The name came up again and again. The Four.
No one said much. Mostly it was in fearful whispers. Even the brave cowards seemed reluctant to mouth off. Then came conversations that worried her.
‘You ask too many questions. Your lease here might have to be terminated.’
‘This place is fresh snow. You leave footprints with every step you take. You should remember that.’
When she asked about joining the Four, the reply was instant.
‘We are the Four. Not the Five or the Six. This is a closed club and now a closed conversation. Now fuck off.’
The last discussion she had on Abbadon quickly became long and one-sided:
Does it not worry you that you’ve no idea who you’re talking to? That you can’t see the face behind the name behind the seller? Aren’t you afraid to ask questions about someone you know has killed a number of people? Seems to me to be a bit stupid to be so reckless. You ask about Big Sleep but he could be anyone you’re talking to and you wouldn’t know. For all you know, it could be me.
CHAPTER 48
THE FOUR
It was what they called themselves and, soon enough, how they were known by those who knew little at all. Nothing dramatic, nothing ad-man snappy or chilling. Just practical, descriptive and anonymous. It also made it clear that the membership number was fixed. No one would be leaving and no one would be invited to join.
The Four. They were the best at what they did. The most serious in their field, head and shoulders above the amateurs, the enthusiasts, the weekend collectors. They would go farther, risk more, want more, get more. What others would dream of, they would accumulate. While the rest would scramble around buying and selling to make a scrap of cash, they would collect. They would keep.
They understood what the others didn’t. They saw the real value in their collections, something way beyond money or acclaim. Something the amateurs wouldn’t and couldn’t understand. They got it.
Each of them had their own area of interest and expertise, a particular killer or victim they centred on and collected whenever they could. They knew about and helped to feed each others’ habits. If one became aware of something available that would appeal to another, then they’d tip them off or simply buy it if time was pressing.
They were a collective of collectors. A cartel if you listened to some, to those not allowed inside the circle. Jealous minds were small minds.
The Four first got together in the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Ventura, California. Meeting each other was completely unscheduled but, they decided with hindsight, utterly inevitable. They had all gone there, individually, to attend the World Murderabilia Convention, or MurderCon, as it was known to its devotees.
The Landscape Gardener and the Accountant had been to a MurderCon before, in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Detroit, Michigan, respectively. For the Jeweller and the Librarian it had been a step into the unknown, one they’d ached to do for years.
They weren’t the only Brits in attendance, there were maybe a dozen in all among the hundreds of convention attendees. But they were most committed. They didn’t know it but all they had to do was find each other.
The con took over the top floor of the hotel, the Bay View, as it was called, with its two large meeting rooms, adjoining corridors and views over the Pacific towards the Channel Islands. Down below, people walked on the wide, sandy beach and others walked dogs or threw Frisbees in the ninety-degree October heat. On the Bay View, they had no interest in such things. They had eyes only for what was on display.
There were stalls all over the top floor, conveniently out of sight of the tourists and the honeymooners. Everyone who turned a coin by selling murderabilia was selling it there. It wasn’t all on display, some objects being too sensitive to be laid out for everyone to see.
The entire floor buzzed with collectors, mostly men, some more serious and knowledgeable than others. Some strange types among them for sure, some you wouldn’t trust to watch your dog for fear they’d eat it, but plenty of ordinary, decent individuals too.
The Jeweller and the Landscape Gardener were the first of them to make contact, a wary conversation at the bar on hearing each other’s accent. They teased it out of each other at first, hesitant admissions of things collected and how they did it. With each drink and each disclosure, they became a little bolder, a little more boastful, hinting at things of interest. After an hour, they knew they were cut from the same cloth, a darkness that recognised a mate. They maybe weren’t yet ready to voice that mutual recognition but both sensed it.
The next morning, nursing agreeable hangovers, they were admiring a stand that had three human skulls, each on offer for a reasonable $1,500. The stallholder said the bleached, grinning skulls were imported from India and they’d be smart to buy before laws were tightened and prices went up. The Jeweller and the Landscape Gardener stood in captivated silence, comfortable enough now in each other’s presence to unashamedly stare, their obvious rapture unconcealed.
‘You have to wonder how they died,’ said a voice from behind them. The accent made them flinch as much as the rudeness of the interruption. It was English, London probably. Close enough to be immediately uncomfortable.
‘Murder or natural causes? What do you think?’ The newcomer stared at the skulls as fiercely as they did. ‘Something grisly, I’d reckon.’
The Jeweller and the Landscape Gardener had swapped quick glances. Accept or retreat? They decided to give him a chance.
‘You think or you hope that it was grisly?’ the Landscape Gardener tested him.
The man shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Both. Chances are it was and it would definitely be more interesting, don’t you think?’
They did. And they said so. The Accountant joined their company, another like mind welcomed.
It was later that afternoon that the Jeweller got talking to the Librarian. They found themselves after the same item: a shirt that had belonged to Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker. The Librarian was trying not to let the stall-holder see how keen he was, feigning uninterest only to be called on it by the seller, who informed him that ‘another Brit’ was going to come back with an offer. The Jeweller duly appeared, having seen the Librarian hovering around Ramirez’s black shirt.
The seller was delighted of course, and managed to jack up the price, eventually selling it to the Librarian for way more than either of them had intended to pay. The Jeweller had conceded defeat with a handshake and an offer to join him and some friends for a drink. The Librarian, already drunk on victory, happily agreed.
They took a table outside, far from the crowd, the four of them sitting on a pair of brown wicker couches, drinking ice-cold beers and being careful not to be overheard. It was bland at first, cautiously so, much to the frustration of each of them. The Accountant tried to push it a little but the trust wasn’t there yet, and the others were still wary.
It was only when the Jeweller casually dropped Dennis Nilsen into conversation, to see what reaction he got, that they began to talk properly. It was a potential bomb, but he’d preferred to think of it as sending a hare running across a minefield. He saw heads lift and eyes dart right and left. He saw interest. A fevered discussion erupted over how idiotic Nilsen was to block the drains with the body parts of his victims, how surely he should have seen that coming. There was no debate about the morality of what he’d done before that. Killing and dismembering were fine; stupidity was criminal.
The Landscape Gardener picked up on that and tried his own luck with a mention of Fred and Rose West, joking – and yet not – that they were his favourites. That got knowing nods and encouraging laughs. That drew them all closer to the table. Did any of them have a brick from the demolition of Cromwell Street, the Jeweller asked quietly. One by one, they all gleefully confirmed that they did. Maybe they should put them together and build a monument, the Librarian suggested. That got a big laugh and some murmurs of, ‘No we really should.’
Little by little, they opened up. Just a window cracke
d here, a door ajar there. The Accountant brought up Jack the Ripper and they all groaned. Cliché, they chorused, old-hat and overrated, thrills for tourists. They then all displayed detailed knowledge of each victim, each potential Jack. There was a full hour’s discussion of Kosminski, Ostrog, Gull, Maybrick and the rest, every opinion fiercely held and contested. Jack might have been overhyped but he still represented the Holy Grail of murderabilia. They all craved a piece of Jack.
They wanted more than Jack, though. They wanted Manson and Bundy, Dahmer and Tobin and Gacy. They trotted out names and nicknames as if they were on TV commercials, citing Andrei Chikatilo, Gary Ridgway, David Berkowitz a.k.a. the Butcher of Rostov, the Green River Killer, Son of Sam. The four of them wanted more, much more, but were still shy of saying so, still wary of showing their all.
They were close though and getting closer. It wasn’t just that they shared nationality. It was much more than that. There were those other eight Britons in and around the hotel for a start. At one point, they had to stop talking because a thirty-something car salesman from Wolverhampton named Lewis joined them uninvited, telling them how he could make just as much money from murderabilia as he could from second-hand cars. His grubby greed wasn’t their mindset at all.
Others, like a shy shadow from North Wales, seemed overwhelmed by the whole convention and had clearly overreached himself. He was the type who had an interest in Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac Killer but it began and ended with wanting an answer to the mysteries. He just didn’t get it.
There were Americans who came to it from the same viewpoint they did. It was obvious in their eyes and in the hunger of their voices, but they were still different. Too loud or too creepy, too brash or too dangerous or just too American. They all agreed they didn’t like how the Americans dressed, lurid shirts and comically bad T-shirts with murderous puns. It was as if they were publicly revelling in it, showing off. Not British at all and not what they wanted.
It was partly what drew them closer, not just being the same as each other but being different from the locals and despising them. They were a group, they were separate from the herd. Maybe, just maybe, they could soon let it all go in front of each other.
By the Sunday evening it had happened. They’d all talked enough, trusted each other just enough, that they agreed to get together and see how much they truly had in common. They hired a private function room, ordered two bottles of bourbon, a bucket of ice and four glasses from reception. They locked the door and drank and talked. By three a.m., they’d told each other everything, all relishing the freedom of speaking without shame. By the time the first rays of morning light warmed the sands of Tortilla Flats another two hours later, they’d made a plan and a pact. They were the Four.
CHAPTER 49
Her mind was tumbling with everything she’d learned, or at least thought she had. She struggled to make sense of what was real, what was in her own bruised imagination and what had come from someone else’s.
She searched for anything on Big Sleep or the Four but still she read anything and everything she could find on Martin Welsh. The Internet was so layered that there was information inside information. It had to be dug out like bones from the earth.
Martin was officially declared dead fifteen years after he disappeared. His mother accepted it with great reluctance, never wanting to give up on her son or accept the truth, if that was what it was. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that she’d been persuaded to do it so that insurance and compensation could be paid out. Everything about Jean Welsh screamed proud, and it must have cut her deep to have done what was necessary.
It was after that that the family carried out a ‘burial’ in Calderrigg Cemetery and put up a headstone so there was somewhere to visit and pay respects. One interview suggested Jean never visited because she knew her son wasn’t there.
Narey found an article on Michael Hill, the lorry driver from Jedburgh who’d been interviewed after seeing Martin at the bus stop. It was ten years after the boy went missing and he was still angry at having being named and far from pleased at being interviewed.
He had a family and a job and he was very keen to keep both. He made it clear that being in the newspapers again wasn’t helping that.
Above all, he made clear that he was innocent. She’d heard that before, but this guy was adamant. He resented even being asked about it.
He’d seen Martin, he wasn’t denying that for a second. He’d gone to the police after seeing the newspaper photographs. He’d wanted to help any way he could. He had two daughters of his own and couldn’t imagine what the parents were going through. Ten years on, he still couldn’t.
He’d gone through hell back then at being suspected. The cops had treated him right, apart from a couple of them, and he knew why they’d done it, but it was rough. People pointed at him in the street and he knew they were whispering behind his back and making up all sorts of nonsense.
Michael just wanted to put it all behind him. If he could do anything, say anything, remember anything to help Martin’s parents then he would. But he’d told the police everything at the time and they either listened or they didn’t.
He went thought it again, however reluctantly. How he’d seen Martin standing at the bus stop. He’d had to pull to a stop because there was a car turning right in front of him and he had to wait while it got room to turn.
If there was a particular reason he remembered the boy it was that he was staring into space. He remembered laughing at how dozy he seemed, not a care in the world, not noticing the lorry or the car or anything at all.
The car in front got a space and it turned and Michael drove on his way. He’d gone a bit, taken a look back in his mirror at the boy still daydreaming. And the only thing he could remember that might be any use at all to the police was the sight of a white van approaching the bus stop.
The van went past and was behind his lorry for a bit, then it was gone. He looked and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that it had turned round. It may have turned right or left but there was a white van going back the other way.
He wasn’t saying it was the same van. He was saying it may have been.
The bedroom door opened and Tony was walking towards the bed before she knew it. She had been so deep in the article she hadn’t heard the front door open or close. Now he was feet away and getting closer.
She couldn’t close the laptop without looking ridiculously suspicious, so could only hope he wouldn’t look at what she was viewing. Fat chance.
He leaned over the laptop to kiss her and saw the article writ large on the screen, the lorry driver staring back at him. His face dropped.
‘What did we say about leaving this alone? I thought we’d been through it.’
‘We had. And . . . remember the yellow wallpaper? That still holds good. You wouldn’t like me if I was crazy.’
‘Not funny. You really think you can find something new in that case after all these years? I feel pretty shit for talking to Jean Welsh as if I can do something when there’s barely a chance in hell that we can.’
She got annoyed at him for saying it. He may have been right, but this was her thing. Why couldn’t he just leave her to it? She snapped at him. Again.
‘There’s no chance of doing anything if you believe that. This is my job, not yours, and I feel there is something more in this.’
‘You feel it?’
‘Yes! This Martin Welsh stuff didn’t just come up again after all these years for no reason. It’s come up because there is a connection to this other shit. I just don’t know what it is yet.’
He didn’t answer and she looked up to see him staring at the screen, brow furrowed.
‘What is it?’
‘Can you enlarge that picture?’
‘This guy? The lorry driver?’
‘No. The other one.’
She hit the key combination and made the other photo bigger if grainier. He studied it.
‘What the hell is it?’ she de
manded.
He looked confused but sounded certain.
‘That photo. It’s him. It’s the collector, Robert Dalrymple.’
‘What? You sure?’
He frowned and looked again, closer this time. ‘Yes, I’m sure. He’s much older but I’m sure it’s him. Add the glasses, more weight, thinner hair. It’s him.’
‘Christ.’
‘Why? Who is it?’
She swallowed and lifted her head to look at him.
‘That is the teacher who was prime suspect for murdering Martin Welsh. That’s Alastair Haldane.’
CHAPTER 50
The Sharon Tate dream was the sort where you were aware on one level that you were asleep and that it wasn’t real. It’s called lucid dreaming but at the time it seems no less real for knowing it for what it is.
So, when Rachel saw the blonde-haired woman standing with her back to her on the other side of the room, she now knew from experience who it was and what it was. Long before she walked away, before she turned half round and then disappeared into the blue wall. She knew. It was Sharon.
It was coming to her almost nightly, infecting and disturbing her sleep. Sometimes, she wouldn’t know if she was dreaming or dreaming that she was dreaming. There was a spiral of confusion and fear that would end only when she woke gasping and distressed.
She saw her now, standing there and facing the other way. If she could see Sharon it meant she was dreaming, it meant she was asleep and safe, but that knowledge didn’t help. She dreaded what was coming, the dress turning red and the dripping blood and her own bleeding, her baby bleeding out of her.
Turn round, she urged her. Turn round, Sharon. Please. If you turn round just this once then I’ll see your face and it will all be okay. You won’t die and I won’t bleed and my baby won’t die. Turn around. Just once.
And she did.
This couldn’t be a dream because Sharon never turns around in the dream.
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