She ticked the box, put in ‘Martin Welsh’ as the search term and it was done. Now she’d see how much of a pain she could be.
She sank back onto her pillow, the air escaping from her and the short-term fun of the alert disappearing with it. She stared at the walls in front of her and hated them.
Cornflower blue. It could definitely be cornflower blue.
CHAPTER 19
Winter had walked down Letherby Drive dozens of times. Each time he’d walked alongside thousands of others, usually tens of thousands, all crowded shoulder to shoulder, just one trip away from being trampled.
The street sloped steeply from top to bottom, from where it swung off Carmunnock Road and down towards Hampden Park, the national football stadium. In his head, it was always noisy and boisterous, the air thick with hope and booze, flags flying and songs raucously sung.
This time was very different, though.
He was walking down the hill in the dead of night, no one beside him except the ghosts of fellow supporters singing songs no one would hear. There was only the sound of his own footsteps, and they seemed to boom out like explosions in the silence. The quiet was all the stranger for the absence of the thousands.
The seller of Aiden McAlpine’s clothes, the man who had maybe killed Aiden, was down there somewhere. The location had been his choice and he’d insisted Winter come on foot. He didn’t want to see a single car in the car park or anyone else arrive but Winter.
He felt so exposed walking down there, no crowd to hide in, no one to help. The plan was to meet behind the north stand, opposite the main entrance and the car park. The most hidden and secluded part of the stadium.
He could hear cars in the distance, somewhere back over the tenements but a world away. Apart from that there was the wind and just a few discarded cans scooting along the tarmac. Just enough to jangle his nerves.
He got to the foot of Letherby Drive, the car park empty to his right and the stadium looming like a giant before him, bigger and more intimidating in the dark than it ever was under floodlights. He curved left round its perimeter, trying to muffle his footsteps by treading softly but failing miserably.
The Scotland supporters’ song that came to mind was We’ll Be Coming Down the Road. When you hear the noise of the Tartan Army boys, we’ll be coming down the road. The thought made him keep to the shadow of the stand, clinging to it and the dark for security. Maybe he’d be heard, but he’d do his best not to be seen.
He was round the expanse of the west stand, the Rangers end as it was known, and knew he’d soon be there. Someone standing, as much in the dark as he was, waiting for him. Maybe armed, certainly ready. It suddenly seemed like a bad idea.
He drifted past closed turnstiles, on and on towards the halfway line, fully expecting someone to step from the shadows at any moment.
But they didn’t. They turned him into a shadow instead.
A light flicked and blinded him, causing him to throw his hands up in front of his face to shield his eyes against a powerful torchlight.
‘That’s far enough.’
There was no more than a dark shape behind the light, the beam directed into his eyes. He squinted and could only listen rather than look.
‘Turn the torch off.’
‘No chance.’
The voice was low and brusque. Winter was sure it was being faked, deliberately deeper than it was to disguise it.
‘Have you brought the money?’
‘I need to know you’re genuine first. That what you’re selling is genuine.’
‘It is.’
‘How do I know that? You could be flogging any old shit. I need proof.’
There was a long silence. Winter tried to see behind the light and could make out only a six-foot frame and what seemed to be a balaclava or a woollen hat pulled low across the face.
‘They’re Aiden McAlpine’s clothes. That’s all you need to know. If you don’t want them then fuck off and don’t waste my time.’
‘How did you get them?’
‘I killed him.’
The words fell on the tarmac like nails on a coffin.
Winter considered rushing him, shutting his eyes to the light and trying to knock the guy to the ground. He’d no real idea of how big he was or if he was armed. Aiden had been—
Something metallic clanged against the wall of the stadium. Winter froze and, in the silence, it clanged again twice in quick succession. The seller had read his mind and was warning him against being brave or stupid.
He took the hint and stayed where he was.
‘Why did you kill him?’
‘Never mind. Have you got the money?’
‘Why did you leave him at the station like that?’
The metal banged the wall again, harder. ‘Have you got the money?’
‘Let me see the clothes!’
‘Not without the money. If you’re wasting my time, I’ll kill you the way I did Aiden.’
‘I’ve got the money. Come and get it.’
Winter barely believed the words had come out of his mouth. If there were any more, they were stuck in his throat.
The light flashed at his eyes and he saw the shape begin to slowly advance. He wasn’t armed but the seller didn’t know that. Maybe he’d back off. Maybe he’d kill him.
The torchlight snapped off and everything was darkness. He heard the footsteps quicken and he braced himself, his arms coming up to protect or to fight, he didn’t know which. The steps clattered on the tarmac and reverberated off the wall but the attack didn’t come.
As Winter’s senses sorted out the jumble of sounds and lack of sight, he realised the footsteps were going away from him, not towards. Now they were softening, distance weakening them. The seller, whoever he was, had gone.
Maybe he’d heard the lie in his voice, realising there was no money; maybe he’d just sensed timewaster. Maybe it wasn’t his time to kill.
Winter took a half-step back and planted himself against the wall, breath exploding from him. He wasn’t cut out for this.
He stood and listened until long after even the faint tread of the man had gone. Chasing him wasn’t an option he considered for even a moment.
He turned and made his way back round the stadium, hearing ghosts of boos slipping over the wall from the Rangers end. He’d had an open goal and he’d missed it. The catcalls and complaints followed him all the way round the west stand, and he expected more once he got home to tell Rachel the news.
As he turned the last bend of the curve and Letherby Drive was in front of him once more, he wondered if he’d blown the best chance he had. Maybe he really should have taken the money and bought the things. Maybe . . .
A hand gripped his shoulder and tugged at him, nearly pulling him off his feet as he was spun round. He threw an arm out but was off balance and it lashed hopelessly through fresh air.
‘Easy, son. If that’s the best punch you’ve got, you’d be better not throwing it.’
Danny Neilson stood there with a big grin on his face and Winter nearly moved to wipe it off in his embarrassment.
‘You scared the shit out of me, Uncle Danny. And where were you when that crazy bastard had a knife on me?’
‘I can’t be in two places at once, Anthony. And it would have tipped him right off if I’d been on the north side too. Are you okay?’
Winter breathed hard. ‘Yeah. I’m fine. Just shaken up a bit. Did you get a look at him?’
Danny nodded. ‘Six foot one, I’d say. He pulled a balaclava off just as he was leaving the grounds. Long dark hair and a beard. On the skinny side of athletic. He was walking far too quick for me to catch up without running and with my weight he’d have heard me a mile off.’
‘He sounds like Jesus.’
Danny grinned. ‘Nah, son. Jesus never wore a balaclava. Far too hot in the Holy Land for that. And Jesus didn’t drive a Vauxhall.’
‘You saw the car?’
‘Yes. It was a black Astra and I got a p
artial plate. Ending in KGV. We’ll find him.’
‘Dan, you’re a genius.’
CHAPTER 20
She kept having the same dream. There was a woman with long, blonde hair standing on the other side of the room. She always had her back to her, so Narey could never see her face, but she still knew who she was. The woman was walking away and just beginning to turn round as she slipped from view, morphing into the blue wall. Every time, just as the she disappeared, Narey would notice that the woman’s dress had turned from white to red. Then she’d see that it was dripping with blood. Soon after that she’d notice that she was bleeding, too, her thighs wet and sticky with it.
That was what would wake her up. Without fail, at the realisation of her own haemorrhage, she’d fight her way out of sleep and lie there terrified until she realised it had been the dream again. The Sharon Tate nightmare.
It would end with her cradling her belly like guards round a castle. Keeping her own safe from harm.
She was back at the laptop as if she’d never been away. Finding new layers of the selling sites, new depths of depravity that had been turned into cash.
She knew this dark world trapped people, grabbing them by the ankles, then wrapping tendrils round their entire bodies until their minds were lost. It was a dangerous place to visit and a deadly place to live.
All her career she’d been used to having to deal with human nature and the terrible things it brought about. She’d traded in murder and violence for far too long and, like everyone in law enforcement, she’d had to find her own way of living with that.
Some just cut off their feelings, becoming all but dead inside to insulate them against the worst the job had to offer. Others, mainly men, offered a big bluff to the world, pretending it was all fine and nothing bothered them. Most of them made out it was all a big joke, cracking gags as they stood over kids with knives stuck in them. Many just turned to booze, soaking up the horrors and the inhumanity the best they could.
The more balanced ones, and she used to be among them, learned to compartmentalise. She thought of it as having a series of drawers in her head. When she was on the job, they’d be open, dealing with whatever it was, taking it head on. When she was done they’d be closed.
Sure, that was sometimes easier said than done, and drawers had been known to slide open in the dark of night and let loose chaos. But she’d had to try to lock them because she knew one thing above all: you couldn’t take it home with you. Not if you wanted to keep your relationships and mind in one piece.
The box at the bottom right of her screen popped up, telling her she had mail. It was from KillingTime, a response to the alert she’d created. There was a Martin Welsh item for sale.
She hated the rush of excitement she was feeling but let it sweep her along just the same. She clicked on the link and the listed item was in front of her. A front-page cover from the Daily Record from May 1973. The headline was big and bold: BOY (14) DISAPPEARS ON WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL. There was his photograph, instantly familiar, even though she hadn’t even been born at the time. Bids starting at £75, the closing date two weeks away.
She didn’t give herself time to think about it. Her fingers moved over the keyboard and she purchased it outright for £120. Successful bid. For better or for worse, it was hers.
What had she done? More to the point, why had she done it? She didn’t know whether it was to annoy some collecting freak or because she was in this as deep as any of them. She knew it had felt good, she just wasn’t sure why, and that worried her.
Worried her but didn’t stop her. Instead, it opened a door she’d been trying to wedge shut.
Once you’d done it, it became easier to do it again.
She ordered a further six different items from KillingTime. Six. She spent nearly seven hundred pounds on murderabilia. She’d meant to buy maybe one, spend maybe fifty quid. Just to get the feel for it, just to see how the system worked. The problem was that once she started her spree she couldn’t stop.
She bought a letter by Tex Watson, the Manson Family member who’d led the attack on Sharon Tate’s house
A handwritten single sheet of lined paper had cost her £225 and, when she woke after a sleep, she had to check that she’d actually purchased the thing. She couldn’t honestly say why she’d bought it, though. Part professional curiosity, part compulsion, part revulsion, maybe something else entirely. All she knew was she clicked and paid and bought. Watson’s letter was on its way.
It was the same with the two autographs she bought – or slaughtergraphs as she now knew they were called in the trade. There were all sorts available, from signed photographs, which seemed to be the killers’ main way of manufacturing a bit of spending money, to any piece of paper or form they’d signed before ending up behind bars. She bought a note signed by another Manson Family member, Patricia Krenwinkel and a visitors’ questionnaire signed by Linda Kasabian.
When she saw a subsection offering crime relics, she heaved a sigh of disgust and clicked immediately. The leading item was a piece of stone from the fireplace at 10050 Cielo Drive. The address was now instantly familiar.
The house where Sharon and the others were murdered had been demolished in the mid-1990s and, inevitably, some of the rubble had found its way into the hands of people who could make a fast buck from it. Private collectors, rich ghouls, snapped up most it, but some smaller pieces found their way into other hands and from there onto the market.
This fragment was one and three-quarter inches long, an inch thick and an inch deep. It was still sealed in the original packaging from a store named Hellhouse of Hollywood. A piece of Sharon’s fireplace. The fireplace she was murdered in front of. Who in their right mind would buy something like that? With a handful of clicks, she did.
Maybe it was a short step from there to the piece of ‘art’, slaughtergraph and all, from Susan Atkins. Two bloody footprints were framed along with a handwritten note and signature from Atkins, the piece mimicking the bloody print she’d left on the floor of the Tate house.
It was a vile piece of exploitation. And Narey bought it.
Maybe it was to stop someone else from having it. Maybe it was an attempt to make sense of it. Maybe there was a space she had to fill with something, anything, to stop her staring at that blue wall. Maybe she didn’t know what she was doing any more. That would certainly help explain why she also bought a lock of Charles Manson’s hair.
She felt the way she might if she’d eaten a whole packet of chocolate biscuits in one sitting. Or if she’d drunk a bottle of prosecco when she’d planned to have only one glass. She felt sick and disgusted with herself. And glad she’d done it.
The corner of her screen flashed again. Another email from KillingTime. Surely no one could be selling another Martin Welsh item so soon after the last.
She had a direct message, not from the site itself but one of the users. Someone calling themselves RD. It was headed ‘Re Martin Welsh purchase’.
I see you purchased the newspaper front page that was offered earlier. I’d like to buy it from you. I’ll give you twice what you paid for it. So, £250.
Two hundred and fifty pounds? For an old newspaper?
Her copper’s nose twitched and didn’t like what she smelled. Who the hell would be so desperate as to want to pay that? She’d set out to annoy whoever was buying this stuff and she’d succeeded. She’d make a profit, too, if she wanted it, without even getting out of bed. It wasn’t enough, though.
‘No thanks,’ she typed. ‘I’m happy with my purchase and I’ll just keep it.’
She sent the reply, sure that it would piss him off even more and happy with that thought but still wondering what was going on. Feeling the slide from collector to cop, she knew she had to read up about the Welsh case, and it couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER 21
Winter had tried mailing the Shadow on Murder Mart again but got no reply. Not even a fuck off. Not even a threat.
There was no other menti
on of Shadow123 on KillingTime or Murder Mart. No mention of him anywhere. The Shadow had slipped into the dark.
It felt odd that someone would make just one post. He’d learned enough to know that, in the world of murderabilia sites, your name is your bond. It’s all about trust and feedback. You pay on time, you send on time. You always do what you say you’ll do or no one deals with you again. You’re dealing in death, so you have to be able to trust the other guy. It’s all about being trusted by the other nuts.
Shadow123 had no rating that Winter could find. No record of sales or purchases, no queries, no other items on offer. He’d had the McAlpine underwear – or said he did – then disappeared off the face of the Internet.
Danny had run the partial number plate with his pals on the force but as yet they’d got nowhere. They were hopeful they could narrow it down but it would take time.
The only place Winter could think of to look was the family. The McAlpines.
There was no way Mark McAlpine was going to talk to him, but his wife might. It was pretty well known, if unsaid, among the media that they were barely together as a couple. He stayed in a flat in Edinburgh’s New Town most of the time while she still lived in the family home on the south side of Glasgow.
He might well get the door slammed in his face followed quickly by a call to his bosses or the cops, but he had to try.
The McAlpines, at least one of them, lived in St Andrew’s Drive in Pollokshields, in a large, four-bedroom, white-sandstone house sitting back off the road. Not quite a mansion, bad for the image, but little change from a million pounds. A broad, paved drive curved between a lush lawn and the front door.
He pressed the bell, crossed his fingers and waited. A clack of heels announced someone’s arrival and seconds later the door opened just enough to reveal a woman in her fifties peeking round it. He’d seen the photographs and knew it was Barbara McAlpine, former cabin crew turned politician’s wife. She was a fine-looking woman with barely a streak of grey in the dark hair that flowed back over her head. Her eyes told a different story from the well-manicured rest of her. Tears had been a regular visitor.
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