Wrong Way Home

by Isabelle Grey

  It was odd how you got to know people in AA. Most of them understood that part of being drunk was about fear, about being frightened of facing up to who they were and what they’d done and living with the shame of it all. He’d grown up with people who found themselves unable to speak. His father hadn’t been able to tell his ten-year-old son that his mother had died. His parents had not even been able to tell him she was ill. It was cowardice of a kind, he supposed, but nothing like his. Whatever DI Fisher said about inaction not being an offence, his silence had been a crime.

  Freddie had been looking for a role model. And even if the kid had been kissing the Blarney Stone to get the most out of him, Ivo had allowed himself to lap it up. He’d known the kid was desperate yet, instead of throwing him a lifeline – just landing him a couple of subbing shifts on the Courier would have been enough – he’d handed him a grenade with the pin pulled out. And then run away.

  It should be he who was dead. That’s what he wanted to say now to the friendly bloke – a lawyer, he thought – but couldn’t. Instead he made his excuses and left. Trying not to inhale the belch of warm air from the pub on the corner, he went back to his desk.

  He was damned if he’d let Freddie’s death be forgotten. The kid’s attempt to make his mark shouldn’t have been for nothing. He needed a good piece for the paper the following day. He doubted his editor would go for a rehash of the April Irwin case and, despite the flurry of headlines about Larry Nixon, now that he had been charged the juicier parts of the story were all sub judice, so Ivo couldn’t even link the two together. He needed more.

  He’d covered hundreds and hundreds of murders over the years without ever seriously giving the victims or their families a second thought. All that had counted was whether their deaths made good copy. A body, preferably female, young and ‘innocent’, simply meant more column inches and the satisfaction of elbowing his colleagues off the front page.

  Yet it wasn’t merely that he’d known Freddie and listened to his young hopes and woes. He wished it were. But he held himself directly responsible for Freddie’s death. He might as well have stuck the knife in himself. For years he’d managed to live perfectly comfortably with the guilt of sending Damon Smith to jail, and then, once a day of reckoning loomed on the horizon, he’d simply offloaded the whole sorry business onto an unsuspecting kid. Worst of all, he’d congratulated himself on doing the kid a favour.

  He had to put things right. He couldn’t leave others to clear up his mess, not even someone as capable as DI Fisher. He had no clear plan, but then he’d often found that hardly mattered. Some of his best stories had emerged from a little creative mayhem. And he wanted a story good enough for his editor to make space in Saturday’s paper. He owed Freddie that much.

  Ivo picked up the phone and ordered a taxi.

  63

  As soon as Grace and Blake got back to the office, she called Carolyn into her cubicle.

  ‘I’ve an apology to make,’ she began. ‘I cut you off when you wanted to raise the issue of young women going missing off the streets in Southend. I should have listened. Is there anything else you can tell me now?’

  Carolyn did a good job of stifling any reaction to her boss’s U-turn and sat forward eagerly. ‘I’ve got a list of sixteen names given to me by the sex workers.’

  ‘Sixteen?’ echoed Grace, recoiling from the idea that there could be so many.

  ‘Some are from quite some time ago. And these were women who disappeared from the scene without telling any of the others they were leaving,’ said Carolyn. ‘Some might just have packed it in and gone home or been moved by their pimp to another area. I checked, and seven of them were reported missing by their families, but then that’s common for runaways who end up in the sex industry. For most of them there are no indications that anything bad has actually occurred.’

  ‘But not all?’

  ‘No. Two of the sex workers I spoke to have long memories. Over the years they can name eight girls who spent varying amounts of time living in Owen Nixon’s house.’

  ‘Eight whom they say also went missing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carolyn. ‘Although only one of them was among those reported officially.’

  ‘I’ve already asked Inspector Clements at Southend to review their missing persons files,’ said Grace. ‘I’d like you to liaise directly with him.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, boss.’

  ‘He told me that the working girls are scared of Owen Nixon. Too scared ever to make complaints.’

  ‘They were pretty cagey with me about him, too.’

  Blake tapped on the partition wall. ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He grinned. ‘Results from Wendy on the DNA comparison between April Irwin’s foetus and the profiles from both Larry and Reece Nixon.’

  ‘Is there a match?’

  ‘Not an exact one,’ he said, ‘but Wendy says there are enough similarities for there to be a strong likelihood that Owen Nixon could be confirmed as the father.’

  Looking at Carolyn, Grace could see that she, too, was unable to share Blake’s elation.

  ‘He killed his own unborn child?’ Carolyn’s revulsion was clear.

  Grace nodded. ‘The blows directed at April’s belly were particularly brutal. Maybe he never wanted the child, or was punishing April for running away. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. But this man is a real danger to women.’

  ‘And if he did kill April,’ said Blake, ‘then the threat of exposure in the latest podcast also gave him a motive to kill Freddie Craig.’

  ‘Especially if he has other crimes to keep hidden,’ Carolyn suggested.

  Grace felt a lead weight descend on her. If her worst suspicions were correct and this was shaping up to be the biggest case of her career, then she was dreading it. ‘I’d better set up a meeting with Superintendent Pitman.’

  ‘Want me to take Duncan and go and pick up Owen Nixon?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Better wait until I’ve spoken to Colin,’ she said. ‘I feel like we could be sitting on top of an unexploded bomb here. If it goes off, then we’re going to need extra resources, manpower and the back-up of a solid media strategy.’

  Grace was grateful that the communications director suggested she and Colin use her office upstairs for their end-of-day meeting. Away from the busy MIT office, it was relatively neutral territory, and was also far more comfortable. As Hilary invited them to sit on the executive sofas facing each other across the low table where coffee and biscuits had been set out, Colin immediately reached for one and took a large bite. He’d been very upbeat since Larry Nixon had been charged, which was hardly surprising given that the arrest had won him commendations on behalf of the Major Investigation Team from the chief constable and others. As Grace brought him swiftly up to date, she hoped that he’d have the insight to see the full possible repercussions of the latest developments.

  ‘Good work,’ he said, reaching for his coffee. ‘So where exactly are we up to on the Craig murder?’

  ‘Still working our way through the CCTV footage,’ she said. ‘Freddie disappeared from view between two camera points near the train station. We know he went into the water very soon after death. There’s no sign of the body having been dragged, and no post-mortem lividity to suggest he was killed elsewhere and then transported. But we still don’t know at what point along the esplanade he went in. We’re examining the routes of all the Nixon company taxis that night.’

  ‘But at this point Owen Nixon is your prime suspect?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d like to make the arrest tonight, if only to rule him out.’

  ‘Whatever you think best.’

  ‘There will be issues arising that I thought you might want to consider first,’ said Grace.

  ‘Damon Smith’s wrongful conviction,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘and the undoubted police corruption that led to it. If Owen Nixon did kill April Irwin, then all DI Jupp’s past misdeeds are inevitably going to go
public.’

  ‘Smith’s dead, though, isn’t he?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Yes, but his conviction will have to be overturned. He may have family who will seek compensation. There may be sensitivities around the fact that he came from the traveller community. DI Jupp’s corruption will have to be fully investigated.’

  ‘Well, at least Jupp’s dead, too, isn’t he?’ said Colin. ‘You’re right to raise it, Grace, but I honestly can’t see this becoming much of a problem for us. Do you, Hilary?’

  ‘I suspect Grace has more to add,’ Hilary said shrewdly.

  ‘I do, unfortunately,’ she said. ‘Owen Nixon’s wife Terri disappeared thirty-five years ago, last seen at the marital home. We’ve found no proof of life and I think we should be treating it as a no-body murder.’

  ‘Unless we find one, of course,’ said Colin.

  Grace was glad that he had opened the door for her request. ‘Owen Nixon has lived in the same house since his wife disappeared. With your permission, I’d like to use ground-penetrating radar to search the property for her remains.’

  ‘After thirty-five years?’ said Hilary.

  ‘A body may not be intact. It may have been dismembered and scattered, burned or disposed of in water. But it may also have been buried somewhere in the house or garden.’

  ‘That’s going to attract attention,’ said Colin.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Particularly as we’re also hearing stories from several sources that Owen was in the habit of picking up young women and offering to put them up in return for looking after the house, but in fact for sex. It’s possible that’s how he first encountered April Irwin. We’re checking into how many of them were subsequently reported missing, officially or otherwise.’

  ‘How many of them?’ exclaimed Colin.

  ‘Inspector Clements at Southend is collating information, but we have word-of-mouth reports of as many as eight women who were not heard from after going to stay at Owen Nixon’s house.’

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘are we looking at some kind of Cromwell Street scenario here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Grace. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘How prepared should we be?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘If I listen to my gut instinct, then I think we should expect the worst,’ said Grace as Hilary sat back, clearly shaken. ‘However, although it may simply be that records weren’t updated, there’s also a downside to that. Clements admits there’s been a historical reluctance to look very deeply into inactive cases that might shine too bright a light on past police corruption at the station.’

  Colin turned to Hilary. ‘We can manage any fallout from that, can’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hilary, ‘although perhaps a vigorously proactive approach might serve us better.’ She gave a sideways glance at Grace beside her on the sofa. ‘Morally speaking, as well as strategically.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Colin frowned as he thought through the implications. ‘Take credit upfront for putting things right, cleaning out the stables, even if it turns out that we’ve cried wolf?’

  Grace had to admire Hilary for her ability to keep a straight face. ‘It’s certainly a line we could take.’

  ‘It depends how big you think this could go,’ said Colin, looking at Grace. ‘What kind of revelations can we expect?’

  ‘I’ve no clear idea at this stage, sir. And, as I say, I might be completely wrong about any crimes other than the ones we’re already investigating.’

  ‘Even so, we are talking about arresting the father of a serial rapist and murderer,’ Hilary pointed out. ‘It’s going to be a story.’

  ‘The media will have a field day,’ said Colin, unconsciously rubbing his hands together at the expectation of fronting such a major inquiry.

  Grace was accustomed to her boss’s tunnel vision – he regarded even the worst offences solely in relation to his career and the reputation of the Essex force – but she found his reaction profoundly depressing. Was she being excessively naive to imagine he ought to care that it had been police failures that had enabled a man like Owen Nixon to continue doing exactly as he pleased? Admittedly no one who knew him had seen anything, or had turned a blind eye, and his children were too fearful or loyal or collusive to stop him, but it was the job of the police to protect the public when all else failed.

  ‘Perhaps we should delay his arrest until after the weekend,’ said Colin.

  ‘He’s a dangerous man,’ she protested. ‘I’d prefer to have him in custody as soon as possible.’

  ‘It’s a small delay,’ he said. ‘And it will give you extra time to get the rest of your ducks in a row. I’d also like to speak to the chief constable and – no disrespect to you, Hilary – take some soundings on how she wants to play this.’

  Grace wanted to scream. Did her boss really expect her to time an arrest for the convenience of his media strategy? She reminded herself that he had not yet encountered Owen Nixon, hadn’t witnessed the sly pleasure he’d taken in upsetting not only his daughter, but also Anne and Michael Nixon.

  The memory of Reece and Kirsty’s funerals reinforced her growing conviction that, whether they acknowledged it or not, Owen’s children had always known that their mother hadn’t died of cancer. Trying to ignore Colin’s excited anticipation, she focused instead on Deborah Shillingford. If they were able to confirm that Deborah’s mother had been murdered by her father then Deborah would need as much, if not more, support as Monica Bowyer and her son. Grace turned to Hilary. ‘Perhaps Colin is right,’ she said, ‘and we do need to prepare for what we might find.’

  64

  It wasn’t that Ivo required a taxi to pick him up from the station in Southend, but he knew that the father of a man accused of serial rape and murder would never agree to talk to a muck-raking tabloid journalist just because he asked nicely. Ivo’s hope was that, if he chatted indiscreetly enough to his driver, word would get back to the driver’s boss, Owen Nixon, about just how indiscreet he could be. There were very few people left who could ever have known what really lay behind the cover-up that led to Damon Smith’s false imprisonment, but Ivo had to assume that Owen Nixon was one of them. And he hoped that that unwelcome affiliation would make Owen curious enough to rise to his bait.

  Accordingly, Ivo made sure to drop three times into his conversation with the driver the name of the pub where he would be found at lunchtime the following day. He also took the precaution of giving a fake destination and made sure the taxi had driven away before he picked up his overnight bag and set off to walk to the modest hotel where he had booked a room for the night. He didn’t fancy being ambushed with a knife in his back like poor young Freddie.

  It would be Bonfire Night on Sunday, although it appeared that Southend had started its celebrations early. As Ivo walked he heard and saw several rockets tear up into the cloudy sky and burst above the rooftops into showers of coloured light. Once he was startled by some firecrackers going off nearby, followed by a gang of delighted young kids laughing and running off around the corner. Along one side of Prittlewell Square a couple of hoodies had dumped a rudimentary Guy on the pavement. One of them chiselled half-heartedly for donations by rattling a tin with a few coins in it. Their effigy was adorned with one of the grinning black-and-white plastic masks with a moustache and goatee adopted by protesters on anti-capitalist marches. Ivo dropped a fifty-pence piece in the tin, although he suspected from the youths’ dull-looking faces that it was more likely to be spent on weed than fireworks.

  He doubted either of them knew much about their emblem of four-hundred-year-old sectarian hatred and violence. Not that it mattered. Ivo had always felt that Guy Fawkes Night had survived for so long because it gratified a far more ancient desire; to chase away any evil spirits that were emboldened by the long winter darkness.

  The site of the old Marineland complex was not far away. That spectacular bonfire on the night of Freddie’s birth had been linked to hidden forces that had violently ended his life. Was that fate, as Freddie wo
uld doubtless have spun it, or just bad luck – the same as all Larry Nixon’s victims, merely a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  A rocket whooshed up from inside the square where four adults marshalled a small party of youngsters. A series of falling silver cloudbursts reflected off the water of the ornamental pond and illuminated the upturned faces of the children. Ivo was jolted by a sudden memory of his pint-size daughter, stuffed into a red coat, mittens and welly boots, holding his hand tightly as she watched open-mouthed as her mother lit a spinning Catherine wheel – an even more gruesome symbol of martyrdom. The only other memory of that night Ivo was able to summon up was of how badly he’d wanted to go indoors for a drink.

  Relieved to encounter a distraction, he saw ahead of him the floodlit awnings of his boutique hotel – two terraced houses knocked into one, with a couple of silver metal tables for smokers crammed into the narrow paved area between the bay windows and the front railings. He would be glad to find sanctuary inside. The celebration of ancient torture, violence and death, with bonfires and strange lights in the sky, were not good auguries for what he hoped to achieve here in Southend.

  He wished that he could spend the evening talking to Grace Fisher, not only because he felt that he was operating in the dark in relation to her investigation, but also because he wanted – he was about to say absolution, but it wasn’t that, it was simply the more primal comfort of her company, of feeling less alone on a dark night when evil spirits walked abroad.

  He wasn’t being fanciful. Freddie Craig’s killer was out there, very probably sitting down to an ordinary supper in an ordinary house. Evil wasn’t supernatural. It was all too real. All it took to release it into the world was for someone to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.