Wrong Way Home

by Isabelle Grey

  Hating herself, Grace continued to the end. ‘The murder victim, Heather Bowyer, was raped before she was killed.’

  ‘Not by Dad,’ said Michael, showing the first signs of real, cold anger. ‘Never.’

  ‘There’s no way Mum would’ve stood for that,’ added his sister as she sat reluctantly back down.

  ‘We think that whoever murdered Heather had previously raped several other women in Southend.’

  Michael laughed once more in disbelief. ‘This is nonsense. Not only that, it’s disgusting.’

  ‘I realise how hard it must be to believe such things,’ said Grace. ‘And people change, I know that. I’m quite prepared to accept that the man you loved was not the same person who did these things.’

  ‘Have you taken Larry’s DNA too?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘He’s given us a sample,’ said Blake, ‘but we’ve not yet had the results.’

  ‘Even if his DNA is present, it doesn’t change anything,’ said Grace.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for one thing,’ said Blake, ‘we know where he was on the night of Heather Bowyer’s murder: rescuing two lads from a fire at the leisure complex.’

  ‘What about his father?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Owen?’

  ‘Yes. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes. But he has different mitochondrial DNA,’ said Grace. ‘We know it has to be someone who shares DNA with your father’s sister, Deborah Shillingford.’

  Anne shook her head in perplexity. ‘I’m not sure we’ve ever met her either.’

  ‘I don’t care what your evidence is, you need to look again at Larry,’ Michael said stubbornly. ‘He’d turn up from time to time, but Dad never trusted him an inch. And Dad hated his own father.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such difficult news. But I wanted you to know now because we’re putting out a media statement later today saying that we have a significant new lead in the Heather Bowyer murder case and that we are pursuing further related enquiries. We’re hoping that these further enquiries will give us the conclusive evidence we need to close the case.’

  ‘Naming Dad?’ asked Michael.

  ‘He remains our primary suspect.’

  ‘No,’ said Anne, rising to her feet once again. ‘It can’t have been Dad. Not in a million years. You didn’t know him. We did.’

  Leaving Blake to show them out of the station, Grace leaned against the wall in the corridor and shut her eyes. She tried to remember the excitement she’d felt on Duncan’s wedding day when Wendy had rung to tell her they had the results of the familial search. What she’d failed to take into account, after twenty-five years, was the collateral damage that would inevitably follow a successful investigation. She had just ruined two young lives. Barely coping with their parents’ deaths, how did she expect them to absorb the accusations now levelled against their father? And how was she supposed to balance that against the scant comfort she could offer Monica and Simon Bowyer?

  ‘That was tough.’

  She opened her eyes to find that Blake had come back. She managed a shaky smile. ‘It was.’

  ‘You OK?’ He reached out to touch her arm.

  She nodded. ‘I’m glad you were there.’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘I hope we’re right,’ she said. ‘We’re staking a lot on the assumption that Larry Nixon’s telling us the truth.’

  ‘We can only go on the evidence we have.’

  ‘But we’re missing the evidence that would validate his account of the fire.’

  Blake’s expression tightened. ‘We’ll have his DNA back next week. That might shed new light.’

  ‘I’m not blaming Carolyn,’ she said. ‘She seems to be finding her feet OK now. I’m just stating facts.’

  Blake relaxed. ‘Everything Michael and Anne said, about their father hating violence, that could be disgust at what he’d done, an attempt to wash away the past.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Then we turn up, ready to undo every good and decent act of the past twenty-five years.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ His words didn’t make her feel any better.

  ‘Hey, look,’ he said, ‘we’re not responsible for what we find out about the past. If Reece was the Southend rapist, then whatever his family has to suffer is on his head, not yours.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed and then managed a smile. ‘Thanks, Blake.’

  ‘You want to go and get a drink?’

  Her heart lifted, but then she looked at her watch, remembering Alison’s visit. ‘I can’t, sorry. In fact, I really need to run.’

  ‘OK. Take care, boss. See you tomorrow.’

  Grace hesitated, wanting to end their conversation differently but not sure how. Instead she hurried away, fighting the urge to spin round and look back.

  22

  On the drive home to Wivenhoe Grace told herself repeatedly how much she was looking forward to her sister’s visit, but, when the doorbell rang while she was still unpacking the shopping – forty minutes earlier than Alison had estimated she would be – her heart sank. She knew that Alison would seize on her unreadiness as due, not to her own premature arrival, but Grace’s lack of domesticity. No matter how many times Grace reminded herself that the tacit point-scoring said more about Alison’s insecurity over giving up work to look after her two young sons, it still always left her feeling wrong-footed and resentful.

  Before she opened the door, she took a deep breath and reminded herself how lucky she was to have any family at all. Alison was her only sibling; their mother had died giving birth to her and their beloved father had died when they were students. They’d been grateful to their stepmother for pitching in, but they’d been a bit too old when she’d first come on the scene to feel it was fair to lean on her much. And so, during the few years until Alison had married and produced her babies, it had really been just the two of them.

  With this in mind Grace welcomed her sister with genuine warmth and was almost able to overlook the quick appraising glance Alison cast over the less-than-tidy open-plan living space.

  ‘You must’ve made good time,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve not been home very long.’

  ‘The journey was much easier than I expected.’ Alison hugged her tight. ‘It’s so good to see you. It’s been ages. Why don’t we see more of you?’

  Grace knew her sister’s answer to that: Alison took it for granted that, since she had a husband and two small children, it was up to Grace to make the journey to visit them in Winchester.

  ‘It’s been a busy year,’ said Grace.

  ‘You’d hardly recognise Joe and Alfie, they’ve grown so much.’

  ‘Let me give you a glass of wine while I sort out your room.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Alison, picking up her overnight bag. ‘I’ll come and give you a hand.’

  By the time they’d shaken out the duvet cover and plumped the pillows up, the tensions were gone. Grace decided that, instead of making the meal for which she’d shopped, they should make the most of an opportunity to recapture some of the irresponsibility of their youth. It was quick and easy to take the train from Wivenhoe into Colchester, and they could have a night out together before getting a cab home. Alison was delighted by the suggestion and, after ringing home to check on her boys, put on fresh lipstick and was ready to go.

  Once in Colchester some impulse led Grace to the little bar where Blake had taken her in the summer. Over cocktails, she asked Alison lots of questions about the three-day course at the University of Essex that had brought her to Colchester, her plans to go back to teaching once Alfie had started school and her anxieties over juggling childcare at the same time as re-entering the job market. Seeing how torn Alison was between excitement at escaping family life for the weekend and missing its warm cocoon, Grace could feel the stirrings of her own buried regrets, not so much about her divorce – she never wanted to see Trev again, thank you very much – but about the loss of the hop
es and plans that had been an integral part of her marriage.

  She caught her sister looking at her shrewdly. ‘I wish you hadn’t kept quiet about what Trev did to you,’ said Alison. ‘You should have told me.’

  Grace sighed, aware that she couldn’t keep putting off this conversation. At the time, she’d never given her sister the true reason for her divorce or for her abrupt departure from her former job in Maidstone, and, later, Alison had been dreadfully upset to learn from a newspaper article that Grace had taken Trev to court for assault after he’d beaten her up, and that this had earned her the bullying contempt of their colleagues for ending his career as a police officer. When Alison found out, they’d had bitter words and had since avoided the topic.

  ‘I know you were hurt,’ said Grace, ‘and I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to think straight, and then, after I came here, I just wanted to leave it all behind.’

  Alison reached across the table to touch Grace’s hand. ‘I might’ve been able to help.’

  ‘Of course you would’ve helped,’ said Grace, remembering how desperately she’d longed for her father, yet hadn’t felt deserving enough to summon her sister away from a new baby and a demanding toddler. ‘That’s not the reason I didn’t tell you. I suppose I just crawled into a hole and hid away.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was like a wounded animal. I would’ve bitten anyone who came near me.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Alison. ‘Are you over it?’

  ‘Yes, pretty much. I certainly think it’s made me better at what I do.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I learnt a lot about being a victim.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you find it easier to face criminals than your own family!’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Grace laughed, but the words stung.

  ‘But are you over it?’ asked Alison. ‘Do you feel ready for another relationship?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Alison’s eyes lit up. ‘Does that mean you’re seeing someone? Tell me!’

  Grace wished she hadn’t chosen this bar with its memories of the first time she and Blake had slept together. ‘The job doesn’t make it easy,’ she said. ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

  Alison laughed. ‘You’re not palming me off that easily! Come on, tell me. There is someone, isn’t there?’

  ‘Maybe, but there are professional issues. I promise I’ll tell you if we manage to work things out.’

  ‘You don’t want to wait too long,’ said Alison. ‘Not if you’re getting broody, anyway.’

  Grace tried not to resent the intrusion. In some ways she and Alison were very close, but at the same time they didn’t really understand enough about one another’s lives to go poking into such private feelings. ‘I’m not broody,’ she told her firmly. ‘Not yet, anyway. And right now, wild horses wouldn’t make me give up my job.’

  To head off further questions, Grace launched into the edited highlights of the search for Heather Bowyer’s killer. She couldn’t help being pleased when Alison’s eyes widened in astonishment, and maybe also a little envy, at how Grace got to be right at the heart of such dramatic events.

  ‘Wow,’ said Alison when Grace finished. ‘When will it be on the news?’

  ‘A statement went out today, but we’re trying to keep it low-key,’ she said, already regretting that she’d spoken. ‘And I’d rather you kept what I’ve just told you off the record.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Alison shook her head in bafflement. ‘I still don’t understand how you deal with this stuff day in and day out. I mean, it’s brilliant, and I can see the fascination, but aren’t you worried it’ll, I don’t know—’

  ‘Contaminate me?’

  ‘I guess so. After all, it is a bit gruesome and grisly.’

  ‘Sure, sometimes, but that’s irrelevant against being able to offer some answers to the victims’ families.’ Grace spoke awkwardly, aware of how she’d just hijacked Monica’s grief in order to boast to her sister. ‘The work is never glamorous once you’ve dealt with a victim’s family.’ Yet, even as she said the words, something in her rebelled against being made to feel at fault. The work might not be glamorous, but it could be addictive. So yes, she’d been stung by the pitying look Blake had given her outside the church, but she still stood by the reckless sense she’d had then of not caring if everything else in her life took second place to following up a new lead on a cold case. Did that reaction make her unnatural? That seemed to be what her sister was implying.

  ‘You won’t do this forever, will you?’ asked Alison. ‘All this horror and grief. I’m sure that what you do must put a lot of men off. That’s what Edward thinks.’

  Grace wanted to hit back, say she didn’t care what Alison’s husband thought, that she didn’t want the kind of life her sister had, but she merely stared into her empty glass.

  Alison did not let up. ‘Promise me you’ll eventually move to something a bit less dark and odd?’

  Grace forced herself to smile. ‘Right now, I’d like to move to some place where we can eat. I’m starving.’

  Alison conceded and led the way out. She insisted on paying the bill and, while Grace waited, she took deep breaths and reminded herself once again that Alison meant well and was the only family she had. She looked around the now packed bar. All the seats were taken and the floor area was jammed. When a group moved to take over the booth she and Alison had just vacated, a space opened up and Grace spotted Blake sitting with his back to her on a stool at the far end of the bar. She’d been sitting facing away from the entrance and, in this crowd, he was unlikely to have seen her on his way in. She considered going over to say hello, but acknowledged her reluctance to introduce her sister, given the third degree Alison might submit him to and would certainly later submit her to. Then Blake leaned forward, reaching for his drink, and she was able to see who was with him. It was Carolyn Bromfield. They were sitting close together in order to hear one another above the din and, as Grace watched, Blake threw back his head in laughter while the younger woman smiled at him in admiration.

  23

  Welcome back to Stories from the Fire. I’m Freddie Craig, and this episode truly is the story from the fire. Not only that, but it contains an extraordinary revelation, one that justifies my belief that my birth really does connect me in some mysterious way to the events of that night.

  But first, let’s go back twenty-five years, to the fire at the old Marineland resort in Southend-on-Sea.

  Larry: I’d been there many times as a kid, and occasionally when I was older, too, although it was pretty run-down by then. Somehow, even in the dark, I just seemed able to find my way around.

  Freddie: That’s Larry Nixon, the man who ran into a burning building to rescue strangers. Now a successful businessman in his late forties, he’s tall and looks like he keeps fit. I’m sure he won’t mind me saying that he doesn’t have film-star good looks – he’s not someone you’d especially notice in a crowd – but he’s a hero, nonetheless. A hero who saved the lives of the two teenage boys whose discarded cigarettes accidentally started the fire. He still insists he did nothing special, only what anyone would have done.

  So, Larry, tell me what happened that night.

  Larry: I was working, driving for my dad’s taxi company. It’d been busy, so I was taking a breather and dawdling along the top road before heading back down to the esplanade. As a taxi driver you get used to keeping an ear out for people hailing you, and I must’ve registered someone shouting. When I looked to see where it was coming from, I noticed smoke pouring out of the building and I guess I just put two and two together.

  Freddie: A lot of people would have gone off in search of a telephone box to call the fire brigade. You didn’t.

  Larry: I could see one of them. He was banging desperately on a broken window. I could picture exactly where they were inside the complex, could visualise a route to that spot. And also I’d stopped right beside where they must’ve got in, where the fencing had been pushed aside. To follow them in just seemed
like a total no-brainer at the time.

  Freddie: You carried one of them out on your back because he’d injured his ankle. Minutes after you got clear of the building there was a mammoth explosion. Any later and you’d all have been killed.

  Larry: I didn’t think about it. Still don’t. And I had no idea how fast a fire can spread, how furious it can become. Believe me, if I’d realised, I would never have gone in.

  Freddie: Are you still in contact with the young men you rescued?

  Larry: One of them always sends me a Christmas card. The other, I don’t know.

  Freddie: But they’re alive because of you.

  Larry: Oh well, I don’t know about that.

  Freddie: Which makes the events of last week all the more tragic. You lost your only brother in a house fire. You’ve said you don’t object to my asking you about what happened. You were there and tried to rescue him.

  Larry: And my sister-in-law. She’s the real victim here. The police have admitted that it was arson, but you see, it’s very much more complicated than that.

  Freddie: Larry Nixon falls silent. I wait for a few seconds before encouraging him to speak again. I have no idea what he’s about to tell me.

  Larry: You’ve been speculating in these podcasts about the man who murdered Heather Bowyer all those years ago. Well, I can answer that. It’s not easy, but it’s right that I should be the one to speak. It was my older brother, Reece Nixon.

  Freddie: I’m speechless. I was born the night Heather died, and now I’m the channel through which the identity of her killer has finally been revealed.

  Larry: Reece phoned me that evening. Told me he’d had a visit from the police. They’d wanted a DNA sample to see if he was linked to the attack on Heather. He told me everything. I could hardly understand what he was saying, and yet at the same time so many things simply clicked into place. When he confessed to killing her, I knew he was telling the truth.