Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month

by Isabelle Grey

  Freddie: And Essex Police know all this?

  Larry: Of course.

  Freddie: Yesterday they announced an important new lead in the case. Why didn’t they name your brother?

  Larry: I’ve no idea. Some kind of legal red tape, I suppose. But it’s one of my family who did this. We have to own this. I wish I had saved him. He should have faced up to what he did, but instead he took his own life. Not only that, his wife, my sister-in-law, Kirsty, also lost her life in the fire he started.

  Freddie: What can you tell me about Reece Nixon? What kind of man was your brother?

  Larry: Just normal, respectable. But then we hadn’t been close for some time. He kept himself to himself.

  Freddie: You said how things clicked into place once he confessed to having murdered Heather Bowyer.

  Larry: Well, I always thought he had secrets, things that troubled him. The way he cut himself off from us, from the rest of the family. I had no way of knowing the real reason at the time, but looking back I can see that he was clearly very disturbed about something. Now I realise it must have been right after he’d killed her.

  Freddie: So you think it ate away at him, what he’d done?

  Larry: You could hardly forget a thing like that, could you?

  Freddie: The police also mentioned further related enquiries. Do you know what they are?

  Larry: My fear is that it’s to do with how my sister-in-law died. I’m not going to speculate. It’s all dreadful enough without imagining anything worse.

  Freddie: Yet he managed to live an apparently normal life all these years.

  Larry: Apparently. I wish I’d had the guts to speak to him when we were younger, ask him outright what was wrong. Perhaps if I had, he and Kirsty would still be alive. I blame myself.

  Freddie: Larry Nixon’s grief and regret highlights how many victims there are in this case. And now the truth is out. You heard it here first on Stories from the Fire. We know the identity of Heather Bowyer’s killer – an apparently ordinary husband, father and brother, a real person, not a monster.

  But some mysteries remain. It was DNA evidence that led Reece Nixon to make his final confession, DNA that he shares with Larry. It still seems incredible to me how one of these young men could risk his life to save two strangers while, less than a mile away, the other was so brutally taking a life. What makes two brothers so different? Some alignment of the stars when they were born? Solving this case raises as many questions as it answers.

  I’ll continue to respond to events as they unfold. Anyone with information can get in touch with me. Make sure you come back soon for more Stories from the Fire.

  24

  Grace did not feel ready for the day ahead. She’d slept badly after an ill-digested dinner. During the evening she’d been too distracted to pay proper attention to her sister and there’d been no time in the morning to make amends – or for her usual morning run, which would have restored her spirits. She’d waved Alison off to the university where she’d be staying for the two nights of her course, promising to see her again on Sunday for a late lunch. During the short drive to work Grace regretted wasting their precious time together and lectured herself on what a further waste it would be to spend the next few hours dissecting every look that might pass between Blake and Carolyn.

  Before she’d noticed them sitting at the bar, she’d been ready to acknowledge that Alison was right – she ought to make room in her life for more than work – so it had been bitter to discover that she might have left her change of heart too late. Even worse was the fear that struck as sleep eluded her in the small hours of the night that, for Blake, their brief relationship had never been more than a fling.

  She knew she was over-thinking the situation – her sister’s visit had stirred up too many buried emotions – and that Blake and Carolyn had almost certainly been merely colleagues having a casual after-work drink. After all, Blake had invited her first, and she had declined. And if Carolyn’s expression had strongly suggested otherwise, then all Grace could hope was that, among all the other pillow-talk, Blake wouldn’t tell the young detective constable that he’d also slept with their boss. That suspicion was unfair – she had every reason to trust in Blake’s discretion – but nonetheless she walked into the MIT office feeling both foolish and cruelly exposed.

  Blake greeted her with an easy smile. ‘Hey, boss. We’re starting to get some traction on yesterday’s media statement,’ he said, waving some sheets of paper at her. ‘BBC Radio Essex ran with it, and Hilary says a couple of local papers have picked it up. We’re starting to get a few random calls already.’

  ‘Good,’ said Grace, relieved to have some immediate distraction. ‘Anything so far I should know about?’

  ‘One call that could be interesting,’ he said, following her to her cubicle. ‘A woman who says she was a police constable in Southend at the time of the murder. She left the job a year or so afterwards and isn’t offering any specific intelligence, but seems keen to speak to someone.’

  Grace pulled a face. ‘You’re sure she’s not someone who feels like she deserves to join in the action just because she was once in the job? I don’t want to waste time on rubber-neckers.’

  ‘Carolyn thought she sounded too sharp for that,’ said Blake. ‘Plus she offered to come here.’

  ‘Carolyn took the call?’

  ‘Yes.’ His expression didn’t change. ‘It might be worthwhile. We’ve not yet spoken to anyone in a position to shed light on the investigative thinking.’

  Grace remained doubtful. ‘But if she was only a PC—’

  ‘Still a WPC back then,’ noted Blake. ‘And that’s the point. Carolyn thinks a woman might have noticed different things and taken a separate view of how enquiries were handled.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I think she’s right.’ A slight frown gathered when she did not immediately respond. ‘Don’t you, boss?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Grace, admonishing herself. ‘Good thinking. Let me know when the woman arrives. If I’m free I’ll speak to her myself.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Where have we got to on tracking down the current whereabouts of the rape complainants?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve located one of them,’ he said. ‘Cara Chalkley. She’s still in Southend. And we’re awaiting confirmation on two others.’

  ‘Great. Get in touch with Ms Chalkley and set up a time to interview her. The sooner the better.’

  ‘I’m on it, boss.’

  She watched him go back to his desk, noting that he didn’t look over at Carolyn, who remained intent on her computer screen. Grace was relieved that if he had spotted her with Alison in the bar last night, he clearly wasn’t going to mention it. Best not to hear any explanations or, even worse, evasions. She concentrated on her own screen and fired off a couple of emails, first to Dr Tripathi to ask when they could expect the toxicology results on Reece and Kirsty Nixon, and then to Wendy to check they were up to date with everything from the fire investigators and to make sure that all possible pressure was being put on the lab to deliver Larry Nixon’s DNA result as soon as possible.

  She was tempted to make contact with Ivo so she could get his take on Larry Nixon, whom he had interviewed after both fires. She trusted his instincts about people, and had every justification to speak to him on an official basis. Before she could decide, she was side-tracked by an incoming email from Wendy, who had replied almost immediately. The crime scene manager’s only new information was that the fingerprints on the unopened smoke alarm battery left in the kitchen matched those found elsewhere in the house: it was almost certainly Kirsty Nixon who had purchased it. Grace tried to imagine Reece Nixon placing a pillow over his wife’s sleeping face. Had she threatened to call the police when he told her the truth? Or maybe it had been a suicide pact, and she’d stared up at him, willing him to do it. Was that why he’d sat downstairs afterwards, drinking and waiting for the flames of hell to swallow him up?

&nbs
p; But would either of them have done that to their children? And not even have left a note?

  Her train of thought was interrupted by the sight of Hilary entering the main office and making straight for Superintendent Pitman’s door. As Hilary knocked and was about to go in, she caught Grace’s eye and beckoned for her to join them.

  ‘Have you heard the new podcast?’ Hilary began with no preamble. ‘An interview with Larry Nixon. He’s named Reece Nixon as Heather’s killer.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Colin. ‘I said we should have run with the whole story ourselves when we had the chance.’

  ‘Who is this Freddie Craig anyway?’ Grace asked angrily, recalling the care she had taken not to reveal Reece’s name, not even to Monica Bowyer.

  ‘He’s got an MA in journalism,’ said Hilary. ‘Just trying to make a name for himself.’

  ‘Well he’s certainly done that,’ said Colin.

  ‘This scoop will send his listener numbers sky high,’ Hilary agreed.

  Sponsored, Grace thought angrily, by Ivo Sweatman. She was glad she’d been diverted before she was able to seek the chief crime correspondent’s help.

  ‘All we can do now is concentrate on damage limitation,’ Hilary continued. ‘We’ll have to put a face to this, hold a media conference.’

  ‘It’s Grace’s baby,’ said Colin. ‘She applied for the familial search and set the whole ball rolling.’

  ‘She should certainly be there, but I think this requires a more senior level,’ said Hilary. ‘Either you or you plus the deputy chief constable.’

  The superintendent didn’t hide his disgruntlement. ‘I don’t think we need to drag the DCC into this.’

  ‘Whatever you judge best,’ said Hilary. ‘The immediate question is, how much of Reece’s confession are we prepared to corroborate?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Grace surprised even herself. She paused to try and work out why that had been her instant gut reaction. She couldn’t really offer a good reason, and yet suddenly she was convinced she should have taken her earlier doubts far more seriously. ‘I don’t like that Larry Nixon has forced our hand,’ she said, knowing how weak it sounded.

  ‘No one’s arguing with you about that,’ said Colin. ‘But we need to seize back the initiative here.’

  ‘But why has Larry done this?’ Grace persisted. ‘He’s far from stupid. He didn’t have to, and he must know how disruptive it would be for our investigation.’

  ‘Maybe he likes the limelight,’ said Colin. ‘After being such a hero maybe he’s developed a taste for it.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘He’s not been straight with us from the start.’

  ‘About what?’ The superintendent leaned forward, observing her sharply.

  ‘Nothing major, but lots of little things that add up, like he managed to delay giving us a DNA sample, and made out he was much closer to Reece and his family than he is.’

  ‘Maybe that’s understandable in the circumstances,’ Hilary suggested gently.

  ‘He didn’t need to lie,’ said Grace. ‘It feels manipulative. Reece’s son said his father never trusted Larry. And, while we have no evidence, we can’t rule out the possibility that he set the fire at his brother’s house.’

  ‘Hasn’t Dr Tripathi examined his burns yet?’ asked her boss.

  ‘He wasn’t able to,’ she said, relieved that Colin was taking her seriously. ‘Larry had developed an infection. Samit said he was running a fever, so he didn’t want to uncover them unnecessarily.’

  ‘He obviously felt well enough to give an interview to the podcaster,’ Colin said drily. ‘Shame we don’t have his clothes from that night.’

  ‘That’s my fault, sir. I take full responsibility. I should have considered him more strongly as a suspect from the beginning.’ She thought uncomfortably of Michael telling her to look again at Larry. What if she had got all this horribly wrong? Had Larry – the chilling notion struck her with full force – murdered his brother and sister-in-law in order to fake Reece’s confession and save his own skin?

  If so, then Larry Nixon had just played her for an absolute fool.

  25

  Grace sighed when Blake informed her that Melanie Riggs, the former WPC from Southend, had insisted on driving over immediately to see her at Colchester Police HQ. She was desperate to seek his opinion on Larry Nixon, but hadn’t yet found an opportunity.

  ‘I hope she’s not going to be some drama queen,’ she said as they made their way downstairs to the soft interview room. ‘We’ve got enough to do.’

  ‘We’ll soon see,’ he said soothingly.

  She knew she was on edge, but right now Blake’s kindness wasn’t helping.

  Melanie Riggs was no diva. In her early fifties, she was slim and business-like in tailored trousers and a matching jacket. She wore good jewellery, although not much of it, minimal make-up and her hair had been expensively cut and coloured. She shook both their hands, explaining succinctly once they had all sat down that she’d left the police to train as a paralegal and then married the senior partner in the London law firm where she’d worked; that had enabled her to take a law degree and she was now a partner herself. ‘Part of the reason I left the police,’ she concluded, ‘was the handling of the Heather Bowyer case.’

  ‘Please go on,’ said Grace, intrigued by the woman’s determination.

  ‘The short report I heard on the radio mentioned further enquiries,’ said Melanie. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace.

  ‘Into other rapes that were reported over the previous year or two?’

  ‘Before I confirm that I’d like to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Melanie. ‘I understand.’ She fiddled with her diamond ring before speaking. ‘I dealt with two of the women who reported that they’d been raped. There were clear links between their cases and other assaults, but Detective Inspector Jupp refused to listen. On the other hand, he was only too happy to let a WPC knock herself out dealing with sexual crimes. He thought women were all a waste of time – both female officers and rape victims.’

  ‘Was he just a dinosaur?’ asked Grace. ‘Or was there another agenda?’

  ‘Both,’ Melanie answered promptly. ‘You needed wing mirrors to work with JJ.’

  ‘You think he was corrupt?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no proof that he was. He was too clever for that. But it was the supergrass era, remember? You put someone down in the cells to sweat for a bit and then, in return for intelligence, offered them a letter to the judge in the hope of getting a more lenient sentence. If they were useful enough, they got signed up as a registered informant and were paid out of a dedicated police budget. After that, they became untouchable and meanwhile senior detectives like DI Jupp could organise raids and arrests based on information received without ever having to leave the pub.’

  ‘I realise it was a system that left itself open to abuse,’ said Grace, wondering what this history had to do with her investigation. ‘But to be fair, intelligence-led policing was all the rage at the time.’

  ‘It was, until the opportunities for blackmail or conspiracy became clear,’ said Melanie. ‘Once I became a lawyer I saw how many major criminal cases simply crumbled in court. Officers’ testimony was tainted, criminals were settling old scores, money was flying around like confetti.’

  ‘So what happened in Southend?’ Grace asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  Melanie pulled a face. ‘Let’s say that JJ liked to play both sides against the middle.’

  ‘But how does this affect the Heather Bowyer case?’

  ‘OK, so a big part of JJ not pursuing a proper investigation into the various rape allegations was pure misogyny. He simply couldn’t be bothered. If young women wanted a night out in Southend then that’s what they’d get, with bells and whistles on it. And if I wanted to take these women seriously, he was happy to let me get on with it, although I wasn’t to expect any manly help. Then, suddenly, that
all changed.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to a local taxi firm,’ said Melanie. ‘I thought it was pretty routine. One of the women I dealt with mentioned seeing a taxi driving past soon after she’d been attacked. When I looked up the other statements, she wasn’t the only one. Another woman had said the same thing, and they both described the same blue-and-yellow taxi logo. I thought it was worth asking the drivers if they’d seen anything, like the perpetrator leaving the scene, or whether maybe one of them had even picked him up. But it turned out that the owner of the taxi company, Owen Nixon, was a registered police informant, and I wasn’t to go anywhere near him or his drivers, even though I was looking at them as potential witnesses.’

  Grace looked at Blake, whose shock equalled hers. ‘There was no mention of a taxi, let alone a specific logo, in your official notes,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Melanie said drily.

  ‘You never suspected that one of Owen Nixon’s drivers might be responsible for the assaults?’

  ‘Not until another woman was attacked by a cab driver in almost identical circumstances. She either couldn’t identify the company logo or, if she did, it wasn’t recorded.’ Melanie clapped her hands on her thighs as if marking a conclusion to their discussion. ‘Anyway, I’ve told you, for what it’s worth. You don’t have to believe me, but I thought you should know.’

  ‘Do you think there was a deliberate cover-up?’ Grace asked.

  Melanie shrugged her shoulders and played with her ring again. ‘When DI Jupp warned me off, he said it was because he was protecting an informant.’

  ‘DNA evidence links the Nixon family to items found at the scene of Heather Bowyer’s murder,’ Grace told her quietly. ‘Whether or not DI Jupp actually knew the further damage he was doing, he shielded a killer.’

  Melanie’s cheeks paled beneath her make-up. ‘I should have pushed harder. I should have done more. To think there might’ve been a chance to stop him before—’