‘Along the most direct route from Westcliff to the Marineland complex?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were in one of the six cars belonging to your father’s taxi company?’
‘Yes, I’d been working all evening.’
‘You were driving when you heard shouting and saw smoke pouring from the building?’
‘Yes. I was dawdling along, taking a breather, otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘I am showing Mr Nixon a contemporary map of the area around the old Marineland complex,’ said Grace. ‘Please can you show me as precisely as possible where you parked your vehicle.’
Larry pointed to where he had indeed left the taxi.
‘I am marking the position here in red,’ she said. ‘Please can you confirm for the tape that this is where you indicated that you left your car?’
‘Yes, that’s it. I remember driving on a few yards so that it would be away from the fire and not be a further hazard.’
‘Thank you. I am entering this map into evidence as exhibit LN eight.’ Grace passed the map to Blake, who slid it into an evidence bag which he then sealed and signed.
‘So you were driving away from Westcliff when you passed the Marineland complex, saw the smoke and drove on a few yards, leaving the vehicle just to the east of the building?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I am now showing Mr Nixon exhibit LN two, a copy of a black-and-white photograph printed in the afternoon edition of the Southend Echo on the fourth of October 1992, the day after the fire. Behind the fire engines, can you make out the taxi that is parked pretty much on the spot you just marked on the map?’
Grace let the silence extend as Larry stared at the photograph in which a taxi with the Nixon company logo was parked facing the camera. ‘It’s certainly one of my father’s fleet of cars,’ he said.
‘Is it the car you were driving that night?’
‘I don’t know exactly when this photograph was taken, but it’s obviously once the fire was already being brought under control. One of the other drivers may have stopped there to watch what was happening.’
‘That’s perfectly possible,’ she agreed. ‘But if so, then where in this photograph is the taxi you had been driving?’
‘Maybe someone moved it,’ Larry said. ‘I was taken to hospital to be checked out. I don’t know what happened to the car.’
‘But you agree that the taxi belonging to your father’s firm in this photograph where you said you parked is facing west?’ Grace asked. ‘Not east, as it would be if your account of your movements prior to the fire is correct.’
Larry said nothing.
‘Mr Nixon?’
‘Maybe I swung round before I parked. You can’t expect me to remember.’
‘You turned the car before parking, even though you’ve already said publicly that you had seen one of the trapped boys banging desperately on a window?’
‘People do all sorts of things in extreme situations, don’t they?’
‘We’ve spoken to someone who was walking along the road towards Westcliff precisely when you would have had to pass him. He has no memory of seeing a taxi.’
‘People never notice taxis until they need one,’ said Larry. ‘They just become part of the landscape.’
‘We have a second witness who was behind you as you approached and entered the Marineland building,’ said Grace. ‘He says you were on foot and that your taxi was already parked in this spot exactly where it is on this photograph. Would you care to comment on that?’
Larry leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘Your witness is mistaken.’ He must have realised how defensive his posture appeared, for he casually uncrossed his arms and made an effort to relax his facial muscles. ‘Back then I drove around Southend all day, every day. It all fades into a blur.’
‘So you’re saying you might have approached from the east?’
‘In the car, yes, I suppose it’s possible.’
‘So what brought the fire to your attention if you hadn’t yet reached the building?’
‘You see? That’s why I know I was coming from the west,’ he said, smiling at the apparent hopelessness of her exactitude. ‘Twenty-five years is a long time!’
‘The witness who was walking behind you saw you come out of Cliff Gardens and then go to open the driver’s door of a taxi parked in this position. Did you open the door and put something into the car?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t go into Cliff Gardens, in order to relieve yourself, perhaps, and then pick something up that you placed in your car?’
‘No.’
‘Can you account for why a witness would say that you did?’
‘No, I can’t,’ said Larry, ‘because it didn’t happen, or not with me, anyway. Maybe there was another of my dad’s drivers there,’ said Larry. ‘Like my brother Reece, for instance.’
‘The witness who observed the man coming out of Cliff Gardens also saw smoke coming from Marineland. He watched the same man go through the gap in the security fence and enter the building. The man he saw rescued the two boys. He saw you, Mr Nixon.’
‘This is your opportunity to clear up any discrepancies or misunderstandings about the evidence we’re putting to you,’ said Blake. ‘I should remind you that you’re still under caution.’
‘OK, so maybe I didn’t remember accurately what happened before the fire. As I say, night after night of driving around the same town all blurs into one. Maybe I did pop into one of the parks for a call of nature.’
‘Right around the time when, according to you, your brother Reece was raping and murdering Heather Bowyer in the same park?’ Grace was openly sarcastic. ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘A tragic coincidence, yes,’ said Larry, his eyes blazing.
Grace couldn’t decide whether his uncharacteristic revelation of emotion was merely pretend anger at his brother’s deeds or a genuine response to the net finally closing around him. Either way, she was pleased. They were getting to him.
‘Let’s move on,’ she said, as Blake, on cue, handed her more photographs. ‘You told us in your first interview what you were wearing on the night of the fire. In fact, you described precisely what you can be seen wearing in photographs taken at the scene after you had rescued Kevin Barnes and Phil Langstone. For the tape, I am showing Mr Nixon exhibits LN five, LN six and LN seven.’
She allowed time for Larry to glance at the photographs, which she assumed must be familiar to him, and to ask himself where her questions were leading.
‘You told us that your jacket was in your car, that the car was warm enough not to wear it, is that correct?’
Larry looked at her suspiciously. ‘Yes.’
‘We’ve spoken to Phil Langstone, who has a clear memory of you wearing a leather jacket, but taking it off and discarding it before lifting Kevin Barnes onto your back. Could that be correct?’
‘I suppose so. In the circumstances, whether or not I’d been wearing my jacket was hardly at the front of my mind.’
‘So you might have taken it off and left it in the fire?’
‘If that’s what Phil remembers, then yes.’
‘Did you do that because the jacket was bloodstained?’
‘What? No!’
‘Because you realised that, if you got out safely and were hailed as a hero, someone might notice Heather’s blood?’
‘No.’
‘Here in this photograph, which unfortunately is black and white, there are noticeable stains on your T-shirt.’
‘From the fire.’
‘Heather Bowyer was stabbed twice, both wounds piercing her aorta. A single wound might not leave significant marks on her attacker, but, in removing the knife before plunging it back in, small droplets from the blade will be spattered within a short radius. We’ve had these photographs analysed by a forensic expert and the pattern of blood spatter on your T-shirt is consistent with such an attack. These specific
marks are not consistent with the smudges and smears one might expect from a fire situation.’
Larry made an exclamation of contempt and pushed the photographs back across the desk. ‘You’re clutching at straws.’
‘I’m happy to leave that for the CPS to decide,’ she said, gathering up the photographs and handing them back to Blake. ‘We will be seeking advice on whether or not we can charge you today.’
‘Reece killed that girl, not me.’
‘Is that why you also murdered your brother and his wife, to provide you with that alibi?’
‘No,’ said Larry. ‘You’re wrong. I would never have harmed my brother.’
‘We’re awaiting the results of forensic tests on the cap of the petrol canister found discarded in your brother’s house after the fire,’ she said, watching his reaction carefully. ‘There’s a very good chance that we’ll be able to retrieve fingerprints from it.’
He shifted uncomfortably. It was the first time he’d betrayed any real unease. ‘I didn’t kill that girl,’ he said. ‘Reece did. You have his DNA at the scene, a car that could have been the taxi he was driving that night parked near Cliff Gardens, and you have proof that he phoned me shortly before committing suicide, a call in which he made a full confession.’
This was no bluff. And Larry didn’t even yet know about the press cuttings found in his brother’s attic. When this came to trial – if it got that far – Larry’s arguments would be enough to raise reasonable doubt. The very thought of a jury acquitting him made Grace feel almost sick with anger. Reece could no longer speak for himself, but she could. It was time to fight back, and try to use Larry’s own self-assurance against him.
‘Are you aware that your father has introduced the possibility that your mother may have given birth to another male sibling who might also fit the DNA profile?’
‘No,’ said Larry, ‘that’s news to me.’
She suspected his answer was rehearsed, but it didn’t matter. ‘We have, of course, investigated fully, but have so far found no record of such a birth,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what light you could shed on your mother’s life.’
‘I was only about twelve when she died.’
‘You weren’t aware of any other pregnancy?’
‘No, but then I wouldn’t, if it was before I was born or not yet old enough to understand.’
‘But you remember her death?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry if it brings back painful memories,’ she said, ‘but can you tell us about the circumstances of her death?’
‘What do you mean?’
She could read absolutely nothing from his expression. ‘Did you visit her in hospital?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you go to her funeral?’
‘Dad said we weren’t to go. We were just kids.’
‘But you’ve visited her grave? You know where she’s buried?’
‘What’s this got to do with whether or not she had another son?’
‘I’m just trying to paint a picture of her life, of her life with your father, of how she might have managed to have a child without recording its birth. Was your home life such that you could imagine that happening?’
‘Dad took care of us. He helped me set up my business.’
‘If your mother had had another child, do you think she’d have found it easy to give him up for adoption?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Well, what was she like?’
Larry gave a sneering smile. ‘I hadn’t realised the police offered free psychotherapy sessions.’
‘Then let’s go back to my earlier question: do you know where your mother is buried?’
‘No, of course I don’t!’ Larry pushed back his chair and was about to stand up. He was trembling but, as it dawned on him how strange his reply must have sounded, he forced a smile and sat back down. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a shock. I just haven’t thought about these things for a long time. You see, my dad did his best to protect us. It might not be the way things are done nowadays, but he told us to forget all about her. Not her, I mean, it, the cancer, the way she died.’
Grace wondered what his brief self-exposure signified. Somehow it didn’t ring true as being the distress of a twelve-year-old boy whose mother had suddenly vanished from his life. The swift mastery of his feelings had been driven by some bigger imperative. She kept up the pressure. ‘You’ve never visited her grave, not even as an adult?’
‘I wouldn’t want to upset my dad by asking about it.’
Although Grace could hardly imagine Owen Nixon being affected by such tender emotions, it was curious that Larry, a successful man in his late forties, would admit to feeling unable to ask questions his father might find unwelcome.
Unless – the idea struck her – he was protecting his father from something more serious than the dent to his pride from having a runaway wife. Feeling a sudden chill, she looked at Blake. His answering gaze suggested he was having similar thoughts.
‘Have you ever considered the possibility that your mother might still be alive?’ she asked.
Larry laughed in exasperation. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because the local hospital has no record of treating her and there’s no death certificate.’
He didn’t argue, merely looked at her appraisingly as if they were adversaries in a game of poker. ‘If you say so.’
‘Might she have left your father? Or had reason to want to disappear?’
‘I was twelve,’ he said coolly. ‘How would I know?’
How indeed? Maybe she should feel compassion for a boy who might have suspected or even witnessed some alarming occurrence related to his mother’s disappearance, yet all Grace could think as she met Larry’s eyes across the table was that whatever had gone on in his childhood had created an exceptionally controlled and dangerous man.
52
Colin Pitman, who had been observing the interview on the video feed, waylaid Grace and Blake as soon as they returned to the MIT office. ‘It’s time this cat-and-mouse game had an end in sight,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk without indicating for either of them to take a seat. ‘Have we nothing more we can throw at him? Because otherwise we’re going to have to let him go. Again.’
‘We’re waiting on the forensics on the cap from the petrol canister retrieved from the fire at Reece Nixon’s house,’ said Grace. ‘But it’s a slow process, and the results will be another day or so yet.’
The superintendent shook his head. ‘Well, at this rate, we might as well send him home until we get them.’
‘We’ve still got the witness statements about the missing shoes to put to him.’
‘Words alone aren’t going to budge him. We just saw that.’ Colin flexed a shoulder, wincing in pain. Grace thought perhaps this small injury was what was making him testier than usual. He caught her eye. ‘Overdid it with the weight training yesterday evening.’
Imagining how her boss’s vanity would lead him to compete with much younger men at the gym, she had scant sympathy. ‘We do have more than words, sir,’ she said. ‘We have Cara Chalkley’s shoe. You didn’t see how he reacted to the high-heeled shoe that DC Bromfield wore in the previous interview.’
She looked to Blake to explain the argument he had earlier put to her.
‘We think the sight of the mirror image of a shoe he’s likely to have treasured must carry some impact,’ he said. ‘It should be familiar to him. He might not even immediately realise it’s not the one he took. The shock value might have a useful effect.’
‘So why haven’t you shown it to him already?’
Grace stifled a sigh. Colin had already signed off on their interview strategy the day before. ‘We haven’t yet said anything to him about the rape victims’ shoes. Once we do that, we run the risk that he will destroy the only physical evidence that might still exist.’
‘So, keep eyes on him,’ said Colin, making no attempt to hide his irritabil
ity. ‘Put a tracker on his car. Blow the budget! If the man’s guilty, I want him charged.’
‘And if his father decides to have another bonfire in his back garden?’ asked Blake. ‘Other than using a drone, we’ve no way of seeing what Owen gets up to.’
‘Owen Nixon has already destroyed Larry’s fire-damaged clothes for him,’ Grace reminded her boss.
‘So arrest the father for conspiracy!’
‘We can’t do that until we’re in a position to charge Larry with arson,’ she said patiently.
‘Then you’d better find those shoes!’
There was no point arguing when Colin was in this kind of mood, and besides, she refused to make excuses for herself or her team.
Colin read her silence as a surrender. ‘Let him kick his heels for a bit and then show him our shoe.’ He swung his chair around to face his computer screen. It was a discourteous dismissal.
Blake followed Grace to her cubicle. ‘Maybe he’ll calm down once he’s taken a couple of paracetamol,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘He is so going to hate getting old. But he’s right. We’ve searched everywhere we can think of and come up blank. We’ll never get a conviction unless we can find those shoes.’
‘He’ll have hidden them well.’
‘Colin’s right,’ she admitted. ‘You’re right. We should use what we’ve got.’
‘I think it could work,’ said Blake. ‘You could see Larry didn’t like being confronted with the reality of the photographs, not after decades of being in total control of the narrative. One more visceral reminder of his crimes might just pierce his armour.’
‘Maybe.’ Her feeling of hopelessness was nudged aside by the nagging and incongruous image of her boss lifting weights. As she pushed aside the painful image of the sports bag that Blake had stashed out of sight – evidence perhaps of an affair with a junior colleague that, at some point, as their senior officer, she might have to address – another fleeting image dropped into her mind. It was of a red-faced man in a grey tracksuit coming out of a lift. Where had she seen that? For what reason had she recalled it now?
‘Hang on,’ she called, as Blake prepared to go. ‘What’s the name of Larry’s apartment building?’
Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month Page 23
