He wasn’t being fanciful. Freddie Craig’s killer was out there, very probably sitting down to an ordinary supper in an ordinary house. Evil wasn’t supernatural. It was all too real. All it took to release it into the world was for someone to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ivo hoped Owen Nixon would take his bait and come to the pub tomorrow. He had chosen his lure carefully and named the hostelry in which he’d been drinking that long-ago afternoon in company with four other men, one of whom was Damon Smith. He wondered what he might learn and whether it would make him feel better or worse about his sin of omission.
65
Deborah opened her front door with a paint roller in her hand. She’d tied her hair back with a printed scarf and had splatters of white down the front of the washed-out supersized T-shirt she wore over her jeans. She led them into the box-like front room where one wall of grimy woodchip paper was in the process of being given a coat of fresh paint. Grace glanced at Blake in relief. She had been worried that their visit the previous day would have overwhelmed so vulnerable a woman, and was happy that it appeared to have had the opposite effect.
‘Believe it or not,’ said Deborah, ‘I was on my way to the offy when I saw these tins left on the pavement outside the hardware store, all cut-price. Don’t know if there’ll be enough to finish the room, but it’s a start.’
‘It already looks better,’ said Grace.
‘Thanks. So, what do you want this time?’ Deborah spoke lightly but Grace could see the fear and anxiety in her eyes.
‘We’re not here to ask for information,’ said Grace. ‘We’re here to give you a heads-up that there may be more revelations to come about your family.’
‘OK.’ Deborah turned her back on them, bending down to push her roller across its tray before applying more paint to the wall.
‘We can appoint a family liaison officer if you’d like,’ said Grace. ‘It might be helpful.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You might find it useful to have the extra support.’
Deborah went on pushing the roller up and down the wall. ‘Funny the thoughts that come to the surface when your brain is busy with something else,’ she said. ‘That’s what dead bodies do, isn’t it? Rise to the surface eventually.’
Grace exchanged shocked glances with Blake. ‘Is that what you’re expecting to hear?’ she asked. ‘That we’ve found bodies?’
‘No, of course not,’ Deborah said quickly, bending down to coat her roller again.
‘We are here to tell you that we’re going to arrest your father. It will be on the news.’
‘Right, thanks.’
Grace waited, but Deborah continued with her work. ‘We’re going to search his house for the physical remains of your mother.’
Deborah paused in her movements and then carefully placed the roller on the edge of the paint tray. She looked around, finding what she wanted on the narrow tiled mantelpiece. She lit a cigarette with shaking hands. ‘I always felt sorry for Larry.’ She blew out a stream of smoke. ‘He was the youngest. He missed Mum the most. To begin with, anyway, but then he just grew closer and closer to Dad.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘No, not in terms of – I never saw anything. If Dad said she had cancer I wasn’t going to argue. But after that, Larry never stood a chance.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Deborah still did not look at them directly. ‘Dad liked him to watch.’
‘To watch?’
‘To watch Dad with the girls he brought home.’
Grace and Blake stood in helpless silence as Deborah balanced her cigarette on the edge of the mantelpiece and picked up the roller again. She surveyed the half-painted wall, pushing the tail of her scarf out of her eyes with the back of her free hand. ‘I suppose that’s why people have to have those feature walls that are a different colour,’ she said. ‘They run out of paint.’
Grace chose her words carefully. ‘Larry watched his father having sex with young girls?’
‘Yup.’
‘Anything more than sex?’
‘I wasn’t living there then.’
‘Did Reece know what was going on?’
‘We never talked about it. But I was glad he got out. That was Kirsty’s doing. I missed seeing Reece, but I don’t blame Kirsty for cutting us all out of their lives.’
‘Did you ever witness your father hurting anyone? Any of the young women he brought home?’
‘No. They’d be there and then they’d be gone again. I never asked. How could I?’
‘Did he abuse you sexually?’
She gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough. ‘He couldn’t be bothered. Always said I was too ugly.’
‘And your mother?’ Grace asked. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘You’re going to find out, aren’t you? I never believed it, that Dad – not really, except he was – but I should have been there. I should have helped her.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Grace. ‘You’re not responsible for any crimes your father might have committed.’
‘I should’ve saved her. I should never have let it happen.’
Deborah dropped the roller into the tray, splashing paint on to the stained remnant of carpet, and turned to confront them. ‘My mum would still be alive if it weren’t for that bastard. I’d still see my kids, too. Probably still be married. He’s taken everything. You have no idea what a bastard he is! And I’ve kept quiet all these years. We all did. Even Reece. He knew. He was there.’
‘You think Owen killed your mother?’
‘Well, she never had cancer. And she could never have run away. But I – you can’t – all I thought about was getting the hell out of there.’ She retrieved her burning cigarette and took a drag. ‘You know, sometimes it’s all you can do to save yourself.’
‘And that’s what you have to focus on now,’ said Grace. ‘I’m so sorry that chances to stop him were missed. The reasons why that might have happened will also emerge over the coming weeks and months.’
‘You won’t stop him,’ said Deborah. ‘You can’t. No one could. He always gets his own way. It wasn’t never even about the sex. It’s about him being able to do whatever he wants. That’s what messed Larry up so badly. He tried to be like Dad, even though he’s not, not really, not deep down.’
‘We will act to stop your father,’ said Grace. ‘And I can’t thank you enough for your help. I realise how hard it must be. Is there anything you want to ask? Anything we can do to help?’
‘No.’ Deborah looked completely exhausted.
‘Just let me know if you change your mind about a family liaison officer. They’d keep you informed better than we can and will help shield you from the media. And you can call me any time.’
Deborah accepted Grace’s card. ‘You put him away,’ she said. ‘That’ll be a miracle in itself.’
She accompanied them to the front door, barely meeting their eyes as they stepped outside. They were walking towards the car when she spoke again. ‘One thing I heard him say once when Larry was upset about Mum. He said we weren’t to worry because she wasn’t far away.’
She shut the door, leaving Grace and Blake to look at one another in dismay.
‘I don’t care how Superintendent Pitman and the chief constable want to play this,’ she said, ‘I want Owen Nixon off the streets now.’ She looked at her watch and then at Blake. ‘What do you think? Are you up for going over there to pick him up?’
‘Right behind you, boss,’ he said grimly. ‘Sooner the better.’
66
The place hadn’t really changed. There was now a soundless flat-screen TV mounted high on one wall to which the barman’s eyes flicked constantly, and a slot machine beside the door to the Gents, but otherwise the dingy pub looked much the same as it had twenty-five years ago. Ivo was on his second ginger beer when Owen Nixon entered. Ivo recognised him from the fracas at the funeral, but could see from the
way the older man peered around that he was unsure who he was looking for. Ivo allowed him few more moments of uncertainty before raising a hand in laconic greeting.
He was not prepared for the force of the old man’s scrutiny. He’d caught the eye of many notorious criminals in his time, but this was like maintaining eye contact with a Great White shark. He was glad he’d taken the precaution of preparing a couple of safety texts on his phone. One covert press of a button in his trouser pocket and he could summon a rescue party. Not that he could come to any harm sitting here watching silent images of football fixtures.
Except that he’d believed that lie twenty-five years ago.
As Owen went to the bar to buy a half-pint of beer, Ivo flipped swiftly through the sturdy card-index of his memory. He failed to come up with a single other occasion when he’d seen this man, and definitely never in company with JJ.
Owen sat down at the little round table opposite Ivo. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush,’ he said. ‘How much do you want for them?’
Ivo was taken aback. What did he mean? Ivo hadn’t come here intending to sell anything. He had baited his hook in order to talk to Owen about JJ so he could work up a story about the role played by past police corruption in Freddie’s murder.
He looked into the eyes of the Great White. Owen meant the letters that Freddie had invented! And if he wanted the letters, then it could only be because— It was all Ivo could do not to jump up away from the table in fright. If Owen had unhesitatingly assumed that Ivo was here to blackmail him over Freddie’s fictional letters, it could only be because Owen believed them to be real and thought he knew who was supposedly named in them.
Ivo had unthinkingly supposed that April Irwin’s lover, the father of her unborn child, had been someone close to her own age, and surely it was too late now for Owen to worry about covering up for one of his sons? He looked at Owen. He must be nearing eighty, which meant he’d been in his fifties back then. April had been barely sixteen. Perhaps her death had not been the angry panic of a young man saddled with a kid he didn’t want. She’d run away because she was frightened, frightened enough to take shelter with a drifter like Damon Smith. And Owen had gone after her.
Just like he’d gone after Freddie.
Ivo thought quickly about how best to respond. ‘I don’t have them on me.’
‘I didn’t think you would,’ said Owen. ‘But you’ve got them? You’ve been in touch with whoever had them?’
‘I didn’t need to,’ Ivo lied. ‘Freddie had them all along. He gave them to me for safekeeping. We were going to write a story together for the Courier.’
‘So why aren’t you doing the story?’
‘After what happened to Freddie?’ asked Ivo. ‘I’d rather live a few years longer and put something aside for my pension.’
Ivo studied the man as he considered Ivo’s words. If he genuinely believed the letters were real, surely he must realise that no amount of killing was going to return the cat to the bag. Was he deranged, and in the grip of some psychotic delusion? Or suffering from dementia? Either way, he was an exceedingly dangerous man with nothing much left to lose.
‘I think you should write the story,’ said Owen.
Ivo was astonished. ‘And say what?’
‘All of it.’
Ivo watched Owen smile and decided the man must most definitely be mad.
‘It’s a good one,’ he went on. ‘I can promise it’ll be worth your while.’
‘Why didn’t you offer it to Freddie Craig?’ asked Ivo.
‘I wasn’t in command of all the facts at that point,’ said Owen. ‘I hadn’t yet been told the full weight of evidence against my son Larry. Even I can’t fix this one. But I can still tell it my own way. So come back to my house and I’ll give you everything, tell you about each of my angels. You’ll have enough to keep the presses rolling for days.’
Ivo was lost for words. To walk out of here with Owen Nixon could only be a suicide mission. Was he ready for that? But he’d been all too ready to send Freddie out to fight his battles for him, hadn’t he? At the very least he owed it to the kid to do absolutely everything he could to bring his murderer to book.
Owen was smiling again. He winked at Ivo. ‘You’re in the story,’ he said. ‘Though of course you know that. JJ told me how helpful you were, helping to send that pikey to prison.’
Ivo saw red. But his boiling anger wasn’t against Owen so much as against himself. If it hadn’t been for his cowardice, his failure to speak up and tell the truth, Owen Nixon would have been put behind bars years ago. If he hadn’t been so gullible and pathetically eager to please a man like JJ, Freddie wouldn’t be dead. And how many other lives had been ruined by the shameful choice he had made after the long-ago afternoon he’d spent drinking in this very pub? Not just any other young women unfortunate enough to cross paths with Owen Nixon, but some of the people in Ivo’s own life. His two wives, his daughter. So many years of hating himself and drinking to blot out the shame; they all stemmed from his decision to help JJ by saving the miserable carcass of the conniving bastard sitting across from him now.
So what if walking out of here now with Owen Nixon meant ending up with a knife in his back? What else could he do to try to put things right?
67
Grace and Blake had not found Owen Nixon at his house and had so far failed to locate him elsewhere. They were on a dual carriageway halfway back to Colchester when Grace received the text.
‘We need to turn around,’ she said.
Blake glanced at her and then at the phone in her hands. ‘What’s up?’
‘Ivo Sweatman. He’s with Owen Nixon.’
‘I’ll take the next exit,’ he said. ‘Want to fill me in?’
She read out the text. ‘ “I’ve arranged to meet Owen Nixon at the Nag’s Head in Southend. If you receive this text, then I’m in trouble.” ’
‘OK,’ he said, swapping lanes and indicating left before giving a burst of the siren to clear the way ahead.
As the slip road approached a roundabout, Grace called Inspector Clements to ask him to send an officer to the pub and report back. Once they were on the carriageway heading back towards Southend Blake looked at her once more. ‘You want to tell me the rest?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why does he have your number? He’s got all the resources of the Courier behind him, so why is he texting you?’
She didn’t know what to say. ‘Does it matter?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Ivo’s had my back more than once,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I guess we’re friends.’
‘He’s not only a tabloid crime reporter,’ said Blake, ‘but he’s admitted that he colluded with a corrupt police officer to pervert the course of justice. Isn’t that a bit like keeping a rabid dog as a pet and believing it’ll never turn and bite you?’
‘He hasn’t bitten me yet.’
‘Doesn’t mean he won’t.’
Grace longed to explain, to tell Blake the whole story of her various dealings with Ivo, but what would be the point now that it was too late to resurrect their relationship? She stared out of the car window, trying to subdue her feelings. ‘Ivo didn’t have to come forward and tell us what he did about DI Jupp.’
‘So what? He’s bad news, Grace,’ he said hotly. ‘Surely you can see that?’
‘He’s just given us a lead on where Owen might be,’ she pointed out, hoping Blake would let it drop.
They drove for a couple of minutes in silence, but a glance showed her he was still brooding.
‘You mentioned once having a kind of safe room,’ he said. ‘Did you mean him? Did you let our relationship end because of something to do with him?’
‘Blake, it doesn’t matter now, does it?’
‘It does to me.’
‘Why? You’re with someone else.’
‘Really?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘You’re with Carolyn,’
she said miserably.
He turned to look at her. ‘Carolyn?’ He laughed. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’
‘I thought . . . when I’ve seen you together . . . you always stick up for her.’
‘She’s new to the team. I’m her line manager.’
Grace’s heart leapt. ‘I saw you once, out having a drink. And you came in together one morning. You had an overnight bag.’
‘An overnight bag?’ He frowned, working out what she meant. ‘My sports kit? We go to the same gym. I give her a lift occasionally.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Serves me right for having a suspicious mind!’
‘And Ivo Sweatman?’
‘He’s given me a lot of help and sometimes offered information I couldn’t have got any other way. But it’s had to be strictly off the books. If Colin ever found out I’d be disciplined or possibly worse. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to have to lie for me.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
He turned again to look at her, his eyes warm. ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we?’
Grace’s phone vibrated and she answered the call. It was Dave Clements. A foot patrol who had been near the Nag’s Head had visited the pub. Two men answering the descriptions of Ivo Sweatman and Owen Nixon had recently left. The barman was new and hadn’t seen either of them before, nor did he have any idea of where they’d been going. Grace thanked Clements and told him that, as they weren’t far from Leigh-on-Sea, they would head straight to Owen Nixon’s house. With the blues and twos on full blast to clear the slow-moving traffic, they travelled in silence.
As they turned into the web of pleasant, well-to-do residential roads Grace wondered how Owen’s neighbours had apparently never noticed Terri Nixon’s disappearance. Owen had lived there a long time – long enough perhaps for people simply to accept that every community has its oddball – yet some of them must have waited beside Terri at the school gate, seen her in the local shops or at the hairdresser or doctor. No one had reported any concern. Or, if they had, it had never been followed up.
Wrong Way Home: Sunday Times Crime Book of the Month Page 29
