A Cold Case Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Peter Turnbull from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Recent Titles by Peter Turnbull from Severn House

  The Maurice Mundy Series

  A COLD CASE

  The Hennessey and Yellich Series

  ONCE A BIKER

  NO STONE UNTURNED

  TURNING POINT

  INFORMED CONSENT

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL

  AFTERMATH

  THE ALTERED CASE

  GIFT WRAPPED

  The Harry Vicary Series

  IMPROVING THE SILENCE

  DEEP COVER

  THE GARDEN PARTY

  DENIAL OF MURDER

  IN VINO VERITAS

  A COLD CASE

  A Maurice Mundy mystery

  Peter Turnbull

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  First published in the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Peter Turnbull.

  The right of Peter Turnbull to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8683-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-787-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-856-8 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Two men walked casually side by side although with a greatly noticeable gap between them. An observer would note that the two men were of the same age group, being in their middle years, and the observer would further note that the two men were both dressed in casual, durable but also comfortable-looking clothing. The observer would also note that both men were tall, being just under six feet, and that both were of large, stocky build. The observer would note a striking difference between the two men in that one walked with his eyes downcast, looking only at the road surface just ahead of him, while the other man walked with his head up, glancing keenly in all directions, looking ahead of himself both in the near and middle distance and also searching for detail from side to side. Both men kept their hands in their pockets. The man who kept his eyes downcast was wearing a green wax jacket, while the keenly searching man wore a trilby and a camel-coloured duffel coat against the chill easterly wind which blew across the flat landscape that was the vast open space in the centre of the village of Matching Green in the county of Essex. As the two men walked they encountered a large puddle in the road which was the consequence of recent rainfall, and the man in the duffel coat deferred to the other man and fell in behind him as he walked over a narrow stretch of tarmac between the puddle and the raised boundary of the village green. The observer would then doubtless deduce that the man who walked with his head down knew the area and was possessed of knowledge and/or seniority which the second man, the wearer of the camel-coloured duffel coat, did not possess.

  When they were beyond the puddle the two men recommenced walking side by side in a casual but confident manner, with the outer of the pair – the man in the duffel coat – continually turning his head as he surveyed his surroundings. The man saw the large – exceedingly large – village green and, bringing to mind a parcel of land with which he was very familiar, and knowing that said parcel of land was approximately one third of an acre in respect of its expanse, he was thus able to estimate the village green to be approximately two acres in size. It was the largest village green he had seen, though he would not dispute that there would probably be larger, he being a city dweller all his life and unversed in the sights of rural England. Surrounding the green were houses, the man noted, each well-set, proud and well-maintained, detached from its neighbour and clearly the possession of a moneyed owner. Beyond the houses lay the flat expanse of farmland that stretched away to the skyline. At that time of the year it was deeply and neatly furrowed, awaiting the sowing of winter wheat, and all at that moment under low, grey, swiftly scudding clouds. Once again the two men fell into single file as a black mud-bespattered Range Rover approached and drove past them, being driven by a muscular-looking, well-built man in his middle years who was dressed in a dark green, military-style woollen pullover and a well-worn grey, torn flat cap. The driver of the Range Rover did not look at the two walking men as he drove by at a safe and a sensible speed. Upon the passing of the Range Rover the two men once again began to walk side by side and, continuing to keep a comfortable and a relaxed silence, they carried on until they drew level with a pond set in the village green, close to the southernmost boundary beside which the men were strolling. When they were level with the pond the man in the green jacket stopped walking, turned to his right and faced the pond. The second man stood beside him and gazed at the dark, still, chill-looking water. He thought that the pond was perhaps thirty feet long by about fifteen feet wide. A stand of reeds protruded from the surface of the pond at its furthest, northern end. The man noticed a stark sign, of black letters on a white background, affixed to a post beside the pond at eye level which read Private Fishing. The two men read the sign and glanced at each other.

  ‘Essex,’ growled the wax jacket-wearing man. ‘This part of Essex anyway. Here be money and ownership rules, it’s just the way of it round this place. Mind you, I suppose it’s fair enough – the sign, I mean. If they didn’t limit the number of licences this little pond would soon be fished out, or there would be too many people crowding the edge of the pond. That would spoil the peace of a day’s fishing, so I can readily understand it.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ the man in the duffel coat asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Dunno … I don’t fish. Are you an angler?’ the man wearing the wax jacket replied.

  ‘I’m not passionate about it like some guys are but I have cast a hook now and again,’ the second man explained. ‘So, yes, I dare say that I am a bit of an angler. I reckon this pond will contain the likes of perch or roach, but there could equally be trench or carp in that sort of water.’

  ‘I see … I’ll take your word for it.’ The man wearing the wax jacket looked at the still water, which was occasionally rippled by the wind but in the main was still. ‘W
ell, this is where he was found … floating in the water, head down, on a wet, dark night, raining heavily … you can imagine it. His body was apparently part hidden in the reeds … over there.’ The man pointed to the vegetation at the far northern end of the pond. ‘The boy was wearing a dark blue school uniform raincoat with nothing else of him being visible. The poor visibility and the colour of his raincoat served very efficiently to camouflage him. The police had a search party out looking for him by then, of course, a missing twelve-year-old …’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’ The man wearing the duffel coat also gazed out across the forbidding-looking water of the pond. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated.

  ‘But, as they subsequently found out, they were looking in the wrong place. They were apparently searching the fields and woodlands between here and Matching Tye, which is a smaller village …’ the man in the wax jacket pointed to the west, ‘… in that direction. It’s about a mile away,’ he explained, ‘perhaps a little more, but an easy walk for a twelve-year-old.’

  ‘Yes, quite easy.’ The man in the duffel coat looked curiously to the west. The village and the surrounding area would, he felt, be very fetching in high summer, but on that day it all looked cold, desolate and deserted, save for him, his guide and the driver of the black Range Rover who had just passed.

  ‘The boy had apparently gone to visit a school friend and left his friend’s house to do the walk home at about eight thirty p.m.’

  ‘Not too late?’ the man in the duffel coat commented, glancing at his companion.

  ‘Not too late at all,’ the first man replied. ‘The walk should have taken him only about twenty minutes … perhaps half an hour, and when he had not returned by nine fifteen his father phoned his friend’s parents, who confirmed that he had left their house at eight thirty p.m.’ The man in the wax jacket continued, ‘So his father went looking for him, as indeed any parent would have done.’

  ‘Of course …’ The man in the duffel coat nodded. ‘It must have been awful for him.’

  ‘He took the family dog and together they walked to Matching Tye and back,’ the first man explained. ‘And, not finding him anywhere on the road, the boy’s father raised the alarm upon his return home. The police from Hounslow duly arrived and went to the pub—’

  ‘The Chequers?’ the man in the duffel coat enquired.

  ‘Yes.’ The man in the wax jacket smiled. ‘You noticed it?’

  ‘Of course … red brick building over there.’ The second man pointed to the public house. ‘Thirties roadhouse style, I’d say … it is significantly younger than the buildings around it, most of which seem to date from the Victorian period.’

  ‘Are you an architectural historian?’ The first man raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Heavens, I wouldn’t go that far … but,’ the second man gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, ‘I have, over the years, developed more than a passing interest in buildings, especially smaller, domestic buildings. For some reason I can’t explain, I’d be happier looking round a perfectly preserved house from the twenties than I’d be looking round a castle, for example.’

  ‘I see.’ The man wearing the wax jacket inclined his head. ‘Anyway, they – the police – asked for volunteers and, despite the time of night and the foul weather, not a man nor a woman refused to help. The fields from Matching Green to Matching Tye were searched as much as they could be … they had a few lamps and fewer dogs, but the search continued until well after midnight.’

  ‘Nothing?’ the second man asked.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ the man in the wax jacket growled, ‘and that is because by then he was most likely already in here.’ He nodded to the dark, cold-looking water of the pond. ‘Anyway, the search was resumed at first light with more police officers and more dogs, the officers equipped with poles to help search shrubs and woodland.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man in the duffel coat replied softly, ‘I’ve done that a few times.’

  ‘We all have … we all have,’ the man in the wax jacket replied dryly. Then continued, ‘The farmers in the vicinity were asked to search their outbuildings and the householders in the village were similarly asked to search their sheds and garages as a small number of constables did door-to-door inquiries.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ the man in the duffel coat replied.

  ‘So it seems that the search was well under way by about eleven a.m. that morning when the postman came riding up to the mobile incident room on his bike, panting for breath because, sharp-eyed man that he apparently was, and knowing of the search for the missing boy, he’d been glancing in all corners as he did his walk delivering letters, really keeping his eyes peeled … and he’d seen the body floating among the reeds.’

  ‘So the search was being undertaken on the wrong side of the village?’ the second man replied.

  ‘Well, yes, as I said, but only in hindsight. At the time it was sensible of the police to search the area between Matching Green and Matching Tye,’ the man wearing the wax jacket responded with a defensive tone of voice.

  ‘Of course … of course,’ the man wearing the duffel coat stammered.

  ‘The search would eventually have been widened and, at some point later that day, the body would have been found,’ the man in the wax jacket explained, ‘but in the event it was found by the sharp-eyed postman before the search was widened.’

  ‘Good for him,’ the man in the duffel coat offered.

  ‘Oh, indeed … indeed …’ The man in the wax jacket once again growled his reply. ‘So … for some reason the boy had left his friend’s house, walked home, seems to have walked beyond his parents’ cottage and been found in this pond. At first, people thought that it had been a tragic accident. They thought he’d lost his way in the dark and stumbled into the pond, but at the post-mortem the pathologist found head injuries …’

  ‘Yes.’ The man in the duffel coat glanced around the village green again and was struck once more by its size. It was surrounded by houses yet it seemed to him to be a very lonely place to die. Especially for a twelve-year-old. ‘I read the report … skull fractured in two places. So then it became a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Yes, and a murder inquiry with no suspects.’

  ‘None at all?’ The man in the duffel coat glanced at the first man.

  ‘None, although the feeling was that it had to be a local culprit … and that is still the feeling.’ The man in the wax jacket also looked at the village green. ‘I mean, just look at the place … just look at this village, will you? It’s in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘So I saw on the map.’ The second man took another glance over the expanse of rough pasture that was the village green.

  ‘There are seven roads leading into it, or out of it, depending on which way you look at it,’ the man wearing the wax jacket breathed deeply, ‘so it’s like a hub with seven spokes but the seven spokes don’t go anywhere – not anywhere significant, anyway. They just lead to neighbouring villages or hamlets … or lead from neighbouring villages or hamlets. Matching Green, this village, is not on a route from one significant place to another. There is hardly any through traffic. If there was significant through traffic the police might have considered an opportunist attack by a stranger.’

  ‘And the place where the body was found … this pond.’ The man in the duffel coat considered the cold, still, dark water. ‘It seems to imply local knowledge, I would have thought.’

  ‘So the police also thought, and I would agree. The pond can’t be seen from the road – only the Private Fishing sign indicates its presence and that looks quite new … though it might have replaced an older sign which was in place at the time.’

  ‘So, no leads at all?’ the man in the duffel coat asked.

  ‘None.’ The man in the wax jacket shook his head. ‘All the men in the village were able to give a good account of themselves. The forensic pathologist who was consulted said that the attack was almost certainly done by a male. The head – the skull, I should say – had been fract
ured in two places with a flat object. She said it was consistent with being smashed over the head with great force by the blade of a spade.’

  ‘A very masculine sort of attack indeed.’ The man in the duffel coat nodded in agreement. ‘Did the family have any enemies?’

  ‘None,’ the man in the wax jacket grunted. ‘None known, anyway. They were local people – they grew up locally, settled locally and then lived quietly. Eventually, as you have read, the police drew a blank,’ he explained. ‘The case was put to one side and sadly, but dare I say inevitably, it began to lose its core temperature. Would you like to see the family home?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ the man in the duffel coat smiled briefly. ‘It will help me to get a clearer picture, which is why we are here. And since we are here anyway …’

  ‘Very well, this way … we’ll have to walk past the pub.’ The man in the wax jacket pointed to the top left of the green from their vantage point. ‘If it was drier we could walk across the green. As you can see, there are a few well-worn paths …’

  ‘No … no,’ the man in the duffel coat replied. ‘I’d rather walk on the road. It will be less messy. It’ll take longer but we both have the time these days.’

  The two men glanced at each other and grinned warmly and broadly, then turned to their left and continued walking. At the end of the southern boundary of the green they turned to their right and followed the road past the pub, keeping the village green to their right. Once at the top of the village green they turned left and put themselves on the narrow road which led to Matching Tye. All around them was drab, end-of-year landscape, leafless trees with a murder of crows cawing loudly and relentlessly in the black branches. Shortly after leaving the village green the man in the wax jacket stopped and turned to his right. ‘This,’ he pointed to a small house, ‘is where the little lad lived with his parents. It was the family home. Still is, in fact.’

  The man wearing the duffel coat considered the building. He saw a single-storey cottage, sunk beneath the level of the road so that his eyes were level with the eaves of the house. Steps led down from the road to a gravel-covered pathway which led directly to the front door. The doorway was encased in a trellis which held climbing plants – clematis, the man thought. The cottage walls were painted white with a shiny black door and the window frames were similarly painted in gloss black. The roof was tiled, dulled with age, and moss grew upon it liberally in scattered patches. The modest-sized garden which surrounded the cottage was, the man felt, untidy, but he could detect more than the suggestion of a once-neatly-kept and hard-worked-upon garden.