Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month

by Isabelle Grey

She looked up at him. His tone seemed light and teasing, but was that a look of pity in his eyes?

  3

  The sky was starry and there were very few lights showing in the quiet street by the time Grace opened her front door. Usually she loved coming home to Wivenhoe, ready to slip into the peace and silence of her own space after a busy day, but tonight she felt restless. She had enjoyed the wedding party – dinner and speeches had been followed by dancing to a live band that included Joan’s brother-in-law on bass guitar – yet throughout she had felt guilty, secretly longing to leave and make a start on Wendy’s information.

  She wanted to be well prepared for Monday, when she would have to share some, if not all, of her ideas about how wide-ranging the investigation should be and to make a decision about how far to commit scarce resources. She realised how keen she was to lay her reasoning out privately to Blake before briefing the team. He was shrewd and realistic, and would have few qualms about telling her if he thought she was chasing shadows.

  But she knew that the reason she hadn’t already involved her detective sergeant in her researches into the Heather Bowyer case wasn’t only because she hadn’t wanted to waste official resources trying to prove that a private theory had legs. On the drive home, she’d had the unwelcome insight that during the past few months she’d immersed herself in the fine detail of the case as a distraction from how much she wanted Blake back as her lover. Although he had asked her to dance tonight, he’d kept close physical contact to a minimum. And while it was only right and sensible not to indulge in a slow dance with the boss in front of nearly the entire team, his consideration had also made her fear that even if other issues didn’t lie between them, he might no longer be interested in resuming their relationship.

  It was late, but she knew she wasn’t ready to sleep. She put the kettle on and went upstairs to change into more comfortable clothes. As she drew her bedroom curtains she reflected that there was one other person with whom she’d really love to discuss the case. Ivo Sweatman, the only reporter on a national paper to cover the Bowyer murder at the time, was now chief crime correspondent on the Daily Courier. She’d learnt to value his opinion, and it might prove incredibly useful to discover if he remembered any additional details that hadn’t made it into print. But talking to a journalist, even officially, simply wasn’t possible, or not yet, anyway. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Ivo. He had helped her several times on past investigations, albeit in highly irregular and unofficial ways, and, whatever his failings, had never let her down. But the last thing she needed was the media getting wind of this latest development. She’d have to wait.

  Returning downstairs, Grace brewed a pot of coffee and pulled out her laptop, ready to review her notes. It was all circumstantial and very possibly the result of too much time spent poring over old statements, but she had a very strong hunch that, while Heather Bowyer had been her killer’s first murder victim, she had not been the first woman he’d raped. The idea had occurred to her when she’d read the statements given by the friends with whom Heather had spent her last evening. They all said that one minute she’d been there, and the next she was gone. No one had been hanging around them; she’d not gone off with anyone who’d been chatting her up; they’d not been aware of any scuffle or alarm; she’d simply disappeared. That suggested to Grace that the man she was now seeking had already gained experience in taking away a victim.

  The original inquiry in Southend had established that there was no link between this case and any other murders in the area. However, Grace had found nothing in the case notes to suggest that Jason Jupp, the detective inspector in charge of the investigation, had looked to see if there might be a connection with other crimes of rape or sexual assault.

  After a great deal of digging, Grace had discovered that, over the previous two years, there had been five reported rapes in Southend. The scanty and lackadaisical manner in which these had been recorded made her wonder if there had been others where the victims had been dissuaded from even recording their complaints, let alone taking them further. No physical evidence had been retained – if it was ever retrieved in the first place – making it impossible, twenty-five years later, to do more than hazard a guess as to whether those rape cases might be connected to Heather Bowyer’s murder. Certainly, they’d all taken place at the end of a night out, all in local parks and generally on a Friday or Saturday, when the seafront was at its busiest. None of which, it could be argued, necessarily pointed to a single serial offender, given the number of drunk or drugged-up young people out looking for a good time. One tiny detail, however, did. Or might do.

  It was something small, random, almost fanciful, and could easily be explained away for other reasons, yet it had lodged in Grace’s mind and convinced her – and sufficiently persuaded Wendy – that further digging into potentially linked cases that had never been fully investigated could be productive.

  Quite whether she was yet ready to share this more tenuous part of her theory with Blake and the rest of the Major Investigation Team, she wasn’t sure. First things first. If by some miracle a male relative of either Deborah Shillingford or one of the other names near the top of Wendy’s list proved to be a match to the DNA represented on the murder weapon, then Grace could officially reopen the case and commit proper resources to finding out how many other crimes Heather Bowyer’s unknown killer might have committed.

  4

  Deborah Shillingford’s lapse in sobriety, Grace thought, sitting beside Blake as he turned their unmarked car into the cul-de-sac in Thorpe Bay, might be about to have far-reaching and unforeseen consequences. It was half-past eight in the morning, and although some of Mrs Shillingford’s neighbours could be forgiven for not yet being up and about, Grace was pretty sure that most of these curtains – if a bit of purple cloth tacked up across a window merited the word – remained closed all day. Like many once-popular coastal resorts, Southend had taken in more than its fair share of social security claimants. Although some tenants had attempted to enhance their jerry-built post-war council houses with new front doors or crazy paving, most of the gardens had been worn down to patches of dirt and concrete littered with broken and discarded furniture, bulging bin bags and sodden cardboard boxes. It was as if a succession of them had been evicted and, once the locks had been changed, simply abandoned their possessions, either too defeated to carry them away or too focused on their next drug fix to care. Even the few parked cars had seen better days and were probably untaxed. But then once you dropped out of this part of Southend, there really wasn’t anywhere else to go.

  Deborah Shillingford’s address two years ago, when she’d been arrested for drink-driving, had been in Leigh-on-Sea, seven miles along the coast to the west. It had only been a small flat above a shop, but it was a world away from here. Grace felt a small pang at the trouble she might be about to bring into this woman’s life, but any remorse was quickly swept aside by her rising excitement.

  She and Blake had spent most of the past week learning everything they could about the backgrounds of the eight people who, because they were the right age and had a past connection with Essex, topped the list of possible close relatives of the man who had at some point wielded the knife that killed Heather Bowyer. Deborah Shillingford remained the most promising match.

  As Blake knocked on her door, Grace noted that at least the curtains were open, and they didn’t have to wait long before a woman with dyed reddish hair in a pink Primark dressing gown and oversized slippers opened the door wide enough to peer cautiously out.

  ‘Yes?’

  Grace and Blake showed their warrant cards – no use attempting to be discreet: people around here would have instinctively known they were filth the second they saw them get out of the car.

  ‘Mrs Shillingford? I’m Detective Inspector Grace Fisher. This is Detective Sergeant Blake Langley.’

  Deborah pulled her dressing gown tight across her chest. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Nothing, I ass
ure you. We’d like your help. May we come in?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about what goes on round here, if that’s what you want. I keep to myself.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with your neighbours. We’re investigating a serious crime from quite some time ago, and we think you may be able to help. I’d rather not explain it on the doorstep.’

  Deborah considered her response and then opened the door wide enough to admit them. They followed her down the narrow hall into a tiny kitchen at the back. The fittings were basic and dilapidated but the room looked clean. A half-smoked cigarette lay in an ashtray on the table next to a mug of instant coffee. A washed-up plate and cutlery were on the draining board. Deborah clearly had a fondness for angels – the pottery soap dish was adorned with a curly-haired cherub, two sparkly Christmas-tree angels hung from the window catch and a row of angelic trinkets and greetings cards filled most of a plate shelf.

  There was barely enough space for two chairs, so, as Grace and Deborah sat down, Blake remained standing, leaning against the sink.

  Deborah took a drag on her cigarette and then stubbed it out and waved away the smoke. ‘Would you like a coffee or anything?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Grace. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘So how can I help?’

  Grace suppressed the wave of anticipation that ran through her at the thought that this woman might finally provide the key to such a stone-cold case. ‘I believe you were living in Southend twenty-five years ago,’ she began.

  ‘Gosh, that far back?’ said Deborah. ‘Yes, that’s when I was married. My two girls would have been in primary school.’

  ‘Do you remember the rape and murder of a young woman called Heather Bowyer? It took place in Cliff Gardens on the first Saturday in October.’

  ‘What, you think I might have known her or something?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t from the area. She’d come on a day trip from Chelmsford. Her killer has never been caught, so the police periodically review the case. We have DNA evidence that we have strong reasons to believe is linked to the case. New DNA techniques have allowed us to search for people who might share some of the same DNA characteristics as a possible offender. You may remember that, when you were arrested a couple of years ago, a swab was taken of your saliva so that your DNA could be stored.’

  ‘Probably. I don’t remember much about that night,’ said Deborah. ‘I go to AA now. Haven’t had a drink in fourteen months.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Grace.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘All I need now is to pay off my debts and then maybe I can get out of here.’

  Grace felt a further stab of regret that she might be about to derail this woman’s hard-won recovery along with everything else. She glanced up at Blake, who, apparently thinking the same thing, gave her a small nod of encouragement.

  ‘Well, some of the characteristics of the DNA evidence from this old case match your DNA,’ she went on, sticking to the script she had prepared in her mind. ‘It raises the possibility that there could be a match to someone related to you. So, we need to trace any male relatives you may have and eliminate them.’

  Deborah took a packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter out of the pocket of her dressing gown and lit up, inhaling deeply before she answered. ‘Is mine the only name that came up?’

  ‘No. These kinds of familial searches can throw up hundreds of matches, more than a thousand, sometimes. At this stage we just want to eliminate those of the right age who had links to Southend.’

  Deborah nodded, thinking the information over. ‘Well, I’ve got two younger brothers, and I think there might be a couple of cousins.’

  Imagining this was how a hunting animal must feel at the first scent of its prey, Grace tried hard to disguise her mixture of relief and triumph.

  ‘Not sure about my mum’s side,’ Deborah continued. ‘Her lot never stayed in touch.’

  ‘We’re only looking at matches through your paternal line,’ said Grace, keeping her voice as calm as possible. ‘So that means your father and any siblings, uncles or cousins.’

  ‘Something in my dad’s genes, then?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  Was it Grace’s imagination, or did Deborah’s frown reveal a slight tremor of anxiety? Deborah quickly turned it into a smile. ‘I think I’m right that today’s Friday the thirteenth,’ she said. ‘You sure this isn’t a wind-up?’

  Grace smiled. ‘I’m afraid not. Is your father still alive?’

  ‘I think so. I don’t see him,’ said Deborah. ‘Don’t see much of my brothers, either.’ She frowned again. ‘You said rape and murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think they might have something to do with it?’

  Grace spoke lightly. ‘Obviously I can’t say for sure, and at this stage we’re seeking to eliminate people from our investigation.’

  Deborah nodded. ‘It was always me who was the black sheep, the troublemaker. Could never do anything right. So it would be kind of funny if it turned out it was one of them up to no good.’

  ‘Can you give us your brothers’ names?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Reece and Larry Nixon. Not sure where Larry’s living now. I’m pretty certain that Reece is still in Colchester. Has his own little business doing garden and landscape maintenance.’

  ‘Do you recall where they were living twenty-five years ago?’

  ‘Larry would’ve been in Southend. Can’t remember exactly when Reece went off and did his own thing, but they both started out working for our dad’s taxi company.’

  Grace managed to resist looking at Blake. Not only was driving a taxi or mini-cab a perfect occupation for a man on the lookout for potential victims, but she knew that one of the women who had reported being raped had said her attacker was the taxi driver who’d picked her up. She felt a tingle of excitement. Maybe she really could allow herself to hope that they were on the right track.

  5

  Welcome back. I’m Freddie Craig, and this is Stories from the Fire. I’m walking along one of many paths in the extensive grounds of a cemetery a ten-minute bus ride from the centre of Chelmsford. I’m told that some of the burials here date back to 1887. I’m looking for the grave of Heather Bowyer. She was the young woman who was brutally murdered in Southend-on-Sea on the night that I was born.

  I’ve gone online and paid a fee and been issued with a map marked with the location of Heather’s grave. It should be just along here somewhere. I’m very close now. Yes, here it is: ‘Heather Bowyer, born 19th August 1973. A beloved daughter, sister and granddaughter, taken from us 3rd October 1992. Never forgotten. Always in our thoughts. Forever in our hearts.’ The words, painted in gold, are inscribed on a heart-shaped block of shiny pink granite with two brass flower holders set into the base. They contain white roses that are only just beginning to droop. I’m guessing they were placed here on my birthday, the twenty-fifth anniversary of her death.

  There’s also a fresh wreath. It’s got a card attached. I’ve read that sometimes murderers can’t resist visiting the graves of their victims, that they even risk turning up to watch the funerals. So, I’m going see what’s written on the card, just in case. You never know.

  ‘To our darling Heather, love always from Mum and Simon.’

  I read an interview with Heather’s brother, Simon, in the local paper last weekend. It had a couple of photos of Heather taken on a family holiday and at her eighteenth birthday party. The article said she worked as a hairdresser, and liked clothes and make-up and listening to Bryan Adams and George Michael. There was also a photo of the part of Cliff Gardens where her body was found, taken when it was all cordoned off by police tape and guarded by a uniformed officer.

  ‘Our whole world collapsed when she died,’ Simon told the reporter. ‘Not a day goes by when we don’t still think about her. We’re sure there’s someone out there who can help us, who remembers something about that night that would help the police. And there’s also so
meone keeping a terrible secret. It’s not too late for them to do the right thing and give my mother and me some answers. Heather deserves justice, so please, if you can, please bring this to an end.’

  I hope that Heather is resting in peace. This is a lovely spot, green and leafy with birds singing and the trees showing autumn colours. But I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like for her family, knowing that her killer is still out there. And what about him? Are you still out there? Maybe you come here occasionally to visit Heather’s grave. You might even be here now, watching from beyond those trees.

  Do you think you’ve got away with it? How does it feel to think you’ll never be caught? Do you gloat over your dark secret? Maybe you get some sort of sordid thrill out of imagining that one day you might walk right past your victim’s family in the street, or even speak to them, and they’d never know. They might be nice to you, share a joke and a laugh or help you out in some way. How does that really make you feel?

  Is it really possible that Heather’s killer has been able to live an ordinary life, or did that night destroy him in some way, too? I mean, it’s been twenty-five years: my entire life.

  I can’t imagine what it must be like to live in fear that you might give yourself away or that some crucial piece of evidence will fall into place and they’ll finally come for you. Or maybe he’s not the only one who knows what happened that night. Did he confess to someone who might still one day betray him?

  I want to know how it feels to live with the knowledge that every day might finally bring that knock on the door that will expose your whole life as a sham. I really want to meet this man. And I bet I’m not the only one.

  I’m Freddie Craig, and you’ve been listening to Stories from the Fire. Come back next time for Episode Three, when I’ll take you to visit the scene of the crime.

  6

  As Grace walked towards Reece Nixon’s front door, she caught Blake looking sideways at her shoes. She seldom wore such high heels, let alone to work, but today she had her reasons, and it was those reasons, not the height of the heels, that made her slightly unsteady. Her mouth was dry as she rang the doorbell and waited for the sound of footsteps approaching from inside. A pleasant no-nonsense-looking woman wearing jeans and a fleece opened the door.