A Cold Case Read online

  ‘It is quite small by comparison to the other houses around here, as you’ll note,’ the man in the wax jacket commented, ‘but it will still cost you a tidy sum if you wished to buy it.’

  ‘I’m quite happy where I am,’ the man in the duffel coat smiled, ‘which is just as well, I dare say, because I do not possess the tidy sum in question.’

  ‘I’m happy for you … being settled, I mean, but Matching Tye is down there …’ the man wearing the wax jacket nodded to his left, ‘… so he was walking from that direction to his home, to the cottage here in front of us, but his body was found in the pond, to our right and behind us.’

  ‘So I see …’ The second man looked up and down the narrow road.

  ‘And, as I said,’ the first man continued, ‘it was a filthy night; he’d just want to get home, to the warmth and the dryness. Heavens, I know I would … and to his bed, it being a school day the following morning … oh …’ He paused in mid-sentence.

  ‘Something?’ The man in the camel-coloured duffel coat asked.

  ‘Yes, the window to the left of the door … the silver-haired lady.’ He held up his hand in greeting. ‘That is his mother, Mrs Walwyn.’

  The man wearing the duffel coat smiled and nodded at the elderly-looking lady who stood looking out of the window of her cottage and up at the two men who stood outside on the road surface.

  ‘I was going to wait before introducing you to the personalities in the case,’ the first man explained, ‘but since we have been seen we ought to pay our respects and take the opportunity to allow me to introduce you.’

  The man in the wax jacket went down the steps followed by the second man, and the door was opened just as he arrived at the trellis. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Walwyn.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Ingram.’ The woman was short, wore a yellow shawl, a black skirt and heavy black shoes. ‘Do come in, please … or Tom, I should say. I keep forgetting you prefer things to be informal.’ The woman stepped nimbly aside and the two men entered her home. The man in the duffel coat swept his hat off as he entered the cottage and glanced curiously round the living room. He saw that it was cluttered, noted it to be cleanly kept but smelling musty as if it suffered from rising damp, the possibility of which did not surprise him.

  ‘May I introduce you.’ Tom Ingram indicated the man in the duffel coat. ‘This is Maurice Mundy. He has just joined our little team. I am bringing him up to speed on the case. Maurice, this is Mrs Walwyn, Oliver’s mother.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Mundy.’ Mrs Walwyn held out her hand. Mundy found her grip to be firm but not overly so. ‘It is so very reassuring that the police have not forgotten us … or Oliver.’

  ‘We never forget anyway,’ Tom Ingram smiled, ‘and we don’t close cases until we have secured a conviction.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Walwyn returned the smile. ‘Well, it’s cold out there – that east wind’s a real biter. I imagine you two gentlemen could use a warming cup of tea?’

  Over tea, served in plain blue cups and matching saucers, and when all three persons were seated in deep armchairs round a small log fire which burned slowly on the grate within a tiled surround, Mrs Walwyn asked, ‘So I assume that you’re a retired police officer also, Mr Mundy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maurice Mundy smiled as he replied, ‘Very recently retired …’

  ‘And brought your expertise to the Cold Case Review Team?’ Mrs Walwyn pressed.

  ‘Well, I hope I can make a contribution.’ Mundy continued to smile.

  ‘I hope you can as well.’ Mrs Walwyn sighed deeply. ‘After ten years things can get very cold, very cold indeed.’

  Maurice Mundy glanced at Mrs Walwyn: frail looking, silver-haired, a yellow shawl about her slight shoulders, and yet, he thought, ten years ago she was the mother of a twelve-year-old boy. She was, he realized, younger than she looked, or had aged prematurely. Probably both, he thought. She appeared to be in her sixties, or even older, but was likely to be still in her forties. Life can, he felt, sometimes deal a very cruel hand.

  ‘That’s Oliver,’ Mrs Walwyn continued in her rich East Anglian accent as she pointed to a framed photograph of a smiling boy in round-lensed spectacles which stood centrally upon her mantelpiece. ‘That photograph was taken just before …’ she paused, ‘… just before he was taken from us. He was just a child – it was all still ahead of him. I was quite old when I had him, as you may notice. I mean, old for a parent, we both were … we were both elderly parents. It made the gift he was to us all the more precious … and his loss all the harder.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maurice Mundy replied softly. ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘I knew when he’d been found,’ Mrs Walwyn announced.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I told Mr Ingram … I told Tom but I’ll tell you if you like … Maurice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maurice Mundy smiled. ‘It’s Maurice. I also like things to be as informal as possible.’

  ‘Well, Maurice, it was when I saw the postman cycling past the house. He was the postman round here for years. He knew where Oliver lived and he was cycling as fast as he could … not his usual, slow, I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world speed but standing up in the pedals, leaning forward in a hurry … a real, tearing hurry – and him a middle-aged man. I was standing at the window and as he went past he looked at this house. Our eyes met and I saw his face was drained of colour and that there was real fear in his eyes. I knew then that Oliver’s body had been found and I knew that the postman had found him. You see, the police and local volunteers were searching out towards Matching Tye but the postman rode from the opposite direction. He rode from our village to where the search was going on …’ Mrs Walwyn paused. ‘He’d come from Matching Tye earlier … he has deliveries there … he would have seen the search party as he rode from there to here with the post in the pannier of his bike. He always leaves the bike outside the pub and walks his walk round Matching Green, does his delivery here, collects his bike and cycles back to Matching Tye. That’s his walk … the three Matchings: Matching Tye, Matching Green and Matching. He gets a lift in a van from the sorting office in Harlow, him and his bike, and he gets dropped off at Matching Tye and starts delivering each morning except Sundays. He cycles past our house … then that day he cycled in the opposite direction, back towards Matching Tye, with a face as white as can be, cycling back to where the police were searching, and he glanced at this house as he rode past. I said to myself, “He’s found Oliver and he’s not where they are looking for him. They’re looking for him in the wrong place”.’ Mrs Walwyn paused as if reining in a difficult memory. ‘So then, a few minutes later, a police car went by at speed with its blue light flashing. Evidently it was checking on the postman’s report, and a few moments after that … no … not moments … a few minutes after that a whole convoy of police vehicles drove past this house going towards the village green. My husband was part of the search party but they didn’t let him go with them to the pond. He had gone to help the search and I had stayed here to answer the phone in case anyone rang with news … but after the convoy of police vehicles had gone past, a police car stopped outside the house and my husband and a policewoman got out and both came in here and we waited in silence, just the three of us. We just sat in complete silence. Later, a police officer came and told us that a body had been found which matched Oliver’s description.’ Again Mrs Walwyn paused and clearly fought to control her emotions.

  ‘Yes,’ Tom Ingram spoke softly, ‘we are both very sorry.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Maurice Mundy once again glanced round the small cottage. ‘Very sorry indeed.’

  ‘He’d be twenty-two years old now … I might even have been a grandmother. Imagine that. Me and my husband both agreed that we would encourage Oliver not to wait as long as we did before starting a family … and we were so proud of him. He was already shining at school; his teachers said that they recognized university potential in him. This is not just a grieving mother talking, you understa
nd. He really was going to go somewhere very special in life.’

  ‘Your husband isn’t home, Mrs Walwyn?’ Maurice Mundy asked quietly, and by doing so he noticed that he had caused Tom Ingram to glare at him.

  ‘No … no … he isn’t.’ Mrs Walwyn slumped forward. ‘No, his heart gave out … that was really quite a shock because he was such a strong man. In fact, his doctor had told him just a few weeks earlier that if his body was a motor vehicle it would be a Land Rover or a farm tractor … you know, rugged and just keeps going. But, well, they put cardiac arrest on his death certificate. I dare say it was as close as they could get to saying he died of a broken heart but you can take it from me that that’s what he died of – a broken heart. He and Oliver were very close, you see. They loved each other … they were more than father and son. They were very good friends to each other and you know, sir, as I told Mr Ingram … Sorry, as I told Tom, I didn’t want him to go out that night. It was more than the dark night and the rain battering on the roof and the window panes … I had a strong presentiment that something dreadful was going to happen. I have never felt such a thing before … it was very strong, very strong indeed, but Oliver was insistent and my husband said, “Let the lad go, he knows the road to Matching Tye and a little rain won’t harm him.” He felt bad about that, my husband, very bad … blamed himself, he did … but it’s so, so very reassuring that Oliver has not been forgotten. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘It is as I said,’ Tom Ingram replied in a soft voice, ‘we don’t ever close cases until they are solved.’ He stood up slowly.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Mrs Walwyn forced a smile. ‘I am so pleased.’

  ‘It was nice to have met you.’ Maurice Mundy smiled as he also stood up. ‘I’m sorry the circumstances were not more pleasant.’

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ Tom Ingram added. ‘We will, of course, keep you informed of any and all developments as soon as they occur.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Walwyn nodded gently while remaining seated. ‘I appreciate your calling on me.’

  Outside the cottage, Ingram turned to Mundy. ‘I dare say I should have told you about her husband but I wasn’t expecting to go in. Would you like to see the house he visited?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mundy glanced up at the low, grey sky. ‘Yes, I would, and more importantly, I’d like to see the road to the other village. I think he was very likely murdered somewhere along that road.’

  ‘I’d be inclined to agree,’ Ingram replied. ‘Walk or drive?’

  ‘Oh, drive.’ Mundy grinned. ‘Though at some point I’d like to walk the route. I’d like to walk the little lad’s last walk … but for now I am content to drive.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Tom Ingram replied. ‘On both counts.’

  The two men walked unhurriedly side by side to where they had parked their car beside the village green and Tom Ingram drove at a sensible speed along the road to Matching Tye. As the road unfolded before them Maurice Mundy observed that it was narrow and winding with no buildings on either side once they had left Matching Green. A watercourse ran along the southern side of the road and the low, flat fields of Essex expanded outwards at either side, beyond the shrubs and the trees.

  ‘It’s a very lonely road,’ Mundy commented, scanning the view from side to side. ‘It has a loneliness about it.’

  ‘It is,’ Ingram replied. ‘These bends – you can see no more than one hundred yards ahead of you before you turn, and with hardly any buildings to be seen. You know, he was a brave lad … young Oliver Walwyn … even as a grown man and a copper I wouldn’t like to walk this road on a dark, rainy night, even if I knew every inch of it. But for a twelve-year-old … local or no local, it must have been frightening.’

  ‘He would have had to be very determined.’ Mundy glanced to his right as they drove past a solitary house. ‘A very plucky little lad, or desperate to get home … or both.’

  ‘Seems likely that it was both … and it’s not a short walk,’ Ingram commented. ‘It takes half an hour at least. In those weather conditions … those bends, no lighting … that’s not actually an easy walk … not for a twelve-year-old.’

  ‘As you say.’ Mundy once again glanced to his right, this time at a concreted-over entrance to a farm driveway and then to his left at a thick stand of trees, black against the grey sky. His eye was caught by a heron flying with clear effort against the wind. ‘It’s not a short walk for a twelve-year-old.’

  Ingram slowed the car as he approached Matching Tye. He kept it to the left as the road divided and Mundy noted a line of local authority homes to the right and a children’s playground accessed by a wooden bridge over the stream to his left. He observed that Matching Tye did not seem to be possessed of the level of wealth enjoyed by Matching Green. Ingram halted the car when level with the playground with its brightly coloured equipment and indicated a modest house in a terrace of similar houses which stood on the opposite side of the road. ‘That house there, with the yellow door, is the home Oliver Walwyn visited on his last night.’

  ‘What’s the family like?’ Mundy asked as he looked at the house. It seemed to him to be neatly kept, as indeed all the houses in the terrace were.

  ‘Don’t know yet.’ Ingram took a deep breath. ‘It’s still early days. We did call last week on the off chance of finding someone at home but we were out of luck. Shall we try now?’

  ‘Why not?’ Mundy released his seat belt.

  The two men left the car and walked slowly across the road and up the driveway of the house with the yellow painted front door. Ingram knocked reverently, yet with some degree of authority, on the door, which was opened a moment later by a short man in his mid- to late-forties, or so Mundy guessed.

  ‘Yes?’ The man showed no fear of the two strangers who had called on him. ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’

  ‘Police.’ Ingram showed his identity card. Mundy did likewise.

  ‘Oh?’ The man became concerned. ‘What is it? What’s it about?’

  ‘It is nothing to be alarmed about,’ Ingram replied soothingly as he put away his ID. ‘We are making enquiries about the murder of Oliver Walwyn.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Oliver Walwyn. Poor lad. His body was found floating in the fishpond at Matching Green … they … we still talk about it round here. He was here that night. Please, come in.’ The man stepped aside, allowing Ingram and Mundy to enter his house. ‘You take me as you find me, I’m afraid,’ he added in a strong Essex accent. ‘It’s the maid’s day off, you see.’

  Maurice Mundy read the man’s sitting room as he and Tom Ingram accepted an invitation to take a seat. He saw many chrome-coloured items of amusement on shelves and the mantelpiece; he saw a large chrome television set; he saw modern, lightweight, inexpensive furnishings; he saw no reading matter at all, no magazines, no newspapers and no books. He found there to be no depth to the house and he was instantly ill at ease.

  ‘So, have there been developments?’ The man sank, rather than sat, back into a scarlet armchair.

  ‘No … none.’ Tom Ingram glanced around the room. ‘It’s been handed to us to have a second look, to check and see if anything was overlooked during the first investigation, if witnesses have now remembered things they didn’t then think significant and/or which they didn’t tell the police at the time …’

  ‘Or subsequently saw something months or even years later which they think might have a significance to the crime and have not thus far reported it,’ Maurice Mundy added. ‘That’s our brief, our remit.’

  ‘I see … well, he,’ the man spoke with a helpful tone of voice, ‘Oliver … we knew him as “Ollie”, visited us that night. He and my son were good friends.’

  ‘Your son is …?’ Mundy asked.

  ‘Luke … Luke Kells,’ the man replied. ‘I am Sidney Kells. Unemployed – damned unemployable at my age – but the wife works, good woman that she is, so we scrape by.’ Mundy thought Kells was an early middle-aged man, medium build, dressed in a red pullover and white summer t
rousers and blue slippers. He wore a shiny imitation gold watch. ‘Luke’s in the army now and loving it … best thing with clothes on, he says.’ Kells grinned. ‘He was always physical and Ollie, well, he was brainy so they made strange mates. I always thought it was a case of “birds of a feather flock together”, so the sporty ones stick together, the brainy ones stick together … but with Luke and Ollie it was different. They hadn’t a lot in common but they just clicked … like opposites attract. My lad was a team player while Ollie was quiet and bookish, but he had backbone, walking home on a night like that … Ollie had backbone all right. You’ll never take that from him.’

  ‘We said much the same thing driving here,’ Ingram replied. ‘It took a lot of courage to do that walk, especially on a night like that night.’

  ‘Yes. If I’d had a car I would have run him home, of course I would, but I hadn’t and he was up for the walk. He walked here in the rain and the dark and was quite willing to walk back in the rain and the dark. He had good shoes and a duffel coat … a blue one … not like yours, sir,’ Kells indicated to Maurice Mundy’s coat, ‘not a light coloured one but dark blue, dark trousers and black shoes, as I recall.’

  ‘So not easily seen at night?’ Mundy commented.

  ‘No … no …’ Kells glanced upwards. ‘Come to think of it, he wouldn’t have reflected a car’s headlights. Wonder if that was what happened … a motorist knocked him down and in a panic picked him up and threw his body in the pond at Matching Green. Maybe that’s what happened?’