Murderabilia

by Craig Robertson

  One of her breasts was cut off.

  An X was carved into her stomach.

  The killers threatened to cut out her baby and take it.

  Narey felt her hands forming claws with every further word she read. Rage grew large and she was hammering at the keyboard as she scrolled through pages. She gnawed at her lip until it nearly bled.

  She knew murder. She knew what it looked like, what it smelled like. She’d dealt with it. But reading this? It was beyond murder. It was savage.

  Manson. Charlie fucking Manson. Murderer. And she had his music playing in her home. She’d bought a piece of him. And he’d done that to Sharon. To Sharon and her baby. She had to get rid of his music. Delete it. Scrub it. She couldn’t have it in the house.

  The pains inside her were probably inevitable.

  They began as a single stab, then rained on her as if they came from a dozen hands. Piercing stings that flashed through her. Sympathy pains for Sharon. Agony for her. Shit, shit, shit! She thought she might have to phone Tony or even the doctor. Shit, shit! She breathed and breathed, breathed for two, until it finally subsided.

  With her eyes closed, she slammed the laptop lid shut. It wouldn’t do Sharon Tate any good for her to read more, and it wasn’t doing her any good, either.

  CHAPTER 16

  Winter had a story, that much was obvious. Just the very idea that someone was selling Aiden McAlpine’s clothes was enough to fill the front page of the Standard. He’d easily get the boy’s father to be morally outraged, and that would be the quotes dealt with.

  It would all be backed up by his own photograph, again, and it would be easy pickings. But it wasn’t enough. There was a bigger story just out of reach, and he owed it to himself to find it.

  Someone selling, or maybe just claiming to sell, the clothes would buy him a cheap splash but finding who it was . . . that went much further. That was stop-the-presses stuff. If they did that any more.

  He’d done his own research online and found the names of a few collectors in Scotland who might be able to give him a lead on it. He’d phoned the nearest of them, and had said he wanted to do a feature on murderabilia. The man’s ego said sure, he’d love to.

  Barry Fyvie lived in a top-floor flat on Dumbarton Road in Partick, above the Rosevale pub and an Indian takeaway. It maybe wasn’t the most obvious place for a collection on murderers and their victims but it was where it was.

  Winter buzzed the entry pad and a gruff voice from above checked he was the person who had been expected. ‘Come on up.’

  Fyvie was a big guy in his early fifties, tall and heavy-set with a black Stone Roses T-shirt barely containing a heaving beer gut. He had thick sideburns, a grey-flecked goatee and long, greying hair that was tied back in a ponytail. He certainly looked like he collected something.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

  The big man shrugged. ‘Why not? No such thing as bad publicity, right? Sit anywhere you want.’

  That was easier said than done. Half of the black leather sofa and one of the room’s two chairs were covered in plastic bags and cardboard boxes. The other was occupied by a large sleeping cat. Fyvie saw Winter’s dilemma and weighed up which to clear to allow his guest to get a seat. After a moment’s deliberation, he took a couple of steps and scooped the cat up and dropped it gently onto the floor. ‘Sorry, Ted,’ he told it ‘but we’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘Ted?’ Winter asked.

  ‘After Ted Bundy.’

  ‘You named your cat after a serial killer?’

  Fyvie pushed a bag to the side so he could grab a corner of the couch. ‘Doesn’t everybody? You want a tea or a coffee? I’ve got a couple of beers in the fridge.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. So how long have you been into it, the serial-killer thing?’

  ‘Since 1969. I watched The Boston Strangler at the Odeon on Renfield Street and that was me hooked. I was too young to have watched it but that didn’t seem to bother my mum or dad. What a film! Scared the shit out of me, but it was electric. Tony Curtis as Albert DeSalvo. He was only in the second half, but that was probably just as well, for DeSalvo wasn’t actually the Strangler.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’

  ‘Nah. No way. Chances are it was more than one person, and I reckon DeSalvo did one killing at most. Wouldn’t stop me from buying stuff of his, though. Not if there’s money in it.’

  ‘And there is money in it?’

  Fyvie spread his arms wide. ‘Flat’s bought and paid for. Collecting is my only job and it keeps me in beer and vinyl, so I’m as happy as a pig in shit. Yeah, there’s money in it.’

  ‘You mind if I take notes?’

  ‘Nah, go for it. I’ve got nothing to hide. All legal and above board. Ask what you want, just make sure you spell my website address right.’

  There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment to the man. Absolutely shameless.

  ‘So who or what do you collect?’

  ‘Anything I can get my hands on. The more famous the killer, the better. The more kills, the more money. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘So what’s the most valuable or most famous thing you’ve got?’

  ‘Right now it’s probably a Thanksgiving card sent by Jeffrey Dahmer just a few days before he was murdered. It’s a really nice piece. Want to see it?’

  Winter’s gut response was no but he heard the word ‘yes’ come out of his mouth. Maybe something deeper than his gut answered before he could.

  Fyvie grinned wide and bounced out of his seat. As he disappeared into another room, Winter looked around. He eased open a plastic carrier bag at his feet and saw a bundle of opened envelopes, all addressed to Fyvie. The couple that he had time to sneak a look at were stamped with variations on a theme saying they’d been opened by a prison before being sent.

  Fyvie lurched back into the room, carefully peeling back layers of bubble wrap as he did so. He didn’t touch the card directly but held it open using the wrap for Winter to see.

  Thanks for everything mom. Have a great day.

  Sorry I’m not there to share it with you. Jeff.

  Fyvie was smiling. ‘Sweet, huh? Four days after Thanksgiving, Dahmer went on his assigned work detail in the Columbia Correctional Institution in Portage, Wisconsin. When he was in the showers of the prison gym, Christopher Scarver beat him about the head and face with a twenty-inch metal bar. Dahmer was dead within the hour. Now I’d rather have the metal bar but this’ll do me fine. I’ll make good money on this.’

  ‘What else do you have?’

  Fyvie scratched at his beard. ‘Headline-grabbing stuff? I’ve got a piece of John Wayne Gacy art that I’ve been sitting on for a while till I get the right price. I won’t let that go for less than a few thousand. And I had a long handwritten letter from David Berkowitz, Son of Sam, that would creep you right out, but I sold that a month back. Best thing I ever had was a gold necklace handmade by DeSalvo. Beautiful it was. Bought it for a grand, sold it for two.’

  ‘And what about something more local?’

  ‘Scottish? Well, I’ve got a long letter written by Dennis Nilsen to his lawyer. It’s a nice piece. And I’ve got a few letters and signed photographs of Archibald Atto. An original missing poster for Martin Welsh. Some Peter Tobin things, too, but nothing special. It all sells, though.’

  ‘What else of Atto’s is on the market?’

  A cautious shrug. ‘The real money with him is in the trophies that he took off his victims. The jewellery. I know there’s some of that doing the rounds but chances are I’ll never get near it.’

  ‘Why won’t you get near it?’

  ‘I’m legit. It isn’t. Simple as that. Same reason why I only have that one Martin Welsh item. Someone else has got all that stuff. You see, the Welsh case is different. It’s one of the few where the victim is more famous than the killer.’

  ‘Because the killer was never caught.’

  ‘Right. If he was then his stuff would be going for big bucks. But he wasn’t,
so the money is in the boy instead. I’d like more of it but there’s nothing going around.’

  ‘Don’t you worry that it glorifies murder and murderers?’

  Fyvie laughed loudly. ‘Do I look like a worried man? Does it fuck. Listen, people have always been fascinated by killers. We’re still talking about Cain and Abel and that was years ago. Sex sells. Murder sells. Sex and murder sell like naebody’s business. I’m no killing anyone, I’m just collecting the stuff. If I don’t do it some other fucker will. It’s just business.’

  ‘And what about the victims?’

  ‘They’re deid. That’s what makes them victims.’

  ‘What about their families?’

  ‘Not my problem. I’m sorry and all that but me not buying or not selling isn’t going to change anything. Like I say, somebody’s going to make money out of it, so it may as well be me.’

  The man was a real charmer. Winter didn’t think he had to worry too much about offending his sensibilities.

  ‘What about stuff that might still be part of an ongoing investigation?’

  Fyvie’s eyes narrowed warily. For the first time since Winter entered the flat, he felt the collector was on his guard.

  ‘Like I said, I’m all legal and above board.’

  ‘But you’ve maybe heard of things like that?’

  ‘I’m completely legit.’

  ‘But other people aren’t?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Ask me something else.’

  He may as well push it, he thought. The door was getting closed in his face anyway.

  ‘If something like that was doing the rounds. Where would you go to buy it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Okay, where would someone else go?’

  Fyvie scowled. ‘Listen. This isn’t what I want to talk about. There’s collecting and there’s collecting. If you want to talk about the other side of it, then you’ve come to the wrong guy. Maybe you better go.’

  ‘At least tell me what you mean. What’s the other side?’

  He huffed. ‘No, forget it. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay. Do you know a collector, maybe just a seller, known as Shadow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shadow123?

  ‘I said no. Get back to interviewing about my site or get out the door. Or the window. And I’ll help you out if you need it.’

  As Winter crossed Dumbarton Road towards his car, he turned and looked back up at the top-floor flat. Barry Fyvie was standing at the window, half hidden behind a curtain but staring down at him. He had a phone in his hands and he was gesticulating wildly. When he saw Winter watching him, he quickly slipped out of sight.

  CHAPTER 17

  Winter came away from the meeting with Fyvie little wiser than he’d gone in. He’d learned a bit more about murderabilia but without much idea of what to do with it.

  He was pretty damn sure the collector knew more than he was letting on though. The man had spooked at the very mention of the clothes being sold and shut up shop very quickly after that. Had the mention of Shadow123 been what had thrown him? Did Fyvie know the seller?

  Winter had been back on the Murder Mart site but there was no sign of the clothes or the person that had tried to sell them. Whoever it was had named themselves well. Shadow. Who and where the hell were they?

  The only thing he could think of was to contact them. Sign up and say hello.

  Murder Mart let you message other users and as soon as Winter set up an account of his own he was able to do exactly that. He signed in, typed Shadow123 into the message field and prepared himself to talk to a possible, maybe probable, killer. He really didn’t know where to start.

  Re Aiden McAlpine clothing. I’d like to talk

  It took over two hours before he had a reply.

  Okay, so talk

  I want to buy the clothes you were offering

  Have you got the cash??

  Yes.

  The price has gone up.

  Forget it, then.

  What can you pay??

  £3000

  Okay. They’re yours.

  Where do I get them?

  We’ll meet. I’ll tell you where.

  Winter pushed back in his chair and edged the laptop away from him, pulse racing. This was way out of his comfort zone, this was her job, not his. Not any more though, he reminded himself. It was his now. She needed to be protected, not least from herself, and he had to step up and deal with this. Whatever the hell it was.

  CHAPTER 18

  It bothered Narey that the sites were almost all about the killers. Not enough that she closed her laptop and got the hell out of there as she knew she should, but it still grated. She’d known some of these people, she’d certainly known their type, and no way did they merit the headline treatment. They were pathetic creatures, completely unglamorous and a world away from the celebrity status these sites seemed to give them.

  It was wrong that anyone should give the smallest of fucks about things belonging to rapists, torturers and murderers. These men, almost always men, weren’t worthy of such interest. They were wired wrong, they were evil if you believed in such a thing, and certainly did evil things. They should be caught, sentenced and ignored. Not kept in people’s minds by Internet auctions and what amounted to fandom.

  The only real exception to its being about the killers was when the victim was known and the killer wasn’t. Only then did it focus on the people who actually deserved it. So easily overlooked, so quickly forgotten when they weren’t as famous as the serial killers who took their lives. Victims could rarely make headlines the way murderers did.

  They either had to be famous to begin with, like Sharon Tate or JFK, like John Lennon or Gianni Versace, or else they had to be killed by someone who was never caught. The great unsolved mysteries made names for the dead. The killers went unpunished but the sick twist was that at least their prey were remembered by more than just friends and family.

  People remember Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, Annie Chapman, Mary Jane Kelly and Mary Ann Nichols, because they can’t remember Jack. In Scotland, they know Patricia Docker, Jemima McDonald and Helen Puttock because they don’t know who Bible John was.

  Narey remembered more victims than she’d like to, people who’d been forgotten by all except those who buried them. Poor sods who were in the wrong place at the wrong time and whose deaths barely caused a ripple in the national consciousness. The ones the rest of the world remembered were those who never got any kind of justice. The likes of Renee MacRae, Genette Tate, Carl Bridgewater, Martin Welsh and Suzy Lamplugh. Famous for being murdered even if in some cases their bodies, like their killers, were never found.

  There were items available online for that kind of victim, the prominent kind. The business was just as grubby, though, just as unpleasant, just as compelling. There was a trade in old school photos, clothing, signed documents, missing-person posters, even copies of death certificates.

  She didn’t want to look through this stuff any more than she did for the killers, but there was that big empty room and the long days stretching beyond dark, and both needed to be filled. There was just her and the Internet, her and the auction sites. There was murderabilia and a tankful of time.

  She was flicking through it now, loathing herself for it with every touch of the keyboard, making new excuses and disregarding them as she went, all the while burrowing deeper and deeper into the black soul of it.

  There was another Martin Welsh collectible. An original missing-person poster from 1973, creasing to one corner and slightly weather-damaged but otherwise in perfect condition, according to the seller. Yours for bids starting at £300.

  Martin Welsh. The boy who went to school and never came home. One of the most famous unsolved crimes in the country.

  His name had caught her eye any time she’d seen it on KillingTime or the other sites. Her dad had worked the case at one point and, like any unsolved it had tugged at him, dragging h
im back to talk about it and pore over the details for something he’d missed. So, when she saw items for sale, they jumped out of the screen at her, as they did now.

  It seemed a lot for a printed bit of paper that had been tied to a lamppost or stuck in a newsagent’s window. There must have been thousands of them distributed, but she guessed that few survived. It would sell, and probably for a good bit over the starting price.

  Wait. It disappeared, almost in front of her eyes. Auction closed, item purchased. It must have been up for less than an hour and was gone.

  The usual protocol was that an item went to auction and the highest bid after the closing date won whatever it was. However, there was often the option to buy something outright at any time for a higher price, rather than wait or take the risk of being outbid. That had to be what had happened here.

  But something else nagged at her. She’d thought she’d seen this before with Martin Welsh stuff. An item that had appeared but was almost immediately bought. It could have been her mind playing tricks on her, though. God knows, it had been doing that often enough of late.

  She wanted to check if she was right, but there was no archive of previously sold items unless you were the person who’d bought them. It bugged her and she wanted to know more.

  She’d always been stubborn and contrary. She remembered people commenting on it since before she went to school. A wilful little madam, her dad’s aunt had said. And the old cow had been right. It turned out not to be a bad thing when she became a cop but probably made her a pain at other times.

  Right now, she felt the urge to be a pain for whoever was snapping up the Martin Welsh collectibles. She was annoyed at not being able to remember for sure if she’d seen this happen before, irritated at someone buying this if they were, and generally just pissed off at being stuck in this room with only murderers and victims for company. She had an idea.

  There was an alert system that you could use to be notified when a collectible about a particular murder went on the site. Use that and you got an email as soon as something went live. If someone had nothing to do but sit all day staring at their laptop, then they’d see that alert email immediately. And that was exactly what she was going to do.