A Cold Case

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Accepting your guilt,’ Mundy advised, ‘showing regret, fully accepting responsibility for your actions … that sort of thing. Being repentant.’

  ‘So, like not shifting the blame on to anyone else?’ Tipton appealed to Mundy. ‘Is that what it means?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mundy nodded. ‘That’s the idea. Fully accepting your responsibilities. No “all right I did it but I had a bad childhood” … no abuse excuse nonsense, it won’t help you. The parole boards have had quite enough of that attitude – it just won’t wash any more.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll still be in prison for a long, long time.’ Tipton once more closed his eyes, as though, thought Mundy, he was wishing himself to be somewhere else.

  ‘Yes,’ Mundy spoke softly, ‘a very long time. You’ll grow old in prison.’

  ‘No one can survive top security for more than ten years,’ Tipton whined, ‘no one … so they say. You come out like a zombie.’

  Maurice Mundy paused, then he said, ‘Suppose … just suppose I drop my complaint against you.’

  A silence fell in the room. Tipton’s jaw dropped. He looked at Mundy. ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mundy replied, ‘I might … but I’d want something in return. Something really solid.’

  ‘Solid?’ Tipton looked curiously at Mundy. ‘Solid. Like how solid? I won’t be grassing anybody up. I’ll tell you that now. I won’t do that.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to grass anybody up.’ Mundy continued to speak softly. ‘I’m not asking you to do that.’

  ‘So what then?’ Tipton demanded. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘How about the truth about Anne Tweedale’s murder?’ Mundy said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Tipton asked. ‘I don’t know that name.’

  ‘The elderly lady in Burnt Oak stabbed to death nearly thirty years ago. A big softy called Joshua Derbyshire was fitted up for her murder. That’s who she is … or was.’ Mundy paused. ‘I know Duncan Spate was behind that but he wouldn’t get his fingers dirty, and I know that you once put the frighteners on a newspaper reporter because she was asking too many awkward questions.’ Mundy paused and then continued. ‘And I know that he and his son are behind your attacking me … I did a CR check.’

  ‘CR?’ Tipton asked. ‘What’s a CR check?’

  ‘A Criminal Records check,’ Mundy explained.

  ‘Ah …’ Tipton nodded.

  ‘So I did a CR check on you because I thought it highly likely that Christopher Spate would be automatically notified about it and that he’d tell his old man. I thought I’d get a warning.’ Mundy exhaled. ‘I did not think I’d be putting my old life on the line.’

  Tipton looked intently at Mundy. ‘This little chat is unofficial?’

  ‘Completely. Totally. No tape recorders. No witnesses. Nothing will be signed,’ Mundy assured Tipton. ‘It is just you, me and the gatepost.’

  ‘Well, yes …’ Tipton avoided eye contact with Maurice Mundy. ‘Yes, it was Spate who contacted me.’

  ‘Which one?’ Mundy asked. ‘Father or son?’

  ‘Duncan Spate. The old geezer. The father,’ Tipton confirmed. ‘He says you’re being a right old nuisance. He wants you “taken out” … he wants you slotted … offed. You’re causing him too much grief, too much aggro. He doesn’t like grief. He doesn’t like aggro.’

  ‘So he’s got something to hold over you?’ Mundy suggested. ‘Something heavy duty?’

  ‘Heavy enough.’ Tipton looked down at the tabletop. ‘Try murder. It doesn’t get much heavier.’

  ‘Care to tell me?’ Mundy invited calmly. ‘No details, just the gist of it.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I was newly in the Smoke … just arrived from Dudley,’ Tipton explained. ‘I was a new boy in the big city.’

  ‘That was before the murder of Miss Tweedale?’ Mundy clasped both his hands together and rested them on the tabletop.

  ‘Yes. Just before.’

  ‘So it was that, the first murder, that enabled Duncan Spate to force you to murder Anne Tweedale?’ Mundy clarified. ‘Like, you do a little job for me which you won’t be connected to and I’ll make the evidence in respect of the first murder go away?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tipton continued to look at the tabletop. ‘That was it exactly. He used those words: “make it go away”. I was seventeen; I didn’t want to go down for life. So me and this other geezer, we filled in the old woman.’

  ‘There were two of you?’ Mundy clarified.

  ‘Yes.’ Tipton looked down. ‘Two of us.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me the name of the other geezer?’ Mundy asked.

  ‘OK. He was called Carl Tate …“Spud” Tate.’

  ‘Carl “Spud” Tate.’ Mundy committed the name to memory. ‘Tate as in potato, hence “Spud”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Tipton explained. ‘He was from the West Midlands as well but he was in his thirties then. He was the main man and I was the boy.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ Mundy asked. ‘Does he have a record?’

  ‘He’s in the wind.’ Tipton smiled. ‘Well in the wind.’

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ Mundy pressed. ‘Is that what you mean, William?’

  ‘No, I mean he’s dead,’ Tipton explained. ‘He punched above his weight in a skirmish one night outside a boozer in Kentish Town and got his head well and truly kicked in. He never regained consciousness. He was married and his old lady had him cremated. So he went up the chimney … he’s in the wind. Like I said, well in the wind.’

  ‘I see,’ Mundy growled. ‘So he can’t help us any?’

  ‘No. I think his old lady had him cremated because she was frightened that he’d rise from the dead. He was an evil, vicious little swine with a chip on his shoulder. In fact, he had chips on both shoulders and really laid into the old woman. He did more than me, much more. She was a tough old bird. She kept getting up, just wouldn’t lie down and die, and Spud, he just kept pushing the blade into her again and again and again. I know I’m equally guilty but Spud Tate really did it.’ Tipton kept his head lowered. ‘He did the whole business.’

  ‘So what happened then?’ Mundy asked, speaking softly.

  ‘Well, then we took some of the old woman’s jewels and one of the knives with her blood on it and planted them in this geezer’s drum, like Duncan Spate told us,’ Tipton explained. ‘You see, Duncan Spate had something to hold over Spud Tate as well as over me. He had us both in his pocket. Oh … he – Tate, I mean – also smeared some of the old woman’s blood on a jacket belonging to this guy. Poor geezer. He was well stitched up … well and truly stitched up. And we had to search the house for the old woman’s will and hand it to Spate, which we did.’

  ‘Did you know the geezer who was stitched up?’ Mundy relaxed, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘No, no, we didn’t,’ Tipton replied, still bowing his head. ‘Spate said it was better if we didn’t know.’ Tipton paused. ‘I felt a bit bad about it – I did then and I do now. I felt a lot bad about it then and I still feel a lot bad about it … but it’s dog eat dog. If I hadn’t done what I did Spate would have me sent down for chilling my victim. If the other geezer didn’t go down, I would have. I was seventeen, scared, and I liked a beer. I liked wenches. I wanted to own a fast car … it’s what I came down to the Smoke for. The good life like on television.’

  ‘It’s not so glamorous, is it?’ Mundy smiled wryly.

  ‘London? London is a dirty, smelly mess.’ Tipton raised his head. ‘But, you see, I couldn’t go back to Dudley unless I had made it … I was a bit proud like that – I wouldn’t admit defeat. I still won’t. So I stayed. And here I am.’

  ‘Like so many before you,’ Mundy sighed, ‘and there’ll be plenty still to come, and all will find that London is a dirty, smelly city where you are never more than three feet from a rat.’

  ‘Really?’ Tipton smiled briefly. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘So they say,’ Mundy replied. ‘It’s a b
it of an exaggeration. I’ve stood on Hampstead Heath in the middle of the day with not a rat in sight, but walking down the streets at night, well, then I know what people mean when they say that.’ Mundy paused. ‘So, anyway, let’s keep this little chat focused. What has Spate got to hold over you?’

  ‘My dabs on the murder weapon I used to off that guy, my first victim, when I was seventeen, and a signed confession that I did it. He can produce both and I’ll go down for life, so he said. So he still says.’ Tipton suddenly seemed to Mundy to look meek and fragile despite his bulk.

  ‘It’s an empty threat,’ Mundy advised. ‘Yes, he can produce that evidence, and if he does you’ll collect your life sentence, but he can’t produce it without ruining himself.’

  ‘Really?’ Tipton gasped. ‘How?’

  ‘Perverting the course of justice by wilfully withholding evidence,’ Mundy replied flatly. ‘He’ll be prosecuted despite being a retired cop, and if his son is part of this, which he probably is, then he’ll be finished as a police officer. It’s the signed confession which will do it rather than your fingerprints on the murder weapon. The confession had to be dated.’

  ‘It was,’ Tipton replied.

  ‘So he’s suddenly going to flourish a confession which he’s been sitting on for thirty years.’ Mundy laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Tipton groaned. ‘And me … I’ve been doing him favours all this time.’

  ‘Now he can’t hurt you, and he can’t help you either, so you’ll collect life for attempting to murder me.’ Mundy spoke quietly.

  ‘You’re here to laugh at me.’ Tipton’s voice developed a hard edge. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘No.’ Mundy shook his head. ‘I’m here to make you an offer – probably the best offer you’ll ever be made … ever.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Tipton scrutinized Mundy. ‘What’s the offer?’

  ‘That I drop my complaint against you, like I said,’ Mundy replied. ‘That I withdraw it completely. How does that sound? Does that have any appeal for you?’

  ‘It has plenty.’ Tipton looked eagerly at Mundy. ‘It has plenty of appeal.’

  ‘But it’s not a case of nothing for nothing,’ Mundy explained. ‘I want something in return.’

  ‘Like what?’ Tipton replied cautiously. ‘I knew there’d be a catch.’

  ‘A full confession but not to the murder of Anne Tweedale,’ Mundy explained. ‘A full confession to the planting of evidence which falsely incriminated Joshua Derbyshire. You’ll be confessing to being a conspirator after the fact. You were not part of the murder, you were not there when it happened, but you helped the murderer, who you will name, after he had committed the deed.’ Mundy paused. ‘You’ll collect five years. Max.’

  ‘Five years max.’ Tipton gasped. ‘I can do that easily. You can do that for me?’

  ‘You could be out in as little as eighteen months,’ Mundy told him. ‘It’s that or collect twenty years for attempting to murder me.’

  ‘That’s some offer.’ Tipton sat back in his chair. ‘That’s a really serious offer. But what guarantee do I have that you’ll keep your part of the bargain?’

  ‘You have my word,’ Mundy replied solemnly. ‘If you know me, William, you’d know that I am an Englishman of the old school. My word is my bond. If I break my word, I am nothing.’

  ‘I believe you, sir,’ Tipton replied. ‘I believe you … and I can’t hurt Spud Tate, but what about Duncan Spate? He can hurt me if I do what you ask.’

  ‘No, he can’t.’ Mundy smiled. ‘He’s kidding that he’s gaga. He’s pretending that he’s demented … he’s pretending that he’s got old man’s disease so he can’t suddenly stop pretending and try to implicate you in the murder you committed when you were seventeen. If he wants to avoid prosecution he’ll have to continue to pretend that he’s demented. So, as little as eighteen months or a guarantee of twenty years, minimum. It’s your call. There’ll still be beer and wenches aplenty in eighteen months’ time … and you’ll be young enough to enjoy both.’

  ‘So what can I do?’ Tipton appealed to Mundy.

  ‘I used to be a boy scout.’ Mundy reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve come prepared. I’ve got a blank statement form … I’ve got a couple, in fact. I’ll write out your statement about planting evidence in Joshua Derbyshire’s flat and you’ll read it. If you agree with it you’ll stick your moniker underneath it.’

  ‘Then what?’ Tipton asked.

  ‘Well, then I photocopy it,’ Mundy explained. ‘I’ll send one copy – the top copy, in fact, to Joshua’s solicitor, Mr Greenall. He’ll know what to do with it. I’ll send it anonymously. He’ll know who it came from but I’ll send it anonymously anyway. I’ll send another copy to a newspaper reporter who is angling to write a true crime book about the murder of Miss Tweedale. She will probably write to you asking to visit you when you’re in prison. If she does you ought to cooperate with her. I’ll send another copy to the Murder and Serious Crime Squad in New Scotland Yard, also anonymously. They will also know what to do with it. And I’ll keep one copy for myself in a safe place … maybe two copies in separate safe places.’

  ‘Got it all worked out, haven’t you, boss?’ Tipton said weakly.

  ‘Yes.’ Mundy smiled. ‘It’s all as clear as daylight, crystal clear.’

  ‘Can I just say something, sir?’ Tipton asked as Mundy took his ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Yes.’ Mundy poised the pen over the statement form. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, if it means anything, now I’ve met you, I am just so pleased I didn’t manage to kill you. I really thought I’d done the business.’ Tipton spoke with a note of genuine regret.

  ‘You would have done. Ordinarily you would have succeeded but I have an abnormally thick skull, apparently,’ Mundy replied. ‘It acted like a crash helmet. What did you use, anyway?’

  ‘A camshaft from a car engine. It’s long enough, heavy enough … and lumpy enough. I got rid of it … it’s well out of it.’

  ‘Well, I am also pleased you didn’t manage to do the business. I’ve still got things I need to do.’ Mundy looked to one side. ‘I’ve got a daughter I want to turn round, for one thing …’

  ‘She’s doing crime?’ Tipton asked.

  ‘Shoplifting … she’s a heroin-addicted brass who works the Caledonian Road.’

  Tipton paled. ‘So your question …?’

  ‘But my daughter is of mixed race and you say you bought the services of a white, er … a white wench.’

  ‘Yes. Definitely a white wench.’ Tipton nodded. ‘Definitely white.’

  ‘Good. I mean, otherwise it would have been embarrassing for both of us. So, let’s get this statement written.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Tipton appealed to Mundy. ‘I can’t see what’s in it for you, sir? If you don’t mind me asking, sir?’

  ‘It’s personal,’ Mundy replied. ‘Just very, very personal.’

  DCI Pickering took a pair of scissors from his desk drawer and cut Maurice Mundy’s warrant card in half. Then he cut it into quarters.

  ‘You are making sure all right,’ Mundy growled. He sat motionless, with his legs crossed, in one of the chairs in front of Pickering’s desk. ‘No one can say you’re not being thorough.’

  ‘Look, Maurice,’ Pickering replaced the scissors in his desk drawer, ‘I don’t like doing this, I’m not comfortable doing it, but … it’s like the sergeant says. “Orders are orders”. It’s just the way of it … it always has been and always will be the way of it. Always. The king commands and we obey. The top floor wants it this way.’

  ‘So the top floor gets it this way.’ Maurice Mundy shook his head slowly. ‘So it’s “keep the boss happy” time.’

  ‘That’s about it, Maurice. That’s about it. It’s something that you should try doing instead of keeping yourself happy. You know, earlier today I was thinking about you and, you know, you put me in mind of someone I hadn’t
thought of in years.’ Pickering avoided eye contact with Mundy. ‘That was my old maths teacher from school, Mr Parkin … a good man … and Mr Parkin once told us that we can sit a maths exam and get the wrong answer for every question and still pass, so long as we show that we understand the problem and that we have taken the correct steps to the solution. If the answer is two and we put three, we will still get a pass mark if we have got to our answer by following the correct route. All right, all right, it might not be a glitteringly high pass mark but it will still be a pass. He also said that the correct answer obtained by following the wrong route would conversely be a fail.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ Mundy said sullenly. ‘Your point being …?’

  ‘My point being that all right, you got the correct answers, you got the right results, but in this case the ends do not justify the means. You got to the right place but you followed the wrong route. You took the wrong steps and the top floor is not a happy bunch of jockeys right now.’ Pickering paused. ‘Yes … yes … all right, you did the job you were given, you solved the murder of the little boy who was found floating in the pond in the village green near his home … What was his name?’

  ‘Oliver Walwyn,’ Mundy replied. ‘His name was Oliver Walwyn. One Oliver murdered by another Oliver.’

  ‘Yes … Oliver Walwyn,’ Pickering raised his voice, ‘but you had no right, no right at all to shove your oar into the Essex force’s investigation … I told you to keep out of their nosebag.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mundy also raised his voice, ‘but me and Tom Ingram stopped a pair of serial killers in their tracks. The Essex Police were not even sure that those murders were linked. Their investigation had lost its focus … it had stagnated.’ Mundy protested. ‘And anyway, the geezer who topped himself … Kenneth Cassey … he would only talk to me and Tom. So what were we supposed to do? As soon as he gave up his mate’s address we passed the information to the Chelmsford police.’

  Pickering put the four pieces of Maurice Mundy’s warrant card into a brown paper envelope. ‘You should have refused to visit him, Maurice. It wasn’t your pigeon, it was the pigeon of the Chelmsford boys. They know how to do their job and would have got there soon enough, especially since Cassey was clearly ready to talk. But I can tell you that the address you gave led to a good result. It belonged to another delivery-van driver called Sayers, Paul Sayers. Unlike Cassey, Sayers kept trophies of all their victims and he kept trophies from more women than the six victims that the Essex Police have thus far identified. You’ll be reading about it, watching the story unfold on television. The press are already all over it, clinging to the story like a pair of wet denims. You’ll likely be called as a Crown witness.’