Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month

by Isabelle Grey

  Deborah’s hand trembled as she shook out a cigarette and lit it. She sat down again at the table, her head bowed. To Grace the sight of the widening line of grey along the centre parting of her dyed hair was heartbreaking.

  ‘What went on at the house, Deborah?’ she asked gently. ‘When we mentioned housework, what did you mean by “if that’s what you want to call it”?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Grace cast around for something that would crack open the familial code of silence. Her eye fell on the rosy cheeks of a curly-haired cherub. ‘Did you know that the working girls in Southend call your father the “Guardian Angel”?’

  ‘No!’ She looked disgusted. ‘No, he can’t still be—’

  ‘Still be what?’ Grace was becoming exasperated. ‘If young women are at risk, then you need to tell us.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve already caused enough trouble.’

  ‘Was April Irwin ever at Owen Nixon’s house?’

  ‘You have to ask him!’ cried Deborah. ‘Ask him about the girls. It’s not fair to ask me. I can’t tell you any more. I can’t!’

  ‘Please, tell us what you know. Tell us what happened to your mother.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing happened. Dad did everything for us. We’d be starving in the streets if it weren’t for him. We didn’t need to know. We just had to get on with our lives. Nothing happened to Mum. Nothing.’

  60

  Owen Nixon appeared utterly unconcerned when Grace questioned him the following day at Southend Police Station about the whereabouts of his missing wife. ‘I know as much as you do,’ he said, after they had explained the lack of any evidence that she had died. ‘My theory is that she ran off to be with the kid she gave up.’ They were in an interview room and he had accepted Grace’s offer of a cup of coffee. He smiled at her over its cardboard rim, a malicious glint in his eye. ‘You found him yet, by the way?’

  ‘No, and we don’t expect to,’ Blake said firmly.

  ‘I’m still prepared to testify that Larry has a brother somewhere,’ said Owen.

  ‘Then you’d better be ready to produce his birth certificate,’ said Blake.

  Sensing that Owen was deliberately overriding their agenda to put himself in control, Grace intervened to get the interview back on track. ‘If that was your theory,’ she said, ‘then why did you tell your children that Terri had died of cancer?’

  Owen shrugged. ‘Pride, I guess. No man likes to admit his wife has left him.’

  ‘You didn’t think it was cruel to let them believe their mother was dead?’

  ‘Either way, she wasn’t coming back,’ he said, ‘so what difference did it make? She obviously didn’t care much for them or she wouldn’t have gone. I could’ve told them that, I suppose.’

  ‘Is that why you went through the charade of going to a non-existent funeral?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘We’d like you to take us through the events leading up to your wife’s disappearance, and your subsequent actions.’

  ‘I came home, she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had you argued recently?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘And yet you assumed that her sudden absence was because she’d left you?’

  ‘What other explanation would there be?’

  ‘That she’d met with an accident, perhaps?’

  ‘If that was the case,’ he said, ‘someone would have told me.’

  ‘Or that something worse had happened to her?’

  ‘Never occurred to me.’

  ‘Do you remember the date she left?’ Grace asked. ‘Or what day of the week it was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did she take with her? Any clothes, money, documents?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Why did you never report her as missing?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘If she decided to fuck off like that, I wouldn’t want her back anyhow.’

  ‘You weren’t worried about her in any way? Didn’t become concerned about her safety?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You still don’t seem very curious about her fate.’

  ‘You’re talking about a woman I haven’t seen or heard from in thirty-five years. To tell the truth, I barely remember her.’

  Grace decided to move on. ‘So you were left with two teenage boys at home to take care of. How did you manage that?’

  ‘Hired in help when I needed it.’

  ‘In return for board and lodgings?’

  He gave her a sly, appraising look. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Have you stayed in touch with any of the people who stayed in the house?’

  ‘Yeah, we all send each other Christmas cards,’ Owen said sarcastically.

  ‘Can you remember any of their names?’

  ‘I don’t know. Elizabeth Taylor. Doris Day.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Of course. Their job was to mind the house, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Young women?’

  ‘You don’t have to pay them so much.’

  ‘How many different helpers did you have over the years?’

  He gave her a broad smile that was almost gleeful. ‘I lost count.’

  Owen’s look of gratification sent a shudder of distaste through her. ‘Do you remember a girl called April Irwin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was murdered in Southend soon after the Marineland fire.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  Grace watched as he drained the last of his coffee and pushed away the paper cup. She longed to snatch it, to bag up the precious evidence of his fingerprints and DNA, but dragged her gaze away from it. ‘You don’t recall April’s murder being reported at the time?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never met her?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Never gave her a lift in your taxi or offered her a bed for the night?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Where were you on Wednesday night?’

  ‘After I got the news that Larry wasn’t coming home thanks to your trumped-up charges, you mean?’ he asked nastily. ‘At home, drowning my sorrows.’

  ‘Can anybody vouch for that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you make or receive any phone calls?’

  ‘No.’ The sly look was back, as if he was aware of having outwitted them. ‘Why? Do I need an alibi for something? Or are you just going to fit me up like you did Larry?’

  ‘You may need an alibi, yes,’ said Grace. ‘We’re investigating the death of a young man named Freddie Craig near Southend seafront on Wednesday night. We’re awaiting further evidence, but we may wish to speak to you again on this matter.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Owen got to his feet, rising unsteadily and putting a hand to his stiff back. He had been upright and robust when he’d walked in, and Grace judged that he was now making a show of being a frail old man who couldn’t hurt a fly.

  ‘I’ll be going now,’ he said, ‘unless you’re arresting me?’

  ‘You’re free to go, Mr Nixon,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit tired of you making life difficult for my family.’ He moved towards the door, but then swung back round and scooped up his empty paper cup. He shook the dregs out onto the carpet tiles, crushed it in his fist and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. ‘Don’t want to leave any mess behind, do I?’

  He winked at Grace, the sheer malevolence in his look shocking her into silence.

  61

  The alacrity with which Dave Clements managed to waylay Grace and Blake as they were leaving Southend Police Station made her suspect he had been watching out for them.

  ‘I’d like a word, if you can spare the time, DI Fisher,’ he said.

  Blake had been in the middle of checking his messages so
she nodded to him. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Leaving Blake, she followed Clements to his office, where he closed the door behind her. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said. ‘I should have made it to you the other day, but, well, male pride, I suppose.’

  She smiled. ‘I wasn’t that quick off the mark to suspect that Larry Nixon was our serial rapist either.’

  ‘Not about that,’ he said. ‘About DI Jupp. No one likes to air their dirty linen in public, but the truth is that everyone here knows he was as filthy as they get. I’m told it took years to undo the damage he caused.’

  ‘Unfortunately I don’t think we’re finished yet,’ she said. ‘We have good reason to think the Freddie Craig murder may be a direct result of his legacy.’

  ‘Because of Jupp’s involvement with Owen Nixon?’

  ‘So far, it’s all conjecture,’ she said. ‘Or at least until we see what some DNA results can tell us. Owen’s connection certainly makes a compelling story, but then we all know how dangerously a good story can blind you to the truth.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Tell me everything you know about DI Jupp,’ she said.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘He’d retired by the time I joined the force and must have died soon after. But, as a junior officer, you knew simply by the way people clammed up the instant his name was mentioned that there’d been serious issues. It was only after most of his generation had departed that people began to admit just how bent he’d been.’

  ‘Can you give me details?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘All I know for sure is that his name had been put on the blacklist.’

  Grace frowned. ‘The blacklist?’

  ‘Names of officers whose integrity is seriously doubted and who shouldn’t be regarded at trial as witnesses of truth. I guess that’s why he retired when he did. I heard he slipped on builders’ rubble in the station yard, won an injury award and was able to retire early on a full pension.’ Clements gave a wry smile. ‘Except of course that there didn’t happen to be any building work going on at the station.’

  ‘You knew that Owen Nixon was one of his registered informants?’

  ‘Yes, but no more than that.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to a woman who was a constable around the time of the Heather Bowyer murder,’ said Grace. ‘DI Jupp warned her off following up on reports that linked Nixon company taxis to the preceding rapes. She resigned soon after.’

  Clements rubbed his hand over his face. ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘We think Freddie Craig’s murder may be connected to a case where DI Jupp deliberately secured an unsafe conviction.’

  ‘April Irwin?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been listening to the podcasts.’

  ‘Damon Smith had been alibied,’ she said. ‘DI Jupp knew that from the very beginning, but chose to bury it.’

  ‘So that’s why you wanted to speak to Owen Nixon today?’

  ‘Yes. When I told you that the working girls around Southchurch Park called Owen the “Guardian Angel” you said they must’ve been pulling my leg. What did you mean?’

  ‘They say he’s a dirty old man. He preys on young girls.’

  ‘Girls like April Irwin?’

  ‘I would imagine.’ Clements sighed. ‘He gets them in his cab and takes them home for sex. Don’t think he pays for it, either. The girls gossip and moan but none will come in and make a formal complaint.’

  ‘What are they afraid of?’ she asked. ‘Is he violent?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard, but he’s an intimidating bloke and I imagine he could make life difficult for them if he wanted to. Tell his drivers not to pick them up or to harass their clients, that sort of thing. We’ve certainly never had grounds to arrest him.’

  ‘Nor have we,’ said Grace, ‘but we’re beginning to form a pretty sinister picture. His wife disappeared without trace thirty-five years ago. We think he could have been responsible for April’s murder and, believing that Freddie was about to take possession of evidence that would tie him to that, has now killed him, too.’ A chill ran down her spine as she recalled her careless dismissal of Carolyn’s concern about the high tally of girls who had gone missing in Southend. ‘Do you think you could review your missing persons files for us?’

  ‘Of course. What sort of time frame?’

  ‘Let’s start from when Terri Nixon went missing.’

  He looked at her in disbelief. ‘Thirty-five years?’

  A sense of dread started to pound in her chest. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look,’ he protested, ‘I’ve admitted that DI Jupp was corrupt, and probably several of his cronies, too, but from all I’ve heard he was greedy and lazy, but never this!’

  ‘If he was lazy, then perhaps he never bothered to look too closely,’ she said. ‘Easier not to know. Or—’

  ‘Or this is all speculation run wild, and Freddie Craig was the victim of a mugging gone wrong.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said quietly. ‘Believe me, I’d like nothing better.’

  She watched him struggle with conflicting emotions as he attempted to make sense of the ideas that even she had only just that moment grasped. Surely she must be wrong?

  ‘I’ll collate those missing persons records for you,’ he said. ‘Get them to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘As soon as we’ve retrieved the DNA profile of April Irwin’s unborn child from the original case file we can compare it to the DNA profiles we have from Reece and Larry Nixon. If Owen was the father, there should be enough similarities for us to arrest him.’

  ‘Good. Anything else I can do, just ask.’

  Clements escorted her to the front entrance where, with a sombre handshake, he took his leave. Grace found Blake waiting for her under the zigzag portico.

  ‘You OK, boss?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘What? Yes thanks, I’m fine.’ Still processing her conjectures about Southend’s missing girls, she wasn’t yet ready to share the full extent of them with anyone else.

  He left her to her own thoughts until they were in the car. ‘Carolyn passed on a message from Wendy,’ he told her, ‘about the fingerprint lifted from the cap of the petrol canister from the fire at Reece’s house. There’s no match to Steve or any other of the people who worked for Reece who would have had reason to handle it. We’re at a dead end on that.’

  ‘Right.’ She was only half listening.

  ‘Doesn’t take Larry Nixon out of the frame, though. Not if he wore gloves.’

  ‘No. Look, do you mind if we park up somewhere, grab a bit of fresh air before we head back to Colchester?’

  ‘Sure.’ He had a good sense of direction and weaved the car through residential streets until they reached a wide road bordering a tree-lined slope that overlooked the sea. With a jolt, Grace recognised it as Cliff Gardens. She got out of the car, wrapping her jacket tightly around her and wishing she’d brought a warm scarf and gloves. Blake joined her, but didn’t speak and followed her silently into the park.

  This was the point she had started from: the search for the elusive DNA link to Heather Bowyer’s killer. She had been eager, elated, and rightly proud that her determination had paid off. And now? Could she honestly say that her job – peeling away the layers that hid the ugly truth of what men like Larry and Owen Nixon got up to – was exciting and glamorous? If she believed that, then what was this job doing to her?

  She noticed a bench beside the path and sat down, almost oblivious of Blake beside her. Terri Nixon. April Irwin. Other missing girls. Could her earlier sense of dread really be justified? A father and son, both of them sexual predators and murderers?

  ‘Love is a stranger, in an open car . . .’ Grace felt she could hear echoes of the Annie Lennox song about temptation and obsession drift towards her on the chill wind off the sea. ‘Nothing like the yellow glow of a taxi light on a cold wet night.’ Surely Owen couldn’t really have been taking girls off t
he street at will? Not for thirty-five years or more. It just couldn’t be possible. But then if, as seemed increasingly likely, he’d enjoyed the protection of a senior local detective, perhaps it was.

  She recalled Alison’s expressed wish that Grace would find a way of life that wasn’t full of such horror and grief. Perhaps her sister’s fear that there was something unnatural about dealing with such darkness every day was absolutely right.

  ‘What’s wrong, Grace?’

  She turned to look into Blake’s eyes. They were full of concern and – but no, she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking it might be fondness or even love. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Have I done something to upset you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She gave him her brightest smile. ‘It’s this case and where it might go. And –’ She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to say that I’m sorry I underestimated Carolyn. You were right, she’s a good addition to the team.’

  ‘Carolyn?’ He looked confused.

  ‘Yes. She’s had some good ideas, and I was wrong to overlook them.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about work, Grace.’

  She looked at him and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. ‘Nor am I,’ she said. ‘But it’s fine. Really. Come on, I’m freezing, let’s go.’

  ‘No, wait—’

  Unsure if she could bear to hear whatever he wanted to explain to her, she got up and led the way briskly back to the car. Throughout the drive back to police HQ they spoke little, and only of operational matters.

  62

  Ivo had made sure that the morning’s Courier carried respectful coverage of Freddie’s short career and, given the young man’s focus on true crime, the tragic irony of his violent death. It was the very least Ivo could do, yet it bit deep that he’d had to steer so far away from the true reason he believed Freddie had been killed. Not that he minded losing the scoop – he was happy to keep schtum for as long as DI Fisher required – but because it felt like he was covering up for himself, and he was sick of doing that.

  At lunchtime he quietly took himself off to a local AA meeting. It was a group he attended fairly frequently. You got all sorts, from City bankers to the woman who had the flower stall outside the tube station. One of the other regulars must have observed that he was more stressed than usual and, as the meeting broke up, came over to make friendly small-talk. Ivo was grateful, but he distrusted the urge to unburden himself. Doing so to Grace had vividly reinforced his disgust that he had left his confession far too late. The recognition that, after years of prevarication, he had been perfectly capable of saying the words without anyone turning to stone only made his previous silence more deeply culpable.