Wrong Way Home

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘Mrs Kirsty Nixon?’ Grace showed her warrant. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Grace Fisher. This is Detective Sergeant Langley. It’s nothing to worry about, just a routine elimination check, but is your husband at home?’

  The woman gripped the edge of the door with a hand that was brown and rough from outdoor work. ‘Deb called us,’ she said. ‘Something about DNA?’

  ‘That’s right. If Reece Nixon is here, then we can explain everything to him.’

  She gripped tighter, her knuckles white, and then nodded. ‘He’s in the yard. I’ll take you.’

  She closed the door behind her and led the way around the side of the house. Three outbuildings flanked an open area where two men were loading fence posts and panels onto a flatbed truck. The older man looked round when his wife called his name. He, too, was tanned and weather-beaten, yet he went pale and exchanged anxious glances with his wife before turning to the younger man.

  ‘OK, Steve,’ he said, ‘why don’t you run this lot over there and start unloading? I’ll join you in a bit.’

  Steve looked surprised, then shot a look at Grace and Blake and, obviously recognising them as police officers, curled his lip in contempt. ‘See you later, then.’

  Reece removed his work gloves and wiped a hand on the back of his jeans before offering it to Grace. ‘Reece Nixon. Deb said you’d be coming.’

  Grace introduced herself and waited as Steve reversed the van, which bore the logo RN Garden Services, and drove slowly out of the yard. The pause gave her a chance to study Reece: he was slightly taller than her – even in her heels – and muscular. His hair was grey, his eyes greeny-brown and his nose large and straight. Despite an appearance that must have been handsome and imposing when he was younger – she knew that he was now fifty – he looked nervous and uncertain. Neither he nor his wife made any move to invite them indoors. It might be that they were simply used to being outside, or that they were being cautious. She knew that Reece had racked up a minor record in his youth for criminal damage and possession of cannabis and a few ecstasy pills, so maybe that had been enough to leave him with a lifelong aversion to the police. But maybe not.

  It was Kirsty who spoke first. ‘Can you explain again what all this is about? I don’t quite understand what led you to Deborah.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘We have a DNA profile from an unsolved murder case from twenty-five years ago. It’s from the murder weapon, a knife, and can identify the person who handled it. We’re now able to search the National DNA Database for anyone who might be related to that individual. It’s a process that throws up a lot of familial matches, and your sister is just one of them. Our job is to eliminate her male relatives from our enquiries.’

  ‘It’s not just me you want, then?’ Reece asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll also be speaking to your brother and then, depending on the results of those tests, possibly other male relatives.’

  Reece nodded slowly while Kirsty watched him anxiously. ‘So what can you tell us about what happened, about the original crime?’ he asked.

  ‘A young woman named Heather Bowyer was found dead in Cliff Gardens in Southend, killed by two stabs from a knife. You may remember it being reported at the time.’

  ‘It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘It is. She’d also been raped.’ Grace hoped Blake was observing Kirsty’s reaction.

  ‘So the sample you’ve got, it’s, you know, from her being raped, is it?’ Reece asked, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘No,’ said Grace. ‘The suspect left no bodily fluids, but we did find epithelial cells, also known as touch DNA, on the murder weapon.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Larry?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Grace smiled, testing to see if the tension would break. ‘We’re based here in Colchester, so you were nearest.’

  Reece did not return her smile.

  ‘I want to reassure you that we’ll be making other enquiries, and I’m more than happy to discuss any concerns you might have.’

  ‘If I’m innocent, then this test you want to do will eliminate me, is that right?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. And even if it is a match, you’ll have an opportunity to account for why your DNA was present.’

  Reece glanced at his wife and then nodded again. ‘Well, you’d better get on with it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d rather do this indoors?’

  ‘We’re fine out here,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Very well,’ said Grace.

  Reece stood with his legs apart, both feet planted firmly on the ground, as Blake pulled on surgical gloves before taking the buccal swab out of its sterile tube. Asking Reece to open his mouth, Blake carefully rubbed and rotated it along the inside of Reece’s cheek before replacing it in the tube, which he sealed inside an evidence bag.

  ‘Is that it?’ Reece asked, watching Blake label, sign and date the bag.

  ‘That’s it for now,’ said Grace. ‘Thank you very much for your cooperation.’

  ‘When will you have the results?’ asked Kirsty.

  ‘Within a week, hopefully less; it depends on how busy the lab is. If there’s no match, then in six months’ time the sample will be destroyed.’ Grace dug in her bag for a card and handed it to Kirsty. ‘If either of you have any other questions you can reach me on this number.’

  ‘And Larry?’ asked Reece.

  ‘We’re hoping to see him later today.’

  ‘OK.’ He looked at the ground, scuffing the gravel with his boot.

  The couple seemed eager for them to leave. ‘Thank you again,’ said Grace. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  She and Blake made their way back to their car. Reece Nixon had not once looked at her shoes.

  7

  On the drive to Southend, after Blake had hand-delivered the DNA sample to Wendy to send to the lab, Grace tried to draw him out on his reaction to Reece Nixon. She was disappointed that he didn’t seem to share her elation that the results of the familial search might crack the case open at last. But then, she reflected, he had not accompanied her on her recent visit to Heather Bowyer’s widowed mother, Monica, now in her late sixties, when she’d updated the family on this latest development.

  It was a heavy responsibility to accept the trust of shocked and grieving families that the police would finally get to the truth of what had happened to their murdered loved ones. Grace had striven not to raise Monica Bowyer’s hopes too high, stressing that although this search technique could dramatically narrow the field of potential suspects, they might still fail to zero in on Heather’s killer. But never before had she dealt with a family twenty-five years on, with a mother who remained as devastated now as she had been when the news was first broken to her and who clearly could not rest until her questions were answered. Holding tightly to Grace’s hand, Monica had described how her daughter’s death had changed her world forever, how all she’d had to hold on to all these years was her broken heart and a grave. Everything else remained unknown.

  ‘You didn’t think Reece and his wife were just a bit too leery?’ Grace asked Blake. ‘I mean, he wasn’t very curious. I’d have expected an innocent man to ask a lot more questions.’

  Blake frowned. ‘I was trying to imagine how I’d feel if someone turned up out of the blue wanting a DNA sample. However virtuous I’d been all my life, I’d still be worried about some freak error or miscarriage of justice. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I thought he was trying too hard to appear unconcerned. And he kept looking at his wife. Not sure what that was about.’

  ‘She didn’t ask many questions, either,’ he said.

  ‘I hope we don’t have to wait too long for the results,’ said Grace. ‘The suspense will kill me.’

  Blake laughed. ‘You’re more nervous than they were!’

  ‘You weren’t the one who had to get permission from the deputy chief constable to go ahead with the search.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Though I still don’t und
erstand why you’re so sure the man we want is local. After all, even in the 1990s a million or so tourists visited Southend every year, and goodness knows how many came and went over a weekend.’

  Grace hesitated, not sure that she was ready for him to pour scorn on her theory, but then shook herself. If there were holes in it, now was the time to expose them. ‘Heather Bowyer was raped,’ she said. ‘There were also five other reported rapes in Southend over the previous two years. All took place in parks close to the centre of Southend. If they’re linked, that suggests the man was either local or had local knowledge.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Three of the women described being threatened at knifepoint by a masked man.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘One of them said her attacker was the taxi driver who’d picked her up.’

  Blake gave a slow nod of reappraisal. ‘OK, so what made him escalate to killing his victim?’

  Grace couldn’t help a smile of relief that he had questioned but not dismissed her reasoning. ‘Maybe Heather struggled too hard, or got a look at his face,’ she said. ‘Maybe someone or something disturbed him in the act.’

  ‘Could be why he left the knife the way he did.’

  ‘And the glove.’

  ‘He panicked, was in a hurry.’

  ‘If he didn’t set out to kill her,’ she said, ‘then maybe that’s why the offences stopped afterwards. Murder had never been on his agenda and he wasn’t going to risk that again.’

  ‘Could be,’ he said, although his tone expressed doubt. ‘So have you run a familial search before?’

  ‘No. I’ve never worked on any case from so long ago. I mean, you and I were at primary school when Heather was killed.’

  ‘The guy could have simply disappeared abroad. For all we know he’s dead or emigrated or banged up in a foreign jail somewhere.’

  Although she knew Blake was right – after all, he was only echoing her own gentle caveats to Heather’s family – his words were an uncomfortable reminder that she might have raised Monica’s hopes for nothing.

  ‘Given that the offences stopped, he could be dead,’ he went on, his eyes on the road. ‘If he never meant to kill, he might not have been able to hack it afterwards. He may have topped himself out of guilt or the terror of being caught.’

  ‘I already checked out any local suicides in the six months after the murder, but there was nothing that stood out,’ she said, realising just how much she wanted to offer Heather’s family the closure they needed.

  They had reached the stretch of the A127 approaching the western outskirts of Southend, and Blake was concentrating on the satnav and watching out for the offices of Larry Nixon’s limousine and chauffeur transportation service – weddings, celebrations and executive cars a speciality.

  They found Alpha Limos on the edge of a small industrial park in a modern, no-frills unit where a young woman with a hands-free headset looked up from her computer screen long enough to tell them that Mr Nixon was working from home that day. Beyond the other three people also manning phones and computer screens, Grace could see an empty glass-walled section with a desk, a couple of chairs for visitors and, on the wall, a huge framed photograph of a vintage American Cadillac with tail fins, white-wall tyres and wedding streamers – the boss’s unoccupied office.

  Back in the car, Blake reset the satnav with Larry Nixon’s home address and headed towards Chalkwell.

  ‘Were the five previous rapes linked to the murder at the time?’ he asked, resuming their earlier discussion.

  ‘No,’ said Grace. ‘At least not in writing. And the records are so rudimentary, it makes me wonder how seriously the victims’ complaints were taken. Two of the women were visitors. They both decided not to proceed.’

  ‘I agree that the similar MOs are striking,’ he said, ‘but what other factors make a link to Heather Bowyer?’

  ‘Victimology, for a start,’ said Grace. ‘Like Heather, all the complainants were young women heading home at a weekend after a night’s clubbing. Short skirts, low-cut tops, high heels, bit too much to drink.’

  ‘In a town packed with coach-loads of lads looking to get laid,’ said Blake. ‘That doesn’t scream single perpetrator at me.’

  ‘Which appears to be how the police reacted at the time,’ she said. ‘Whoever dealt with the complaints seemed to reckon that saying the perpetrator had a knife and a mask was taking the piss, that the women were embroidering their stories to make sure the police believed they really had been raped and weren’t just making a fuss about a snog that got out of hand.’

  ‘Neanderthals.’

  ‘It only takes one duff officer to be on duty at the wrong time,’ said Grace. ‘But my point is that Heather was out with friends. Whoever grabbed her did so without any of them noticing. I think he’d done it before. Got it down to a fine art.’

  Grace was wondering whether to explain about the shoes when the satnav announced that they had arrived at their destination, a gleaming new seafront apartment building. Blake found a spot right outside and parked facing a carefully tended area of green that partially screened off the main road that ran along an esplanade dotted with incongruous looking palm-trees. The tide was in and, although the day was cloudy with a fresh breeze, there was a clear view south across the water to the Isle of Grain. They entered the lobby and were greeted by a concierge who sat behind a spotless white desk and a large silver computer. Even though the distance between the two was walkable, Larry Nixon’s home felt a world away from his sister’s existence in Thorpe Bay.

  Without introducing himself as a police officer, Blake gave Larry’s name and was told by the concierge that Mr Nixon had gone out half an hour ago. Blake requested that he call up to make sure, and the concierge shrugged, tapped at his keyboard and, after a few moments, shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no answer.’

  A red-faced man in grey joggers and sweatshirt came out of the lift and, wiping his face with the towel around his neck, hovered behind them, waiting impatiently to speak to the concierge.

  ‘Might he be back soon?’ asked Blake. ‘Does he usually come and go during the day?’

  ‘I’m really not at liberty to say.’

  ‘It’s just that we’ve come quite a long way and we were told he’d be working from home today.’

  ‘He’s a busy man,’ said the concierge, dismissing them with a look over Blake’s shoulder at the man in the tracksuit. ‘Mr Price, how can I help you?’

  Blake waited until they were outside. ‘You reckon he’s deliberately avoiding us?’ he asked.

  ‘Deborah had told Reece to expect us,’ said Grace. ‘Either one of them could have tipped Larry off.’

  ‘Interesting that he doesn’t want to play ball.’

  ‘DNA results will tell us just how interesting,’ she said.

  ‘Shall we wait? Try and catch him later?’

  ‘No,’ she decided. ‘We’ll call him to make an appointment. If he misses that, then we can consider putting him under surveillance.’

  Only after they’d returned to Colchester and Grace was preparing to pack up and leave the office did she receive a call on her mobile.

  ‘DI Fisher? It’s Larry Nixon here. Reece gave me your number. I think you may have been trying to get hold of me today?’

  ‘Hello. Yes, I was. Your brother will have explained why.’

  ‘Absolutely. Only too happy to help. Sorry you had a wasted journey. One of my drivers went AWOL, let down an important client, so I did the job myself.’ He sounded genuinely unconcerned about why Grace wanted to see him. ‘Got stuck in traffic on the way back from Heathrow. I can see you tomorrow, if that works for you?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, that would be very helpful.’

  Grace arranged a time and a place to meet the following day and tried not to think about how disappointed she’d be if the familial search proved to be fruitless.

  8

  Welcome back to Stories from the Fire. This episode contains d
escriptions of violence that may be disturbing to some listeners, so please use your discretion.

  I’m Freddie Craig. It’s late afternoon, and I’m standing at the top of Cliff Gardens in Southend looking down towards the seafront. You’ve heard in previous episodes how Heather Bowyer was murdered twenty-five years ago. Well, this is where it happened. Or as near enough as I can get. The exact spot no longer exists. Cliff Gardens is a steeply sloping area of twenty-two acres of municipal parkland. Heavy winter rains at the end of 2002 caused a massive landslip that left the whole area unstable. It remained closed to the public for the next ten years.

  It’s now been made safe and renovated to look much as it did in its heyday. It might look the same, but it’s not. We think we know or remember things the way they really were, but we don’t. I’m here trying to bring back the past, but even the ground I’m standing on isn’t the same.

  Less than a quarter of a mile away at about the same time Heather was killed, the fire brigade was bringing the Marineland blaze under control. And, two miles to the north-west, I was being born.

  Heather’s body lay here undiscovered all night. According to press reports, her corpse, partly hidden by trees and bushes, wasn’t found until the park opened in the morning and local people came out to gawp at Marineland’s smoking ruins and reminisce about its many attractions. She was lying face down and partially clothed. Gagged with her own pale pink dancewear cardigan, she had been brutally raped. A large knife was still embedded in her back. The blade had pierced a major artery and the blood from a double stab wound had soaked into the cold, dark earth.

  I’m walking along one of the paths that runs between grass and flowerbeds, bushes, dumpy palms and mature trees. There’s a view south and west to the mouth of the Thames estuary. The tide is going out and it’s mainly mud. A sharp wind is blowing. At my back, a few lights are coming on in the windows of the bay-fronted terraces of Clifftown Parade, and off to my left I can see the long line of lights stretching out along the pier and the candy-coloured neon of the funfair rides. I’m hoping to feel some psychic connection to what happened here. Surely someone who was born as Heather died should be especially sensitive to any lingering atmosphere. Yet, as I walk these paths, I’m not picking up on any echoes of Heather’s pain and terror.