. I’ll buy this meal.’
‘All right,’ Mundy smiled his thanks, ‘but only if I can buy the next one.’
‘The next meal out.’ Janet Thackery continued to smile. ‘Because, remember, the next meal is going to be at my house. I do a seafood casserole to die for. Suit you?’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Mundy replied warmly. ‘Just ideal.’
Maurice Mundy looked curiously at the house on Lambourne Avenue, SW19. He saw a low, white-painted wall, beyond which was a stand of thick, evergreen shrubs, perhaps ten feet high or so, he estimated. The entrance to the property was set halfway along the wall and was composed of two black-painted wrought-iron gates, which were hung on tall brick gateposts and which opened on to a wide gravelled-over area. The house itself seemed to Mundy to be of thirties vintage, and was, like all the houses on the cul-de-sac that was Lambourne Avenue, detached. Two bay windows stood on either side of a large, white-painted door set in an open porch, the roof of which was supported by pillars. The upper floor of the house also had bay windows above the windows on the ground floor and a large window of stained glass above the door. Maurice Mundy, in fading light, was looking at the home of Detective Chief Inspector Spate (retired).
Mundy opened the gate and crunched over the gravel towards the front door, causing two large-sounding dogs to begin barking at the sound of his footfall. He walked confidently up to the front door, took hold of the highly polished brass knocker and rapped it twice, causing the two dogs to bark more loudly, more excitedly. The door was opened by an elderly woman in a dark dress who glanced at him but did not speak. The two dogs continued to bark but remained unseen.
‘I am Maurice Mundy,’ Mundy announced, ‘here to see Mr Spate. I think I am expected?’
‘Yes.’ The woman gave little away and Mundy instantly thought her to be cold-hearted. ‘Please come in, Mr … er …?’
‘Mundy.’ Maurice Mundy smiled his reply, though he felt the woman’s apparent forgetting of his name was deliberate and intended to offend.
‘Yes … Mundy. Well, please come in.’ The woman moved aside.
‘Thank you.’ Mundy stepped over the threshold, sweeping off his hat and wiping the soles of his shoes on the mat as he did so.
‘I’ll let my husband know that you are here.’ Mrs Spate closed the door behind Mundy. ‘If you’d care to wait in here, please.’ She opened the door to a living room to the right of the hallway just inside the house.
‘Thank you,’ Mundy repeated, and smelled air freshener and furniture polish and noted a very neatly kept hallway. The Spates clearly had domestic help, he reasoned.
Mundy stepped into the room and was similarly met with a heavy odour of air freshener and furniture polish. The room itself was, he observed, a sitting room with a three-piece suite, bookcases, a small television and a coffee table. His eye was immediately caught by a line of brass artillery shell casings of various sizes which stood on a shelf beside the bookcase. Upon the door being closed behind him, Mundy strode silently across the deep-pile carpet, picked up one of the smaller shell casings and examined it. On the base of the shell casing the initials KH were clearly visible, scratched deeply into the brass.
Maurice Mundy went cold.
Hearing the noise of movement in the entrance hall, Mundy carefully replaced the shell casing and walked silently back to the centre of the room. The door opened widely and Duncan Spate entered the room, accompanied by two black Labradors, both of which barked at Mundy until Spate said, ‘Hush!’ The dogs fell silent but fixed Mundy with a steadfast gaze.
‘What can I do for you?’ Duncan Spate was, Mundy noted, much drawn about the face. He had a liver-spotted complexion and his hands seemed to Mundy to be twisted with arthritis which, he reasoned, probably caused the man a lot of discomfort. He was but a shadow of the man Mundy recalled, and Mundy hoped the look of surprise which he felt upon seeing him did not show.
‘It’s about the conviction of Joshua Derbyshire,’ Mundy explained.
‘Who?’ Spate demanded in a cracked voice.
‘Joshua Derbyshire,’ Mundy repeated.
‘Joshua Derbyshire?’ Spate lowered his head. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, he’s not here,’ Mundy replied in a soft voice. ‘He’s in prison.’
‘Who did you say you were?’ Spate demanded. ‘Who are you?’
‘Mundy, sir. You probably won’t remember me but I was a constable at the time that you arrested Joshua Derbyshire for the murder of Miss Anne Tweedale.’
‘Tweedale,’ Spate repeated. ‘Where is that? In Yorkshire? Up north somewhere?’
‘It’s the name of a murder victim, sir,’ Mundy advised.
‘Murder …’ Spate responded to the word. ‘Who’s been murdered?’
The door opened and Mrs Spate entered the room. She had a stern look about her eyes and face. ‘I’m sorry, mister … whatever your name is,’ she said. ‘I must ask you to leave this house. My husband is unwell. He gets confused and tired easily. He really doesn’t know who you are. I doubt he can be of help … whatever it is you want.’
‘Yes, I can see that, Mrs Spate.’ Mundy nodded. ‘I am very sorry to have bothered you.’ He edged towards the door and left the house, anxious to reach the safety of the public highway. He hoped that his taking leave of the house did not seem to be as unduly urgent as he felt it to be.
SEVEN
‘We’ve obtained a search warrant. We were able to convince the magistrates that we had reasonable grounds for suspicion and it turns out that he has been a very busy little squirrel has our Mr Cassey.’ DCI David Cole glanced at Maurice Mundy and then at Tom Ingram. ‘Quite a busy little squirrel indeed.’
‘Oh?’ Ingram raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. His garage and his loft were full of stolen items … a whole treasure trove of goodies taken during burglaries in this general area and also further afield. We are still drawing up the inventory, so I dare say we owe you one for that.’ Cole smiled and nodded approvingly. ‘I confess I was sceptical of the usefulness of the Cold Case Review Team but I am now forced to revise my opinion.’
‘Pleased to be of service.’ Mundy returned the smile. ‘The pleasure was ours.’
‘Anyway, when we questioned him about the murder of Janet Laws and the other young women he became a “no comment” merchant,’ Cole advised. ‘He knows how to defend himself.’
‘Which always means they are guilty,’ Ingram offered as he glanced out of Cole’s office window at central Chelmsford and pondered that it was not a town he would be happy to live in. It was, he thought, all too new. It had little perceptible history that he could detect.
‘Of course it does,’ Cole replied coldly. ‘We all know that … don’t we all know that, but it does not help us any. We know they are guilty, and the “no comment” cowboys know that we know that they are guilty, but it doesn’t get us any nearer to the charge bar, still less any nearer to a conviction. But in Cassey’s case we can at least hold him on the receiving of stolen goods charge. He’s not going anywhere and right now he’s in Blundeston Prison, having been remanded.’
‘I’m pleased about that, it’s progress.’ Mundy sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘But why ask us to come up to Chelmsford? Has he said anything about the murder of Oliver Walwyn?’
‘No.’ Cole also sat back i
n his chair. ‘Not at least in so many words. What he has said is that he is prepared to talk to you two gentlemen but about what he did not say, and will not say.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Ingram replied. Then added, humorously, ‘We must have made a good impression on him.’
‘It’s the nearest thing that we have to a breakthrough.’ Cole clasped his hands behind his head. He did not respond to Ingram’s attempt at humour. ‘I think it’s clear that we are going to get “no comment” from now on and only “no comment”. So if you two gentlemen could help us, please, we would be appreciative.’
‘Delighted.’ Tom Ingram grinned.
‘Just point us in the direction of Blundeston. I confess I have never been there.’ Maurice Mundy began to stand up.
‘It’s close to Lowestoft,’ Cole advised, ‘to the north of here, less than an hour’s drive. It’s only a Category C prison but it’s secure enough to hold Mr Cassey. If you two gentlemen can please see what you see, find out what you find out.’
‘Yes, it’s a fairly new prison, as you can see,’ the tall, silver-haired prison officer commented as he escorted Ingram and Mundy to the agent’s room, ‘and it’s already earmarked for closure. I’ll be redeployed, which worries me a bit because I quite like living in this part of the world. And I’ll also be sorry to see it closed. We have had some interesting guests. Here we are – I’ll let you two gentlemen use this room.’ The prison officer unlocked the door with a rattle of a bunch of keys which were attached to his waist with a long silver chain. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll have Mr Cassey brought down from the cells.’
Mundy and Ingram sat side by side at the metal desk in the agent’s room. Mundy noted it to be a brightly-coloured room painted in cream and red with a floor of brown, hardwearing carpet. The ceiling was about twelve feet high, Mundy guessed, and thus prevented the room from having an oppressive feel. Natural light entered the room via a narrow window set at the top of the wall opposite the door, although the room was principally illuminated by a filament bulb concealed within a Perspex screen and fitted to the ceiling.
Outside, the officers heard a clanging of doors and a rattle of keys. The door of the agent’s room opened and Kenneth Cassey entered. He was dressed in a heavy cotton shirt, white with blue stripes, a pair of denim jeans and inexpensive sports shoes. He sat, sullenly and unbidden, in the chair which stood against the table opposite Mundy and Ingram. ‘Come to gloat?’ he asked with a sneer as he sat down.
‘Why on earth should we want to do that?’ Mundy replied. ‘It was you who told the Chelmsford police that you would only talk to Mr Ingram and myself.’
‘We’re only here because you indicated to Mr Cole that you would talk to us,’ Ingram added. ‘So we are here. There’s no gloating going on.’
‘I just thought that you might be pleased to see me like this since it was you two gentlemen who got me arrested.’ Kenneth Cassey glanced around the room.
‘Yes, perhaps …’ Mundy sat forward, ‘… but you have been arrested for receiving stolen goods. We’re interested in the other matter.’
‘The little boy?’ Cassey replied calmly. ‘You’re interested in him?’ A silence descended on the small room.
‘Yes.’ Mundy spoke calmly. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘Everything.’ Kenneth Cassey looked away from the officers. ‘I can tell you everything.’
‘Be careful what you admit to,’ Mundy warned. ‘We must caution you.’
‘Yes, but I am not going to sign anything, and,’ Cassey held out a hand and touched the wall, ‘I don’t see a tape recorder set in the wall with the spools spinning and the little red light glowing to let everyone know the thing is recording every word … I don’t see that.’
‘There are two of us,’ Ingram added. ‘We will be able to confirm anything you say.’
‘There could be two hundred of you.’ Cassey smiled knowingly. ‘Without a signed confession or a double recording then anything I say in here stays in here. You know that and I know that. Tell me about the boy’s parents,’ he asked. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘Only his mother is still alive. They were elderly parents when they had him. He was their world. His father died shortly after he was murdered – he never recovered. His mother battles on alone,’ Ingram explained. ‘I confess it is strange that women are often referred to as the “weaker sex” but not only do they live longer than men, they demonstrate more emotional strength than men. Why do you ask anyway, Kenneth? Is your conscience beginning to eat away at you?’
‘Frankly, yes.’ Cassey looked down at the tabletop. ‘Yes, it is. It’s being in here, lying on my bunk. I have only just arrived and already found that you have a lot of time to think if you’re in prison.’
‘So it’s gnawing away at you,’ Ingram prompted. ‘It does that. Guilt is like that. Once the guilt sets in it never lets go, and it gets worse. Each day the guilt is worse than it was the previous day.’
‘It’s going to get worse?’ Cassey appealed to the officers.
‘Yes,’ Mundy replied, ‘it’s going to get a lot worse; an awful lot worse. Guilt and regret are both like that – they both get worse.’
‘And then you die,’ Ingram added.
‘So the police are closing down on us,’ Cassey moaned. ‘What will we get?’
‘Life,’ Mundy told him, ‘full life tariff … no parole. We are talking about, what … six murdered women – at least six murdered women, and young women in the main – and one murdered schoolboy. He was only twelve years old. What else do you think that you can expect?’
‘But I like me beer … I like the outdoors, especially in the summer,’ Cassey whimpered.
‘So did your victims,’ Mundy growled. ‘One of whom will never grow old enough to taste beer.’
‘You’ve only got one possibility of being granted parole,’ Ingram suggested, ‘and I won’t mislead you, it’s a slim possibility at best. So slim that it’s hardly even a possibility.’
‘Full confession,’ Cassey anticipated, ‘and telling you who Oliver Hardy is?’
‘Yes. The full monty,’ Mundy advised. ‘Do not hold anything back. Anything at all.’
‘They don’t let you be buried on sanctified ground,’ Cassey said flatly.
‘Who … murderers?’ Mundy thought Cassey looked even smaller than when he had first met him in his little house in Frere Way in Norwich.
‘No … no, they don’t. An unmarked grave in the prison grounds. That’s what murderers get.’ Cassey drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll be a “nonce”. Murdering the women is one thing but a twelve-year-old boy … I’ll get sliced up in the showers. Look at me. I can’t handle myself at all and there are some rough boys in here.’
‘And it’s only a Cat C,’ Ingram reminded him. ‘The rough boys in here are nothing compared to the rough boys in the Category-A prisons where you will be going. Nothing. Believe me.’
Cassey made a low wailing sound and folded his arms across his chest.
‘Time to start working for yourself, Kenneth.’ Mundy cleared his throat as the strong odour of the disinfectant in the agent’s room reached him. ‘It’s the old story … you can work for yourself or you can work against yourself.’
‘I don’t know what to do for the best,’ Cassey whined.
‘Come clean,’ Ingram retorted. ‘It’s always the best thing to do.’
‘I lie awake at night in here,’ Cassey whispered. ‘I’m so glad I don’t have any family – no one close enough to be shamed by all this anyway, just some very distant cousins with different surnames.’ Cassey seemed to Ingram and Mundy to be talking more to himself than to them. ‘No one to get hurt over all this.’
‘So tell us about Oliver Hardy,’ Mundy suggested. ‘You know you want to.’
‘Oh, a fine mess I’ll be getting him into.’ Cassey smiled at his own joke.
‘Making less of a mess for yourself, though, Kenneth,’ Ingram replied encouragingly.
Af
ter a pause, Cassey said, ‘It was him who killed the boy.’
A further silence descended on the room.
‘So what happened?’ Mundy asked softly after a few seconds had elapsed following Cassey’s disclosure.
‘Off the record, remember?’ Cassey looked at both Mundy and Ingram. ‘This is all off the record. I won’t sign anything.’
‘Understood,’ Ingram replied. ‘All off the record.’
‘OK … you know that I feel better already. So we topped the brass … Oliver strangled her in the back of the car as I was driving. It was him that killed them all. So we did what we did, what we always did: grab a brass, top her in the car and then drive her out into the country and leave her to be found. I took the back roads out to Chelmsford and we found ourselves out in the country. It was dark, a really dark, rainy night. Not too late but dark … We found ourselves on a dark road with a smaller road leading off it like a farm track. Oliver was positioning the body against a gateway, then he said, “You’ve seen too much”. I didn’t know what he meant at first, then I saw him stride over to a little lad who was just standing there in the rain. Neither of us had seen him approach and Oliver had a spade in his hand. He just strode over to the boy, who didn’t move – it was like he was rooted to the spot. If he’d have run away he’d be alive. We couldn’t have caught him, but he didn’t run … he was frozen … and Oliver Hardy brought the spade down on his head, then he brought it down on his head once again just to make sure, but I think the first blow probably killed him outright. So Oliver picked up the brass and put her back into the car, and picked up the boy and put him in the car on top of the brass, and we drove back the way we had come. We got to a village looking for a place to drop the boy so he wouldn’t be found quickly. We drove round this huge green and Oliver Hardy sees a sign – No Fishing or Private Fishing or something like that.’
‘Yes,’ Mundy said, ‘Private Fishing. The sign is still there. Probably been re-painted since you murdered the little boy but that’s what it says. Still, carry on … you’re doing well. You’re helping yourself.’
A Cold Case Page 15
