‘Or Reece.’ Colin’s tone sounded a warning note.
‘Or Reece,’ Grace conceded.
‘We’re still tracking down the original rape complainants,’ said Blake. ‘Now we have photographs of two potential suspects to show them, we might get a positive identification.’
‘And now?’ said Colin. ‘Do you want to carry on with a second interview, or do we release Larry Nixon on police bail?’
‘I say we let him go pending further enquiries,’ said Grace. ‘Let him think we were just covering our backs and that we still buy into his story that it was Reece.’
‘He’ll have to surrender his passport if he gets bail,’ said Blake, ‘so at least he won’t be able to scarper off to some palm-fringed resort with no extradition treaty while we make further enquiries.’
‘I’m not sure he would anyway,’ she said. ‘Fleeing the country would be tantamount to an admission of guilt, and I’m not sure Larry Nixon will allow himself to admit to what he’s done. Besides, we’ll keep eyes on him.’
‘Bail him to return in a week,’ said Colin. ‘I can’t allow this to drag on too long. We only have limited manpower and resources.’
His reminder was superfluous, and Grace suspected that the superintendent’s true concern – which, God knows, she shared – was that they might have come so tantalisingly close to solving the case – now in full view of the media – only to face the possibility of leaving empty-handed. She guessed that Colin was also considering the impact on his career. She didn’t entirely blame him, but then he wasn’t the one who would eventually have to break it to Monica Bowyer that they had come this far, only to fail.
Her boss’s self-interest shone an uncomfortable light on her own desire to send Carolyn back to DVU. ‘Sir,’ she said, before she could have second thoughts. ‘I’d like to keep DC Bromfield on the Major Investigation Team for a little longer. I realise that resources are tight, but she’s proved her value to the investigation.’
Carolyn went pink with pleasure, holding her breath for Colin’s reply.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Two more weeks and then we can review it.’ He swung his chair to face his computer screen. They were dismissed.
‘Thank you, boss!’ Carolyn said as soon as they’d left the superintendent’s office.
‘So long as you’re not afraid of hard work,’ Grace said awkwardly.
‘Of course not! Thank you.’
Behind her, Blake also gave Grace a warm smile. His gratitude was almost more than she could bear.
35
Hello and welcome back to Stories from the Fire. I’m Freddie Craig, and I’ve been thinking a lot about sex. I should also warn you that this episode discusses subjects that may be offensive to some listeners, so please use your discretion.
Have you noticed how, once your attention is snagged by something you’ve never given much thought to before, you then can’t escape it? You realise it surrounds you constantly, that your world is saturated by it. So I’ve been thinking about sex, specifically about buying it, and suddenly it’s there for the asking. Everywhere. A massage parlour in the high street; a girl on the street corner; even a card in a newsagent’s window.
An online search for personal, adult or escort services will offer pretty much whatever you want and at a wide range of prices. It becomes clear to me that in residential streets all over England, mixed in beside the local primary school, GPs’ surgery, supermarket and municipal park, there are ordinary-looking pebble-dashed terraced houses that are brothels. For many men they’re clearly just another normal local amenity, conveniently situated between the pub and the kebab shop.
You might have to enter by a back gate so as not to annoy the neighbours. A maid lets you in and it’s up the stairs and into one of the tatty little bedrooms. A bed, a sink and a couple of mirrors. Drawn curtains and some rosy lighting disguise a reality that wouldn’t look very arousing in daylight. The woman whose services you’re paying for – so much for hand relief, more for full sex – will be of almost any nationality. Some are young, trafficked from Eastern Europe; others are middle-aged and choose to fly in from EU countries to work for a couple of weeks a month. Many of the women, of course, grew up in a nearby street, went to that local primary school and were offered their first taste of drugs hanging around the swings in the park.
I make my excuses and leave.
Besides, I think that kind of set-up was too safe and domestic for Heather Bowyer’s killer. I think Reece Nixon would have preferred an element of the hunt. In Southend that meant exploring east of the pier, the area around Southchurch Park. Ambleside Drive is a haunt of street prostitutes and, until the car park was fenced off and better lighting installed, the park was where the girls did business. Was that where he liked to go, either watching or taking part? Or was paying for sex too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel?
Nowadays of course you can submerge yourself in online porn, but not back in 1992. Then the world-wide web was only getting started – not that it took long for people to see its potential for sexual encounters. Now more than ten per cent of all content on the internet is pornographic – billions of dollars’ worth – and the menu is encyclopedic, all tastes catered for. It’s normal to watch porn online, right? But that’s not our guy, either. Heather’s killer wanted the knife at her throat, the smell of her fear and the thrill of jeopardy – that he might be caught in the act.
So I go stalking.
I start on the corner of Royal Parade, by the hotel where Lady Hamilton once threw a ball for Lord Nelson. I have a good view from here, up the pedestrianised shopping street towards the train station and down towards the gaudy lights of Adventure Island and the pier. I need a woman on her own, or one like Heather, who looks as if I could easily separate her from the group she’s with. Within minutes, I realise that I am looking at the young women who walk past with new eyes, judging them by criteria I have never considered before. I’m looking for a woman who will be the perfect victim.
I’m Freddie Craig, and you’ve been listening to Stories from the Fire.
36
With its pleasing horizontal lines, flat roof and nautical blue-and-white facade, Southend’s police station was a perfect example of optimistic early 1960s architecture. As Grace and Blake approached the front entrance, she smiled and drew his attention to the nice retro touch of a blue police lamp mounted on one side of the zigzag portico.
Blake had called ahead and agreed a time to speak to Inspector Dave Clements, the officer in charge of community policing, yet twenty-five minutes later they were still kicking their heels in the recently refurbished reception area. Under the eye of the civilian at the front desk they didn’t want to show any irritation, but the intention was clear: to put the visitors from the Major Investigation Team in their place. The tacit hostility left Grace reluctant to discuss the case if it meant disclosing details she didn’t want overheard, so, as the hands of the wall clock ticked past the half-hour, she sat beside Blake in silence, giving her plenty of time in which to regret the loss of their old easy intimacy.
She was well aware that the unaccustomed stiffness between them originated with her, but, over the course of the hour-long drive to Southend, her self-consciousness had communicated itself to him and they had completed the journey in silence.
She was relieved when Dave Clements finally arrived to greet them. He was full of affable apology, although he gave no reason for their long wait. He led them up to his small first-floor office, where they declined his offer of tea or coffee.
Determined not to react to the delay, Grace did her best to appear oblivious. ‘I hope we’re not here on a wild-goose chase,’ she began, ‘but as you know, we’ve reopened a cold case here on your patch, although it was long before your time.’
‘The Heather Bowyer murder,’ said the inspector.
‘Yes. We have new DNA evidence, but it’s inconclusive.’
‘But you’re looking at Reece Nixon?’
‘And
his brother Larry. DNA links both of them to the crime.’
‘You’re not suggesting they acted together?’
‘No, not at all,’ she said, ‘but, if possible, we’d like to eliminate Larry by closing the time gap between Heather’s murder and the Marineland fire.’
Clements laughed. ‘You’re optimistic!’
‘We’ve got some old TV film coverage of the aftermath of the fire,’ said Grace. ‘We’re asking the local BBC news to run it alongside an appeal. I’m hoping people will remember where they were, what they saw.’
Clements gave her an appraising look. ‘So where do we come in?’
‘Local knowledge,’ she said. ‘Any officers still around who were serving back then? Do they know of people who had businesses open on a Saturday night – pubs, places to eat, amusement arcades – anyone who was regularly out and about? The Nixon brothers were both taxi drivers, so it would be helpful to speak to any other cab drivers working in 1992.’
Clements frowned. ‘You’re still looking at Reece as your primary suspect, right?’
As Grace met his eyes she recalled Melanie Riggs’s revelation that Owen Nixon had once been a registered police informant. ‘Would it be a problem if Larry Nixon was in the frame?’
‘Of course not,’ Clements said promptly. ‘Although I’d be pretty surprised. He’s always very supportive of my officers. His limo company offers generous police federation discounts, and I’ve attended several weddings where he’s provided not only the cars, but excellent service.’
‘Does he offer that because his father was a registered police informant?’ she asked.
‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said Clements.
Grace didn’t believe him. ‘So you don’t know if Owen Nixon is still an informant?’
‘We don’t have much call for that kind of intelligence-led work any more,’ he said. ‘Anything bigger than antisocial behaviour and persistent offenders, we hand over to your lot.’
Grace saw Blake trying to catch her eye. When she did, he looked down at his hands, where he was making the ghost of a handshake. She gave him a tiny nod of assent.
‘We went to talk to Owen Nixon last week,’ Blake said. ‘He’s a Freemason, isn’t he?’
‘No idea,’ said Clements, barely hiding his irritation. ‘I don’t mix in those circles. But look, it’s thanks to Larry Nixon that I didn’t have to go to the funerals of two of my school friends when I was fifteen. I was with Kevin Barnes and Phil Langstone that night, the two lads who broke into the old Marineland complex.’
‘You were there?’
‘Yes. Only I didn’t have the bottle to go roaming around that huge empty place with them in the dark.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Grace, comprehending better now where his opposition might be coming from.
‘I hung around for a while, waiting for them to come out, and then set off home. I ran back there as soon as I saw the fire engines.’
‘Which way was home?’
‘My parents lived in Westcliff.’
Grace looked at Blake, disappointed: Cliff Gardens was in the opposite direction. ‘You didn’t happen to see which direction Larry had come from?’ she asked.
‘I only saw him when he brought them both out.’
‘Did you notice a Nixon taxi pass you as you were walking away?’
‘I’m not sure I would have registered it if I had.’
‘But you don’t remember seeing one?’
‘No.’ Clements must have sensed the importance of the question, for he clearly disliked being pressed to offer information that might somehow incriminate Larry Nixon.
‘Can you remember what time Kevin and Phil entered the building?’ Blake asked. ‘Or how long they were inside before the fire took hold?’
‘I can’t give you a timeline,’ said Clements, ‘but I hung around for maybe ten or fifteen minutes. And then I must’ve walked for about another ten minutes before all the commotion started.’
‘Are you still in touch with either of them?’ asked Grace.
‘Phil’s still around, but Kevin and his family moved away a long time ago. I don’t know what Phil can tell you other than that Larry saved his life.’
‘He may have noticed something that would never have seemed significant,’ said Grace, ‘something that would now be useful.’
‘About Larry?’ Clements asked sharply.
‘Yes, about Larry.’
The inspector studied his fingernails. ‘You’re here because you want local knowledge,’ he said at last, ‘so let me give you some. Three stops on the train from here the line ends. After Shoeburyness you can choose between sea or marsh. There’s nowhere else to go. So we look out for one another. You can take that however you like, but I was there that night, and believe me, Larry Nixon was a hero.’
‘And if he turns out also to be a multiple rapist and a murderer?’ Grace asked.
‘You show me the evidence and I’ll cuff him for you,’ he said. ‘Southend might be a dead end, but it isn’t the Wild West.’
‘What about when DI Jupp was in charge?’ she asked. ‘From what I’ve heard he liked to think he was the law in this town.’
‘So what? He’s dead,’ said the inspector.
‘Whoever killed Heather Bowyer was a serial rapist,’ she said. ‘Something DI Jupp appeared to overlook. Do you have a view on that?’
‘I can’t help you,’ said Clements. ‘I was a schoolboy when Jupp was running things.’
‘So what is DI Jupp’s posthumous reputation around here? Could he have been corrupt, or was he just incompetent?’
The hostility in the inspector’s eyes was clear, but Grace no longer cared. Clements looked pointedly at his watch. ‘If you don’t mind, DI Fisher, I don’t have time for ancient history. Tell me what help you want and we’ll get right on it.’
Exasperated at his stonewalling, Grace let Blake answer. ‘We’d like to talk to local sex workers,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for a client who has very specific requirements.’
‘We’re not exactly their favourite people right now,’ said Clements. ‘We’ve just completed an initiative, cautioning kerb-crawlers and handing out community protection notices to the girls. A lot of them need money for drugs, which means they breach the notices the same day they’re issued and then they land up in court. Doesn’t make them happy.’
‘We’d still like to talk to them,’ said Blake.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Grace got to her feet. ‘We can pursue this inquiry independently if we have to. But if we end up treading on toes or upsetting local sensibilities, don’t say we didn’t approach you first.’
‘We’re overstretched as it is,’ said Clements, also standing up. ‘If you lot over in Colchester can afford the luxury of reopening ancient cases that everyone else has forgotten, then knock yourselves out.’
Grace had had enough. ‘Inspector Clements, you seem to think that we’ve come swanning into your nick merely because we like throwing our weight about, but I can give you a whole list of people who have most certainly not forgotten these crimes, and they’re the reason I’m here. I get why you’d be pissed off with how the force has been restructured, and how you might feel pushed aside, but if I find at any point that you or your officers have been deliberately obstructive, believe me, I will bury you.’
Clements blanked her. ‘A pleasure meeting you too, DI Fisher. Let me walk you out.’
Back under the zigzag portico Grace clenched her fists, too angry to speak. Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘So that went well, boss.’
His smile made her laugh. ‘I just blew up the bridge there, didn’t I?’
He grinned. ‘Sky-high.’
37
Far more leaves littered the car park than remained on the surrounding trees, and rain dripped from the denuded branches onto the roof of the car. At eight forty-five it had only been fully light for an hour. Anne and Michael Nixon had secured the first slot of the day for t
heir parents’ burial service, a wise move in Grace’s opinion, given the thankfully small group of press photographers already huddled together where they could keep watch on the entrance. She was pretty sure she’d spotted Ivo among them. It would be very useful to have a private chat with him, but, with Blake beside her in the driver’s seat, she’d have to wait until she could peel Ivo away by himself.
Determined to protect Blake from any possible fallout from her previous dealings with Ivo, she’d kept her unconventional friendship with the reporter secret. But Blake had sensed that she was keeping something from him, and it had been her refusal to explain that had led him to end their budding relationship. At the time, he’d felt keenly that she didn’t trust him enough to tell the truth, but that hadn’t been the reason. She’d needed Ivo’s help to solve a case, yet if it had come out that she’d shared information with a journalist, she’d have been subject to disciplinary action, if not outright dismissal. And, if she’d told Blake and expected him to keep quiet, she’d have made him complicit. She had simply been too afraid of dragging him into trouble. But it was no good regretting all that now.
She looked out of the car window at the modern red-brick crematorium chapel. She hated this kind of duty, but right now even the smallest insight they could gain into the Nixon family could only be helpful. She was pleased for Anne and Michael’s sake that the coroner had acted without delay, opening and then adjourning the inquest so the bodies could be released. She only wished that she could offer them the certainty they craved about what had happened to their parents.
There weren’t many cars in the car park, and most of the people she and Blake had seen making their way to the sheltered entrance where the hearses would draw up had been in their twenties, no doubt friends of the children rather than the parents. It was a miserable situation, no doubt about it.
A large black Mercedes with dark-glazed privacy windows slid into a space nearer to the crematorium. The driver and front passenger doors opened, and Larry and Owen Nixon climbed out. Owen wore a black overcoat and an old-fashioned Homburg hat; Larry a tailor-made black suit with a white shirt and black tie. Keeping their heads down, they made their way side by side into the chapel.
Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month Page 16
