‘Maybe we’ll understand more once we conclude our enquiries,’ said Grace. ‘Which reminds me’ – she tried to make the request sound as relaxed as possible – ‘we’ll need the clothes and shoes you were wearing on Monday night.’
‘Really? What for?’
‘This is a case of arson and murder,’ she said. ‘All material needs to be forensically examined. It’s routine. The hospital said they didn’t dispose of them, so if you have them here, that would be helpful.’
‘I’m afraid my dad took them. I’m sorry if that was the wrong thing to do.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll speak to him. We’d also like to fix an appointment for the Home Office pathologist to examine your burns. Again, it’s just for routine elimination purposes, nothing to worry about.’
‘If it’s really necessary.’ He came to sit down again. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
Grace smiled sympathetically. ‘And the last thing’ – she nodded to Blake, who had brought the necessary kit – ‘we’d still like your permission to take a DNA sample.’
‘I don’t understand. Are you saying you don’t think it was Reece after all?’
‘There’s other partial DNA from the original crime scene that we need to eliminate.’
‘Can you explain? I don’t know what I’m supposed to think here. Is my brother a murderer or not?’ Larry put a hand over his mouth as if close to tears. ‘If there’s a chance it wasn’t him, that he’s innocent, well, that would just be wonderful!’
‘I can confirm that we’re actively investigating your brother for arson and murder,’ said Grace. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for now.’
Larry remained silent, making her wonder whether he might refuse to give them a sample. Not that it would matter – they had the plastic cup he’d drunk from which she’d lifted from the hospital – but she’d be curious to know what reasons lay behind his reluctance.
He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You think you know people. It doesn’t seem possible that Reece would . . . We weren’t close, but . . .’
Grace realised that, unconsciously or not, his gaze was fixed on her feet. As she uncrossed her legs and stood up, she watched his attention snap back to the present.
He smiled wearily. ‘They do say you can’t choose your relatives, don’t they?’ he said. ‘Of course, you must take the swab.’
15
Owen Nixon lived in Leigh-on-Sea, a leafy, prosperous borough which was only a short detour from Grace and Blake’s route back to Colchester. They found him dressed in faded and stained blue overalls, bent under the raised bonnet of a saloon car parked on the stubby driveway of his semi-detached Edwardian house on Oakville Way. Behind the car was a solid brick-built garage, attached on one side to the house. The open doors, which badly needed a fresh coat of paint, revealed a jumble of tools, spare car parts and, Grace noticed, two petrol canisters lined up beside the doors. As they approached Owen straightened up and immediately winced with pain, a hand to his back.
‘He’s game,’ Blake said quietly to Grace. ‘He must be heading for eighty if he’s a day.’
‘Maybe he needs to keep busy after his son’s death,’ she said, noting that the car bore a taxi light on its roof and the side panels were painted with the blue-and-yellow logo of Owen’s firm.
‘Detective Inspector Fisher, to what do I owe this honour?’ Owen asked by way of greeting.
Surprised by his sarcastic tone, Grace wondered for a second if old age meant he’d forgotten the nature of their investigation. ‘We’re sorry to distress you further at a difficult time,’ she said, ‘but your son Larry told us that you took his clothes home from the hospital on Monday night. We’d like to take them for forensic examination as part of the investigation into the fire.’
Owen looked at her shrewdly, wiping his hands on an oily tea-towel. ‘You’re a bit late.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They’re gone. I burnt them.’
‘Burnt them?’ Grace heard herself blindly echoing his words.
‘They were ruined,’ he said. ‘All scorched and filthy, and you can never get the smell out. Why do you need them, anyway?’
‘For elimination purposes,’ she said. ‘We’re now certain that the fire at Reece’s house was arson. We have to investigate fully.’
‘Oh well,’ said Owen. ‘I was making a bonfire in the back garden and pitched them on, so that’s that.’
Grace’s attention was caught by something over his shoulder. Through the open driver’s-side door, she recognised a shape familiar to her from Deborah Shillingford’s kitchen. Dangling from the rear-view mirror was a winged, cardboard air freshener bearing the words: ‘I’m your guardian angel’. Owen’s eyes followed hers. ‘Nothing like the yellow glow of a taxi light on a cold wet night, is there?’
He was right, yet his words sent a shiver down her spine as she thought of Heather Bowyer; perhaps she’d climbed into the wrong car in Southend all those years ago.
‘Would you mind showing us where you burnt them?’ She asked as lightly as she could, but the inference was clear. ‘I’m sorry to have to be so thorough, but your son and daughter-in-law are dead, and I’m sure you realise why we have to do this by the book.’
‘Suit yourselves.’
Owen led the way down the narrow pathway between the side of his house and the next-door fence. As Grace followed she turned to Blake and was reassured by his answering look that Owen’s demeanour was raising his hackles, too. Yet, sure enough, the remains of a recent fire did mar the scrubby patch of ground that must once have been a small back lawn. Along one side of the garden the privet hedge had been recently cut and a few half-burnt twigs remained around the perimeter of the ash pile.
‘Happy now?’ Owen asked.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Nixon. At some point we may need you to sign a statement confirming what you’ve told us.’
Owen shrugged and led the way back to his driveway. Grace looked at the surrounding houses, which were well kept, with loft extensions and shiny new cars on the driveways, and wondered how the neighbours felt about the unkempt state of this property.
‘Anything else I can help you with?’ asked Owen.
‘Yes, actually,’ said Grace. ‘Do you have any photographs of Reece from around 1992?’
Owen leaned back against the car and smiled. ‘He was a good-looking boy, I can tell you that.’
‘You do understand that we’re investigating the murder of Heather Bowyer in 1992?’ she asked, still puzzled by his manner.
‘I’m not senile,’ he said. ‘It was Reece. Larry told me.’
‘I hope you’ll excuse me for saying it, Mr Nixon, but you don’t sound very surprised. I can understand you wanting to protect your son, but if there’s anything you think we ought to know, we’d like to hear it.’
‘Not really,’ said Owen. ‘He always thought he knew best. Was already in trouble as a teenager. But you’ll know all that.’
‘I believe he left Southend soon after the murder.’
Owen nodded. ‘I threw him out.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘He had no respect. Not like Larry. Larry’s done well for himself, but those other two, they’d never listen. They had to do it their own way, and now you can see how that’s turned out.’
Grace tried to square what he was saying with the raw sorrow shown by Reece’s children. But then, she reminded herself, Reece’s children had never suspected their father of harbouring such a terrible secret. ‘Might you have any photographs?’ she asked once more. ‘They would help us to tie up the investigation.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘I’d have to look.’ He folded his arms, not moving from where he leaned against the front wing of the car.
‘I’m sure you’d agree it would be best for everyone involved if we can resolve everything as swiftly as possible.’
‘I’ve lived here forty years,’ he said. ‘It’d take time to go searchin
g the whole house.’
Blake came forward, holding out a card, which Owen took. ‘If you do find the time, Mr Nixon, we’d really appreciate it.’
Owen nodded, looking at Blake appraisingly. He wiped an oil-stained hand against his thigh and held it out to him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Blake.
Owen didn’t offer his hand to Grace, who was thankful to remain at a distance. She said goodbye and walked with Blake to their car.
‘What was that about?’ she asked as they drove away. ‘Plain old-fashioned sexism, or what?’
‘No,’ said Blake. ‘I think he just gave me a grip.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To let me known he’s on the level.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘He’s a Freemason,’ said Blake. ‘I could be wrong, but I think he may be quite high up, too. I don’t know all the variations, but each degree of Masonry is supposed to have its own grip. He could even be the master of a lodge.’
‘Does that mean he was expecting a response from you?’ she asked. ‘Some kind of favour?’
‘No idea,’ he said, ‘I’m not a Mason. I’ve an uncle who is, and who’s always on at me to join. He’s taken me along to a few social evenings, so I’ve learnt some bits and pieces. But Owen Nixon would’ve known the second I gave him my hand that I’m not part of it.’
‘Shame,’ she said, ‘it might’ve persuaded him to be more cooperative.’
Blake laughed. ‘Not sure it works that way. Once you join, your loyalty is supposedly to the craft.’
They drove for a while in silence as she thought about why Owen’s odd manner had seemed so ominous. ‘Do you think it’s significant that he wanted you to know he’s a Mason?’
‘Can’t see why,’ said Blake. ‘I guess in a place like Southend the local lodge would carry some weight in terms of doing business, whose firm you employ to do a job, that kind of thing.’
‘What does your uncle get out of it?’
‘Good dinners, cheap booze, evenings away from my aunt.’
‘But then he wouldn’t tell you if there was more to it, would he?’
‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never bought into all those conspiracy theories about the police protecting criminals because they’re all on the square together.’
Grace frowned, far from sure what to make of Owen’s sly approach. ‘We still ought to track down a photo of Reece Nixon. At the very least there must be some wedding photographs.’
‘Depends on what survived the fire. I’ll check with Wendy.’
‘Anne or Michael might have copies,’ she said. ‘If not, then we’ll have to ask Kirsty’s side of the family.’
‘That’ll be fun,’ said Blake grimly.
16
Welcome back to Stories from the Fire. I’m Freddie Craig, and I’ve been talking about how, thanks to a simple quirk of fate, the date of my birth connects me to the night of the Marineland fire in Southend, and to the murder of nineteen-year-old Heather Bowyer and the unknown man who ended her life that same night. It’s a strange feeling.
I’m trying to find out everything I can about those events, so now I’m sitting in a coffee shop opposite an Art Deco palace originally built for the Daily Courier, one of the bastions of what used to be Fleet Street. I’m talking to Ivo Sweatman, the Courier’s chief crime correspondent.
Ivo: I can still remember the first time I got a nod of recognition from the uniformed commissionaire as I walked across that bronze and marble entrance lobby. I felt like I’d arrived. Now it’s the headquarters of some international accountancy firm.
Freddie: Ivo, twenty-five years ago you were the only reporter on a national newspaper to give Heather Bowyer’s murder more than a few column inches. Even then, your story only ran on the inside pages. Why was that?
Ivo: Her death was eclipsed by the Marineland fire. Editors had paid a local snapper a fair whack for his pictures of the hero of the day against a background of smouldering ruins, so no one wanted to run a spoiler.
Freddie: You’ve recently re-encountered the hero of the day.
Ivo: That’s right. Larry Nixon. I interviewed him after he attempted to save his brother and sister-in-law from a house fire. This time he did not succeed. Can you imagine?
Freddie: It’s certainly a pretty strange karmic twist. But I believe that even the original fire wasn’t such a big story nationally at the time?
Ivo: That’s true. As I say, everyone likes a good picture of an inferno, but no one died, and calamity always sells better than good news.
Freddie: Over a long career, you’ve covered the trials of several notorious killers. What was that like, watching murderers as they sat in the dock day after day and hearing every detail of their sadism and depravity? It must have affected you.
Ivo: Well, not really. You see, I was hanging out with all the other reporters, sometimes from across the world, so in fact there’s often a great atmosphere, a lot of black jokes and good-humoured competition. And there’s nothing finer than knowing your editor is holding the front page for your copy and that your name is going to be splashed in twenty-four-point bold type. If it bleeds, it leads. The punters love all that ‘face of evil’ stuff.
Freddie: Do you have a theory as to why the man who raped and murdered Heather Bowyer has never been caught?
Ivo: Forensics and computer records and so on weren’t as sophisticated back then, and the police simply didn’t have the wealth of investigative data they have nowadays. But most of all, I think the killer had the good sense never to reoffend. If he had, he’d have been caught by now.
Freddie: But something made you dig a bit deeper into Heather’s story. Did you ever feel that you were close to finding him? Or guessing who he was, or what he was like?
Ivo: I can’t claim that my motives were very noble. To be honest, I was little more than a cub reporter, it was my first assignment for the Courier and I simply wanted to spin it out as long as I could.
Freddie: I’ve read every word you wrote about the case. You tracked down the man who discovered Heather’s body. You spoke to her mother and the friends who’d been out with her that night. Got quotes from the detective in charge, DI Jason Jupp. It seems like you got to know him quite well. Do you think he slipped up?
Ivo: You have to remember it was a totally different era. JJ became a detective in the late 1960s. He’d have been taught by coppers who’d seen service in the Second World War. I think he probably did his best.
Freddie: But he can’t have liked everyone knowing there was a killer out there thumbing his nose at him, or having local people believe he must have missed some vital clue?
Ivo: There wasn’t much to miss. There was no forensic evidence that led anywhere. The friends Heather had been with said she just disappeared into thin air.
Freddie: That was when you spoke to them?
Ivo: Yes. They’d all been at school together, just a group of mates on a night out. No arguments, no undercurrents. They were heading off to catch the last train home and Heather’s shoes were hurting – the pathologist confirmed she had blisters on her feet – so she’d lagged behind. She was there one moment, gone the next.
Freddie: Did her friends go looking for her?
Ivo: By the time they realised they’d lost her they couldn’t remember when or where they’d last seen her. She’d been trying to persuade them to share a taxi because her feet were sore and they’d teased her about making such a fuss. So they decided she must have flagged down a cab and then, to get back at them, not offered them a ride. They were sure she’d be waiting for them at the station with a big grin on her face. But she wasn’t, and by then it was pandemonium because of the fire and they couldn’t get anyone to listen to a story about a silly girl who’d got herself lost and missed her train.
Freddie: So maybe, if it hadn’t been for the fire, Heather would have been found earlier. Perhaps in time to save her
life?
Ivo: That’s possible, yes.
Freddie: So it’s also fair to say that the fire really helped her assailant, too. The commotion allowed him to escape. Meant that no one paid him any attention.
Ivo: And if anyone did notice something suspicious, they soon forgot about it. After all, the Marineland fire was the biggest thing to happen in Southend for years.
Freddie: Without it, Heather’s killer might well have been caught. You could almost say that it pushed his life on to a completely different track, like Sliding Doors or parallel universes. Another quirk of fate.
Ivo: One thing I’ve learnt is that most crime, especially murder, is chaotic. Where you see destiny, I just see mayhem and confusion.
Freddie: The Courier’s chief crime correspondent puts on a good show of seen-it-all cynicism, but I reckon he cares much more than he lets on about the victims of crime. But even for Ivo, who spent days talking to people and was on the scene right after it happened, that murder is now just one of thousands he’s covered as a reporter. But I feel driven to get to the heart of what really happened and why. Even if I’m the only one who feels like that, I can’t let it go.
Which is why I thank you for listening to Stories from the Fire. If you have any information about that night, if you were there, or know someone who was, please don’t hesitate to get in touch. I’m Freddie Craig. Speak to me.
17
Back in the office, Ivo took out his earbuds and swivelled his chair away from the bank of filing cabinets at which he’d been staring while listening to himself answering Freddie’s questions. He’d now listened to all the podcasts in the series. They had a certain odd charm about them, although he suspected that, for all the kid’s efforts, he hadn’t attracted many listeners yet. With a start, Ivo realised that his section editor was hovering beside his desk and wondered rather uncomfortably how long he’d been there.
‘Listen with Mother?’ the editor enquired.
Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month Page 7
