‘I can’t imagine they’re going to be very welcome,’ said Blake.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Maybe it’s time we went in too.’
The carpet and drapes were in comforting shades of purple and rose-pink, with matching upholstery on the wooden chairs. They took seats at the back, with quite a few empty rows separating them from the dozen or so mourners at the front. Grace saw that Owen and Larry occupied one side of the front row with the other half left empty for Anne and Michael, who would presumably be arriving any minute with the funeral cortège. Grace had learnt from the coroner’s officer that the family had opted for burial, and assumed that after this service there would be a short graveside committal. She hoped for their sakes that the rain would clear up by then.
Behind them the doors opened to admit the two coffins carried by undertakers and topped with white flowers. Grace couldn’t help recalling the curled, charred remains of Reece and Kirsty on Samit’s autopsy tables and tried hard not to think about what the coffins contained. Anne and Michael, both in black, walked behind. Grace watched as they took their seats. They appeared not to notice their uncle or grandfather until Larry leaned across the aisle, offering Michael his hand. Michael gave a quick shake of his head and nudged his sister to move further along the line of chairs, away from their uncle. A young woman sitting behind Michael laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and he twisted round to give her a tense but grateful smile.
The service began with a hymn, the voices hesitant with the unfamiliar music. As the singing began to grow more confident, it was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance. Grace and Blake both looked round to see who the late arrival was and recognised Deborah Shillingford. She had tried her best to dress appropriately in a black jacket two sizes too big for her, but, red-faced and out of breath, had succeeded only in looking messy. Faced with other people turning to stare, Deborah looked around wildly and, recognising Grace, slumped in relief onto the empty chair beside her.
‘I can never understand why these places have to be in the middle of nowhere,’ Deborah whispered.
‘Don’t worry, we’re still on the first hymn,’ Grace replied reassuringly.
Deborah patted the large angel brooch pinned to the lapel of her jacket and picked up a hymn book. Once she had found her place, she began to sing in a clear and rather beautiful contralto.
The rest of the service was not too long drawn-out. Neither Michael nor his sister spoke, but an older man who looked vaguely familiar – Blake whispered to Grace that he thought it was Steve, who’d worked for Reece Nixon and had been in the yard the day they’d gone to ask for a DNA sample – read a short eulogy. It made no mention of the manner of Reece and Kirsty’s deaths, but stressed their kindness, fairness and devotion to one another.
As the mourners filed out at the end, Anne glanced curiously at Deborah, but did not respond to her nervous smile. Grace wondered if Anne even had any idea that this woman was her aunt, raising the question of what had really taken place within this family to make its members so resolutely separate from one another.
Grace and Blake were the last to leave the chapel, but Michael was clearly watching out for them and approached immediately.
‘Thanks to you, our grandmother isn’t here to bury her daughter,’ he began, without waiting to hear Grace’s condolences. ‘She didn’t want them buried together because she believed in your crap, that Dad killed Mum. We know that’s not true, and that Mum and Dad should be together, so we had to go against her and then she refused to come at all. She’s an old woman, grieving, and it seems to us that you’re doing everything you can to make it worse.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Grace began. ‘We’re doing—’
‘How long are you going to let this go on?’ Michael cut in. ‘You must know by now that Dad never hurt anyone!’
He looked over to where the undertakers were placing his parents’ coffins back in the hearses for the short journey across the cemetery to the burial plot. Grace followed his gaze and met that of Owen Nixon. The look in his eyes wasn’t grief for his son, yet almost as soon as she’d glimpsed it, it was gone, replaced by a look of concern for Deborah, who hovered behind Grace’s shoulder.
‘Deb,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘There you are. I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘Dad.’ Deborah shifted from foot to foot, keeping her head down like a kid outside the head teacher’s office.
Owen laughed and held out his hands. ‘Well, aren’t you going to give your old Dad a hug?’
Grace observed Michael watching with a mixture of curiosity and disgust as Deborah stepped forward, keeping her arms by her sides and twisting her head away from her father’s unwelcome embrace.
‘And a hug for your brother, too,’ said Owen.
Larry patted his sister’s arm by way of greeting.
‘So, where have you been hiding all this time?’ Owen asked. ‘Not cleverly enough to avoid the breathalyser, though. Silly girl, causing all this trouble.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Michael demanded of him. ‘What are you even doing here?’
Owen turned to face him. ‘Burying my son,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I am very sorry for your loss. And that must be my granddaughter.’ He looked over to where Anne was being comforted by Steve and two of her friends.
‘You weren’t welcome in my parents’ house when they were alive,’ said Michael, ‘and you’re not welcome here now.’ He pivoted to Larry. ‘And as for you—’
Grace stepped in front of Michael as Blake moved to head off Owen and Larry. ‘Now is not the time,’ she told him firmly. ‘I know how you must feel, but—’
‘No, you don’t!’ He struggled out of her grasp and tried to push past Blake, who was blocking Larry. ‘You killed my parents!’
‘I tried to save them,’ said Larry.
‘You murderer!’ shouted Michael. ‘You liar!’
Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw the press photographers on the far side of the turning circle where the hearses were waiting. Their lenses were trained on the confrontation and they were all clicking away. She could also see that, despite their professionally blank expressions, the undertakers waiting beside the cars were watching avidly.
‘Don’t do this, Michael,’ said Grace, attempting to pull him back. ‘Not here, not in public.’
As Michael threw her off, Anne, in tears, came and grabbed at his other arm. ‘Stop it, please. I can’t bear it!’
Larry must also have noticed the cameras, for he dodged around Blake and walked calmly over to them, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Hey guys,’ he called. ‘Knock it off, OK? You can see how my poor young niece and nephew are almost out of their minds with everything that’s happened. Just give them a break, can’t you?’
One or two of the photographers continued to take pictures. Beyond them, Grace spotted Ivo. In that instant she couldn’t help hating the tabloid reporter for everything he represented.
Michael appealed to Grace, his eyes not on the photographers, but on Owen. ‘Are you going to stand for this? Can’t you get rid of them?’
‘We’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Owen loudly, before Grace could reply. ‘No one’s going to tell me I don’t have a right to be at my son’s funeral.’
‘You’ve paid your respects,’ said Grace firmly. ‘It would be better if you left now.’ She addressed Michael and Anne. ‘The car is waiting to take you over to where the burial service will he beld. I suggest you go. We’ll deal with things here.’
Blake positioned himself in front of Owen, screening him from sight, as Grace tried to walk Michael backwards towards the cars. Anne, in tears, pulled at his arm. ‘Please, Michael. Let’s go. Mum and Dad are waiting.’
Michael hesitated, but then allowed Anne to lead him away. As they reached the cars, Larry, waiting beside the press pack, entreated them, ‘I tried my best.’
‘I know what you did to my parents,’ Michael responded. ‘And I hope you rot in hell for it!’
>
38
The Ice Maiden was living up to her name, thought Ivo, as Grace walked briskly towards him across the cemetery car park. Judging from her frosty expression, they weren’t about to enjoy their usual cosy chat. Instead, she looked angry, and he had the distinct impression that it wasn’t only because of the family shouting match that had erupted in full view of the snappers. If she was angry with him, then he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve it. He wasn’t responsible for any Nixon family feuds. All the same, he was glad now that he’d dissuaded Freddie from coming along. Ivo hadn’t wanted him earwigging on any conversation he might manage to have with the detective. It hadn’t been difficult to shake Freddie off. The kid was in a state because, after his girlfriend had expressed strong objections to the tenor of his latest podcast (Ivo’s editor had also voiced misgivings), she had, unsurprisingly, dumped him. Not that Freddie’s romantic mishaps would prevent him being pissed off once he learnt he’d missed such an interesting fracas.
‘Mr Sweatman, I wonder if you could spare me a moment?’ She spoke loudly enough to signal that this encounter was going to be official.
‘DI Fisher. I always have time for you.’
It was a hopeful sign at least that she’d left her sergeant in the car. Ivo knew she’d been working with DS Langley since the Merrick case in the summer. He’d watched them earlier walking into the chapel together, and reckoned there was something in the way the young man moved so easily beside her suggested he, too, had a soft spot for her. Ivo was probably reading far too much into the sergeant’s manner, but he liked the idea of Grace having someone to look out for her, despite the sharp stab of envy he couldn’t entirely suppress.
‘This is strictly off the record,’ she began. She’d never felt the need to issue that warning to him before, and it stung.
‘Of course,’ he told her.
‘You covered Heather Bowyer’s murder at the time,’ she continued. ‘I’ve read all your coverage. I wanted to ask if there was anything else you could tell me that you didn’t print?’
For a second, Ivo had a clear mental image of JJ in the pub, raising a glass of Scotch to his lips with a teasing grin. There was plenty he could tell her if he chose to, but the long shadow cast by those ancient events in Southend made him uneasy. ‘Depends what you’re looking for,’ he said.
She gave him a dusty look and he felt it shrivel what was left of his soul.
‘I’ve been listening to Stories from the Fire,’ she said. ‘One of the episodes had some background music. Was that something you told Freddie Craig about?’
‘Yes,’ said Ivo, happy to be able to give her what she wanted. ‘Freddie asked for something moody that would break up the words. I remembered that one of Heather’s friends told me he’d heard it playing in a passing car right around the time she disappeared.’
‘And the friend definitely said it was that track?’ asked Grace. ‘A Eurythmics song?’
‘Yes, because afterwards the lyrics seemed so unbelievably apt and creepy. That’s why I remembered it.’
Grace gave him another look. ‘So why didn’t you use it yourself?’
‘My editor simply didn’t believe it, thought I’d made it up, so it got subbed out.’
‘Did Heather’s friend say what kind of car? Was it a taxi?’
‘I can’t remember, sorry.’
‘None of this is in any of the statements her friends gave to the police.’
‘No, well, I got a bit more out of them than they were prepared to say to the police,’ said Ivo. ‘Thing is, part of the reason this friend of Heather’s went to Southend was to score a few dozen ecstasy pills to sell to his mates back home in Chelmsford. It made him leery of having the local plod come and visit his house to ask questions.’
She frowned. ‘As far as I’m aware there was no MDMA found in Heather’s body. I’ll have to check again what toxicology tests were done. But if she was off her face, it might explain how she could be taken off the street so easily.’
‘It is the love drug,’ he agreed. ‘Never tried it myself, but I’m told it can make you feel very warm and fluffy towards strangers.’
‘Do you think it undermines her friends’ testimony about when they lost sight of her?’ she asked. ‘How long it was, really, before they noticed she’d gone? And whether they would have paid full attention if she had been talking to someone earlier?’
‘He said they were all coming down from the drugs by the time they were heading for the station, but who knows?’
‘I wonder if it’s a factor in the other cases as well.’ Grace seemed to be speaking to herself more than to him, but his ears pricked up.
‘The sexual assaults you’re investigating?’
Her cool grey eyes assessed him frankly, and then she smiled. OK so it was a rather tight little smile, not her usual warm glow, but it was a smile nonetheless.
‘You saw what just happened here,’ she said. ‘And obviously it’ll be all over the papers tomorrow. But you can see the hell that family is going through, never mind Heather Bowyer’s. The thing is, the DNA puts both Reece and Larry Nixon in the frame. The only way to narrow it down is to investigate the other assaults. So if you can give me anything from 1992, even if it doesn’t mean much to you, I’d be extremely grateful.’
Ivo thought hard. He didn’t want to open up a box of snakes and then not be able to get the lid back on. But he also wanted to help Grace Fisher. ‘The ecstasy angle might be worth pursuing,’ he said finally.
‘OK, thanks. There’s something else I want to look at, and this really is as off the record as it can be.’
Ivo held up a hand in a three-fingered salute. ‘Dib-dib-dib.’
‘You, a boy scout!’ She laughed, her face softening at last. ‘So it’s this: a WPC who tried to investigate the previous rapes was warned off even talking to anyone at Owen Nixon’s taxi firm. She said it was because Owen was a registered police informant.’
Ivo felt those snakes writhing in his stomach. This was something he hadn’t known.
‘Did you have many dealings with DI Jason Jupp when you were in Southend back then?’ she asked. ‘Did he ever mention using informants?’
He tasted bile. ‘Let’s just say that you shouldn’t put too much faith in the police record,’ he said. ‘DI Jupp policed Southend strictly for his own purposes and advantage.’
She didn’t look surprised. He’d give a lot to learn exactly what else she already knew.
‘You sound bitter,’ she said. ‘What else can you tell me?’
He shook his head in reply, sorry now that he’d said anything at all.
‘I’ve already been told that DI Jupp wasn’t too bothered about some silly girl from out of town getting herself killed,’ Grace said. ‘Waste of resources so far as he was concerned, apparently. But are you suggesting something worse? An actual cover-up? Could it have been to protect a member of the Nixon family?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘JJ was a Freemason, so that might’ve come into it. But as far as his lack of diligence in the Bowyer case is concerned, my money would be on simple old-fashioned sexism.’
‘Why?’
Ivo thought of all the AA meetings he’d attended where it had been drummed into him that he must admit his wrongs and make amends. He looked down at the scuffed toes of his shoes. ‘JJ’s focus lay elsewhere.’
Grace’s patient silence felt like torture. ‘I didn’t hear anything about Owen Nixon being an informant,’ he said at last, ‘but I did know about a big bust at an ecstasy factory in Southend. That’s far more likely to be the reason why JJ took his eye off the ball on the Bowyer case.’
‘Go on.’
She was giving him that clear, direct look of hers, and he couldn’t resist. But it would be OK, he assured himself, he could tell her about this, but just not the rest of it. Never about the rest, not to anyone.
‘You have to remember that this was the height of the rave scene,’ he said. ‘Acid house mean
t there was enormous demand for pills in all the clubs in Southend. Apparently, some bad stuff had been coming in from Russia with nasty side effects, so when a local conman met a chemistry graduate who needed to fund his PhD, they set up in business to make a cleaner product.’
‘Sounds like Breaking Bad,’ she said, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
‘I know,’ said Ivo, ‘but that’s how it really did operate back then. Those two imported a tableting machine and MDMA powder from Holland and began churning out thousands and thousands of pills. Called them “White Lightning” and sold them in the pubs and clubs for ten to fifteen pounds apiece, all in cash. So when JJ got a tip-off and raided the place, he found over half a million in used notes just stuffed into supermarket bags. He and a few of his closest pals split most of it among themselves.’
‘Did JJ tell you this?’
‘Bits of it. He liked to brag when he was in his cups. Some I heard from a girl I’d been talking to as background for the Heather Bowyer murder. The rest I pieced together myself.’
‘But you never printed it?’
‘No.’
To his relief she didn’t ask why.
‘No wonder JJ could afford to take early retirement,’ was her only comment.
Ivo still felt an urge to explain everything, to vindicate himself in her eyes. ‘You needed sharp elbows and sharper wits around old JJ,’ he said. ‘Everything had to be a deal, something in it for him, preferably cash in a brown envelope. I was a lot wetter behind the ears then than I liked to think. Looking back, I can see that I let him run rings round me.’
But she was following a different train of thought. ‘Taxi drivers must overhear a lot in the back of their cabs,’ she said. ‘And get asked for things, too. If Owen Nixon tipped JJ off about the pill factory, and then that kind of money fell into JJ’s lap, no wonder he owed Owen a favour.’
Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month Page 17