Wrong Way Home

by Isabelle Grey

  30

  Grace’s sister was dropping in for lunch in Wivenhoe before heading home after her course, and, as Grace prepared vegetables for soup, she caught up with Freddie Craig’s latest podcast. In the background of this episode he played a song she recognised as ‘Love Is A Stranger’ by the Eurythmics. A shiver ran down her spine as she listened to Annie Lennox’s velvety voice singing about how desire and obsession felt like being tempted into an open car and driven helplessly away. Adjusting the heat under a pan of gently frying pancetta, she listened more closely. According to Freddie – and she supposed he’d learnt it from Ivo as there was nothing about it in the police files – one of Heather’s friends had caught the strains of this music from a car that passed them on their way to the station.

  It was always possible that Heather’s friend had mentioned it to an officer who’d considered it irrelevant and not recorded it. Regardless of whether, at the time, it would have linked up to something else of significance, the lyrics unquestionably made a haunting background to Freddie’s weird speculations about how Heather had been snatched off the street.

  Freddie had assumed with absolute conviction that Reece Nixon was her killer – Grace supposed he was hardly likely to start casting doubt on his own scoop – but the very creepiness of the young man’s voyeurism only reinforced her instinct that the disturbed predator he described had not been the hard-working family man she’d met so briefly. Even the weekend newspapers, which had been full of stories about him, had been unable to dish up any real dirt on him.

  ‘Love is a stranger, in an open car . . .’

  Was it Reece or Larry who had played that music in his car? Reece had been about to marry Kirsty, who was already pregnant with Michael, a son who described his father as a kind, sweet man. Grace wasn’t especially familiar with the Eurythmics’ music – slightly before her time – but, as she pushed leeks, celery and shallots off the chopping board into the pan, she recalled having heard it recently. Where had that been?

  On Larry Nixon’s silky-smooth sound system.

  Her grip on the kitchen knife tightened involuntarily. She found herself staring at her own whitened knuckles around the handle of the sharp blade. However hard it would be to convince others, she was more and more certain that Larry Nixon, successful businessman and owner of a sleek, minimalist apartment, the hero of the Marineland fire, with photographs of his bandaged arms plastered across the weekend tabloids, was capable not only of multiple rape and murder, but also of burning his brother and sister-in-law to death and of standing by and waiting for the flames to engulf the house before he called the fire brigade.

  Or was she being ridiculous? It was only a pop song! For all she knew, Freddie Craig had hijacked it merely because the lyrics were so spookily apt. She would have to find a way to ask Ivo. And even if Heather’s friend had heard the music that night, dozens of cars must have driven past while they were walking to the station. Reece and Larry were of a similar age; they might both have continued to enjoy listening to a duo popular when they’d been teenagers.

  She had to get this right. She owed it to Heather’s family, to Michael and Anne Nixon and to Heather.

  Annie Lennox sang on, repeating the lines about wanting, about obsession . . .

  And then there were the shoes. Reece had been oblivious to the high heels she had worn, but she had caught Larry staring at them. Cara Chalkley had called the day before to say that she had found the shoe she’d kept all these years, the pair to the one she claimed had been taken by the man who raped her. Grace had immediately dispatched an officer to collect it, log it as evidence and deliver it to the forensics team. Cara’s attacker had worn gloves, but the lab might still retrieve some fingerprint or DNA evidence. And if he’d taken its pair, Grace was certain he’d have kept it. Wendy and her team had thoroughly searched Reece’s outbuildings and what was left of his house, but found nothing. Would they find Cara Chalkley’s matching shoe concealed somewhere in Larry’s apartment?

  Grace had checked in with the office earlier that morning. Calls had been coming in steadily since Friday’s media conference, nothing significant so far, but various snippets that all helped to paint a picture of people and events twenty-five years ago. She started to jot down notes, making mind-maps around any promising leads, considering ways to build on the information they were gathering.

  The doorbell rang. Grace welcomed Alison with a mixture of frustration and guilt. She wanted to be a good sister, but she also wanted to focus on the scattered jigsaw pieces of this case. Reminding herself that nothing could really fall into place until they had Larry Nixon’s DNA results, she went to check on the soup and was pleased to see that the addition of pearl barley had thickened it up nicely. Alison proved to be full of lively chat about her course and the other people on it, and they parted after lunch with a warm hug. Grace stood on the doorstep to wave her off and felt a pang of loss, along with a rush of pleasure that, for an hour or so at least, she seemed to have got the balance of life right.

  31

  Grace arrived at work on Monday morning to find the whole team welcoming Joan and Duncan back from their honeymoon. She added her greetings to the rest, delighted to see Duncan looking happier and more relaxed than she could ever remember seeing him. Joan, too, was glowing with health and contentment. Marriage was clearly going to suit them both. And Grace had a private reason to celebrate her detective constable’s return to duty: it meant she could send Carolyn Bromfield back to the DVU. To be fair, there was no reason to suppose that Carolyn wouldn’t develop into a useful member of the team, but her secondment was never intended to be permanent. And besides, if Carolyn and Blake were now pursuing a relationship outside work, then it was up to their boss to minimise its impact on their colleagues. Grace told herself it wasn’t personal, it was good practice.

  At her desk she worked through the list she’d made the day before, starting with a call to Wendy to make sure that work on Cara Chalkley’s shoe would be fast-tracked. She also asked the crime scene manager if it was possible for someone to have planted the file of newspaper cuttings in Reece Nixon’s attic. Disappointingly Wendy said that, while they hadn’t been able to lift any fingerprints, the file had been covered in undisturbed dust. It hadn’t been moved in years. She added, however, that the lab had promised to send Larry Nixon’s DNA results to her later that day.

  Grace then rang Dr Tripathi, who had left a message to say that he now had the toxicology reports on Reece and Kirsty Nixon.

  ‘There was nothing more than very low blood alcohol in Kirsty Nixon,’ he told her, ‘so the most likely assumption is that her death was due to suffocation, from being either smothered or possibly strangled. Reece Nixon did, however, have very high blood alcohol.’

  ‘Which is what we expected,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t in lethal range, but enough to have incapacitated his reactions and his ability to escape from the fire. No other toxins were found.’

  ‘So there’s nothing to contradict Larry Nixon’s story?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Samit.’ She hung up and stared out of her window. She felt like all she could see in this case were confusing shards of light darting in too many directions at once. Plausibility, a familiar strain of music, a glance at her high-heeled shoe, Larry’s body language at the media conference: it wasn’t anywhere near enough to accuse a man of murder. Damn Carolyn and those missing clothes!

  A thought struck her, and she called Samit’s number again. ‘Sorry to bother you, but can I ask what might be a stupid question?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Is it possible that Larry Nixon’s burns could have been deliberately infected to stop you examining them?’

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line as Samit considered his reply. ‘They were more badly infected than one might expect,’ he said finally. ‘But he must have realised that a serious infection can lead to blood poisoning.
You can die from septicaemia.’

  ‘If he’s guilty, then he’s facing life imprisonment,’ she argued. ‘At his age he could very well expect to die in jail.’

  ‘It’s still a pretty big risk for an uncertain outcome,’ he said. ‘And it must hurt like hell.’

  ‘OK, well, thanks anyway.’ Making sense of her suspicions felt like trying to distinguish a solid shape beneath a glittering reflective surface. ‘I warned you it was a stupid question.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Samit said as she was about to hang up, ‘once the infection has healed it won’t be possible to interpret the burns to any degree of legal accuracy. I have to admit it would be a very clever thing for an arsonist to do.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t entirely rule it out?’

  ‘I’d keep an open mind, but there’s no final answer.’

  ‘Thanks, Samit.’

  As she ended the call the internal phone on her desk rang. She picked it up. ‘DI Fisher.’

  It was the front desk. ‘There’s a woman here that one of your team might want to speak to, ma’am. In connection with other offences in Southend in 1992.’

  ‘Right, thank you. I’ll get someone down there.’

  She looked out into the main office, where everybody seemed to be already busy on the phone or diligently typing. Keen to take some kind of positive action, she decided to go downstairs herself and hear what the woman wanted to say.

  When Grace saw the figure sitting in the waiting area she was moved to pity. Painfully thin, in child-size black jeans with fashionable rips at the knees and a ratty fur gilet probably purchased in a charity shop, the woman looked as if, for far too long, she had been spending her money on drugs instead of food. From the half-inch of grey along the parting in her hair, Grace guessed she was only in her mid-forties, but she could easily have been mistaken for sixty. She stood up as Grace came towards her, hugging a flimsy blue-and-white-striped carrier bag to her chest.

  ‘I saw you on the TV,’ she said, her smile revealing a missing tooth.

  ‘That’s right.’ Grace gave an answering smile. ‘I’m Grace Fisher. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, you’re all right.’ She jittered from one foot to the other. ‘Got to be somewhere soon, you know?’

  ‘Then I won’t keep you,’ said Grace. ‘Come in here where we can talk.’

  She showed the woman into a soft interview room and offered her a chair. ‘May I have your name?’

  ‘Rather not, if you don’t mind. That’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Grace. ‘The important thing is that you’re here. Do you live locally? I hope you’ve not had to come far.’

  ‘Been in Colchester a few months. Probably move on again soon.’

  ‘Well, thank you for coming in. What is it you’d like to tell us?’

  ‘The guy next sitting to you on the telly,’ she said. ‘I’d heard him on the news before, like years ago. I recognised his voice.’

  ‘Larry Nixon?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I know his voice. Never forgot his voice.’

  Grace felt the skin on the nape of her neck tingle. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He raped me.’ She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. ‘In Cliff Gardens when I was eighteen.’

  ‘It must be hard for you to tell me that, so thank you. Do you mind me asking how old you are now?’

  ‘Forty-three.’

  ‘Did you report the assault to the police at the time?’

  The woman gave a rasping laugh. ‘Why would I bother? I had a caution for soliciting. They’d have said it was an occupational hazard. Though it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t a client. He just grabbed me out of nowhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t feel the police would have listened. We’ll try and do better for you this time.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t want it followed up. Don’t have the time for courts and what-not, you know?’ She put her hands on the table to push herself to her feet. ‘Just thought you should know. Up to you to nail the bastard.’

  ‘Wait, please, just a few more questions,’ said Grace. ‘You only recognised his voice, not his face. Why was that?’

  ‘He had like a mask. And a knife. But then, a few months later, he was on the local radio, to do with that big fire in Southend. And right away I knew that voice. I saw his picture and his name in the paper, but I only recognised the voice.’

  ‘You still didn’t feel able to report the assault?’

  ‘He was like the big hero already. I was a working girl.’ This time she did rise to her feet. ‘Look, I’ve really got to go now. Sorry.’

  ‘Wait, your shoes. Was he interested in your shoes? Did he take one?’

  ‘What? No. I don’t think so. Maybe. I don’t remember.’ She picked up her plastic bag, the cans in it clunking together, and edged towards the door.

  ‘Did you see any kind of car nearby, or going past before or afterwards?’

  ‘Nah, look, I need to go now.’

  ‘May I have some contact details in case we want to get back in touch?’ asked Grace.

  ‘No, not my scene. Sorry. Can you show me out?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Grace, going to open the door. ‘Thank you for telling me this. It’s invaluable information. If you reconsider, please come back, or call me. I can always come and meet you if that’s easier.’

  The woman took the card Grace handed her then, head down, made straight for the exit and disappeared outside. Grace thanked the civilian on the front desk and ran up the stairs back to the MIT office. An anonymous identification was not evidence that she could take to court, but it was proof enough to convince her that she was right. And it was yet another allegation of rape. No wonder Larry had limited Reece’s supposed confession to a single event and been careful not to open the door to a wider investigation.

  Blake got to his feet as soon as she walked in. ‘Boss? DNA results are back. Larry Nixon’s an exact match to the trace DNA on the knife.’

  ‘That’s good enough to arrest him,’ she said. ‘And to search any premises under his control. Let’s get on it.’

  32

  As Grace got out of the car in Southend at five minutes to seven the following morning, she felt slightly dizzy from the adrenalin rush of excitement and apprehension. The sun was up, but only just, and a brisk wind blew in off the sea across the road from Larry Nixon’s apartment block. She had spent the previous day planning the arrest and interview strategy and it struck her now that Larry lived right at the heart of the map she’d made of where the crimes she was about to accuse him of had been committed. Perhaps Freddie Craig’s speculations about Heather’s gloating killer getting a buzz out of his physical proximity to the locations of his assaults were not so far-fetched after all.

  She looked across at Blake as he locked the car. He nodded back, unable to suppress a grin. Duncan, who was leading the search team, pulled into the parking space beside them. A second search team would be arriving simultaneously at Larry’s business premises. There was no real need for Grace to be here at all except that she wanted to witness Larry’s reaction firsthand. She had little expectation of being able to charge him any time soon, but she wanted to use the shock value of a full-on arrest to add to the pressure of his having to answer questions under caution.

  The night porter was handing over to the daytime concierge as they all entered the lobby. Blake had a quick word and then they crammed into the lift together, pushing the button for the seventh floor.

  The first expression on Larry Nixon’s face as he opened his door in response to Blake’s pounding was one of anger. Grace watched closely as it changed swiftly to alarm and then to something more interesting: a mixture of hurt and resignation that she was sure was entirely fake.

  Blake did not respond to Larry’s exclamations and stood aside for Grace to step forward and make the arrest. ‘Larry Nixon, we’re here to tell you that the results of your DNA test co
nfirm that your DNA profile is an exact match to the DNA found on the knife used to kill Heather Bowyer in 1992. I am therefore arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Heather Bowyer. We will also be asking questions related to the deaths of Kirsty Nixon and Reece Nixon. I must caution you that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Larry shook his head in apparent bewilderment as she handed him a piece of paper. ‘We have a warrant to search this address. We have also been granted a warrant to search the offices of your business, Alpha Limos.’

  ‘What on earth are you hoping to find?’ he asked. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Sergeant Langley will accompany you while you get dressed,’ she said, ‘and then you’ll be taken to police headquarters in Colchester for questioning.’

  ‘You know what I’ve got to say!’

  ‘Sergeant Langley?’

  Blake placed a hand on Larry’s arm, urging him to do as Grace had said. Larry looked down at his black Calvin Klein sleep pants and top and, shaking his head one more time, consented to go with Blake. By the time he emerged from his bedroom, dressed in a dark business suit and a grey linen collarless shirt, Duncan and the two other members of the search team had pulled on blue protective gloves and started work on the storage units that lined the wall behind the dining table. Seeing Larry glance at what they were doing, Grace hoped he felt an appropriate level of invasion and interference.

  Coming out of the lift, Blake took hold of Larry’s arm while Grace walked on his other side, well aware that the concierge was scrutinising their exit. They drove in silence to Colchester, with Blake driving and Grace sitting beside Larry in the back. As the custody sergeant booked him in and he responded politely and laughed on cue when the sergeant made a small joke, she observed with satisfaction from the thin line of his mouth and his clenched fingers that his anger was beginning to build. She instructed the gaoler to offer him a hot drink and a microwaved breakfast and then leave him to kick his heels in a cell for half an hour.