Murderabilia

by Craig Robertson

  Old-school. The man had been dead for hours, somewhere between five and ten was Winter’s guess. Nothing particularly scientific, just plenty of practice. The ashen purple of his skin, the rigidity of his limbs and the cold brown of the blood that smeared his face like a kid who’d gorged on chocolate.

  Those were the nuts and bolts of it, the physical engineering that the forensics would be all over. There was more, though, and he couldn’t miss it. Every instinct, old and new, was screaming at him that this was more of the same.

  Whoever had done this had made no attempt to hide the body, far from it. The corpse was left with the intention of its being found. It was all so obviously, deliberately public. Like Aiden McAlpine. Like Calvin Brownlie.

  People stood around Bennan Square and stared. Half-dressed men and women, their morning rituals interrupted by screams and sirens. Winter’s camera froze them as they pointed and gossiped, some with mouths open, others shaking heads in disbelief that it had come to their doorstep. Younger faces were pressed up against windows, banished indoors but wide-eyed and desperate for something to tell at school.

  The only youngsters on the street, two boys in their mid-teens, stood alongside a pair of uniformed cops, looking small and scared in their shadow. One of the two just shook his head sullenly, unable or unwilling to come up with words, his eyes darting nervously round the square. The other boy jabbered away, anxious to be heard, or just to hear it himself.

  Winter caught them in a single frame that he immediately knew was a front-page photograph if only he had the lack of heart to use it. The boys looking at each other, shared fear and excitement, a moment passing between them that no one else could hope to understand.

  In an instant, they disappeared from view as two other figures emerged on the fringes of his lens, getting larger as they marched straight towards him. One had his hand up, ordering Winter to stop and trying to block his view.

  He didn’t know either of them, and that meant his chances of arguing his case were minimal. His time was up. No matter, he had his pictures and he knew what he had to do next.

  There was a cop out there whom he did know – and it was time they talked.

  It took till nearly six before he was able to call, copy written and filed, photographs selected and approved. Addison was still in the station, sounding tired and grouchy, neither of which was particularly unusual.

  ‘Hey, wee man. No, I’m still at the coal face. Been in here for six hours and starting to go stir crazy.’

  Winter thought of Rachel cooped up in the bedroom and threatening to scrape off the paint.

  ‘That’s bad for you. It’s well documented that the mind works better with respite from work and that social interaction increases mental stimulation.’

  ‘Yeah? Next you’ll be telling me that pubs are better than health spas and I can get Guinness on prescription from inhuman resources.’

  ‘They say it’s the perfect cure.’

  ‘The TSB in half an hour?’

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  Winter got there first, two pints poured and guarded at the bar while watching and waiting for a suitable spot to become vacant. He was a third of the way down his pint of black when he saw a couple in the mezzanine start to fiddle with their coats. He was by the table before they’d stood.

  ‘Jump in our graves so quick?’ the man demanded, albeit with what passed for a smile.

  ‘You know what it’s like in here when it’s busy. Got to be fast.’

  The guy just grunted and the woman shook her head at him by way of apology. There hadn’t been any need, though. Winter knew what it was: the age-old local ritual of booze-fed adrenalin that leads to confusing aggression for humour. They’d all been there and worn the war medals.

  Addison was through the door two minutes later and had scooped a mouthful of Guinness in the time it took his coat to fall from his shoulders to the chair. It was the parched supping of someone with more questions than answers.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  Winter mocked indignation, hands wide. ‘Seriously? I can’t ask my best pal out for a beer without him thinking I want something?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Addison repeated. ‘You’re not my best pal any more. You’re a scumbag journalist now, so of course you want something.’

  ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He took another healthy mouthful of the black stuff. ‘Don’t make me ask again. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know about the murder this morning in Govanhill. In Bennan Square.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And why should I do that? I told you how Calvin Brownlie’s watch had gone missing but I get the feeling you’ve been holding out on me. Is that going to change?’

  Winter hesitated but knew he had to give to get. He nodded.

  ‘Ask me, then.’

  ‘What do you make of it? And what about Kelbie? Does he think it’s related to the other two killings? And was there anything missing?’

  ‘You want to know a lot, wee man. But before I answer, I’ve got a question for you.’

  ‘Of course it’s off the record and of course I won’t quote you.’

  ‘I might not have been going to ask that.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes, but I might not have been. Don’t be such a smartarse. Look, I don’t know if the guy in Bennan Square is related to the others but it was the first thing I thought. From what I hear, Kelbie is still convinced Aiden McAlpine was some kind of homophobic killing and is busy trying to keep the MSP happy. Which isn’t proving very easy after you lit a fire under him with those missing clothes. Was there anything missing this morning? Well, maybe. And maybe I shouldn’t tell you.’

  Winter looked back at him. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t. But maybe I do know a few things you don’t. And that Kelbie doesn’t. This could be a two-way thing.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Now that you’re a scumbag reporter, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘I thought it always was.’

  ‘Yeah but now it could actually be useful for me as well as for you. Okay, the guy this morning usually wore spectacles but they weren’t on or anywhere near his body. No one seems to be reading too much into it, just thinking they got knocked off in the struggle prior to him being killed or someone nicked them. You and I know better. Now tell me what you’ve got.’

  Winter told him. Some but not all. That he couldn’t do. Not yet.

  CHAPTER 61

  It felt odd that the only real and regular contact she had with the outside world – the real world, not the strange world she’d recently stumbled into – was someone who didn’t always know who she was.

  She hated the anticipation of the first few moments of a call with her dad. It was the not knowing. Would he recognise her voice? Would he know her name? Would he speak at all?

  Of course, it was the hope that really killed her. Despite all logic and experience telling her otherwise, she knew she made every call with a wish that he’d answer, her old dad, her real dad, the way he was before that evil fucking disease took him. She hoped, but it never was.

  Sometimes, it was nearly him. Enough of him that they could talk and she would smile and be happy for both of them. Those rare golden days.

  It was killing her not to be able to see him, though. Good days or bad days or worse days, it wouldn’t matter so much as long as she could see him and know he was safe and well. As well as he could be. But being able only to hear a voice, a voice that rarely sounded like him, was a damn poor substitute.

  The phone was ringing and she hated the sound of it. The sound of not knowing.

  It clicked and the line was open. There was just silence but that was usual. She had this horrible image of him staring at the receiver not knowing what to do or say. That, sadly, was the norm, but she still had to try.

  ‘Hello. Alan’s room.’

  It was Jess. She’d probably been there and let him try to answer it hims
elf first. She was so good with him. Good enough that Rachel was a bit jealous of it in a way that shamed her.

  ‘Hey, Jess. How is he?’

  ‘Hi, Rachel. He’s okay today. I think it might be good. Hang on.’

  She heard the carer talking to him. It’s Rachel. Your daughter. Rachel.

  ‘Hello?’

  He sounded weak and distant. Fragile. But he’d answered.

  ‘Hi, Dad. It’s Rachel.’

  A long pause.

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. How are you today?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. How are you?’

  ‘I’m okay, Dad. I’m sorry I can’t come to see you today. But I will as soon as I can. Promise.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He didn’t get that. She could tell that he didn’t. He probably wasn’t going to get what she was going to tell him, either. But she had to. It was a golden day. He knew who she was, or seemed to. It could be weeks before she’d get that chance again.

  ‘You’re going to be a granddad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A grandfather. You’re going to be a grandfather.’

  Silence. She thought she knew his confusion. Most frequently, when he knew who she was, he thought she was somewhere between twelve and sixteen, still at school. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I’m having a baby.’

  ‘Oh.’

  More silence. He may have been thinking or could as easily have lost the train of thought altogether.

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Okay. Well, don’t worry. It will all be all right. Me and your mum will help with everything.’

  Tears began to roll down her face. Damn hormones, she told herself.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I knew you’d understand. I love you. Thank you.’

  Silence. Then, ‘For what?’

  She nearly laughed. Their golden moment had shone so fleeting and bright. She didn’t want to ruin it. Not today.

  ‘Bye, Dad, I love you.’

  She waited and hoped, as she always did. She told herself it didn’t matter if he got it and if he replied the way she wanted. She knew he loved her and that wasn’t changed by his illness or how he was on any given day or at any given hour. She particularly told herself that on the days when he didn’t answer or when he asked who she was. Those days when a little bit of her heart was broken off.

  It didn’t really matter if he said it back. Not really.

  ‘Bye, Rachel. I love you too.’

  Oh, it mattered. It mattered all kinds of everything.

  CHAPTER 62

  Nathan wasn’t a – what was the word? – pyromaniac, that was it. He wasn’t one of those. He didn’t get a hard-on from starting fires like some nutcase. But he knew what he was doing.

  He’d even been paid for it in the past and there was good money in it. You’d maybe think any idiot could start a fire and that was probably true. But doing it and getting away with it, that was a different thing altogether. He’d done it often enough and clean enough that those who needed things done knew that he was a man they could trust to do it right.

  It was just the same as calling a hit on someone or getting a new bathroom put in. You got a pro, not some amateur who’d only set you back a pocketful of change. He was as good as any pro.

  The thing with fire, though, is you’ve got to respect it. Don’t do that and you get your fingers burned. Fire is a wild fucking beast and, like any animal, you’ve got to be the boss. Take control but respect what it can do. Fear what it can do. Most people think they know how powerful fire can be but they don’t, not until they have to confront it. It’s the most powerful weapon in the world if you use it right; almost impossible to stop once it gets going. It can take out hundreds, even thousands, of miles of forest and you can’t kill it. It can make a building disappear.

  The real beauty with fire is that accidents do happen. People get careless, they get drunk, they knock things over. Any number of ways a fire can start. If you’re bothered about cops or anyone else not knowing it was murder, then fire is a good way to go.

  The cops might suspect it’s murder but knowing it and proving it are other things and they can’t do that if it’s done right. Any idiot can start a fire but a pro can make it look like an accident.

  Nathan never felt bad for any of the places he torched any more than he did for any of the people he killed. They were just bricks and mortar, concrete coffins. It didn’t matter to him what they looked like or how old they were. Usually, they were just figures on an insurance form, pounds and pence waiting to be counted. Some places actually deserved to be burned, though. Like this one. A horrible low bungalow, its dreary walls pebble-dashed in rainy grey, all the windows the same and with the same curtains drawn closed on every one. It was like a dead whale with its eyes shut.

  A single small sign was all that declared its purpose. Clober Nursing Home. One of God’s waiting rooms.

  Nathan didn’t know how many coffin dodgers were inside and he didn’t particularly care. All that mattered was that people didn’t leave the place. Once they were in, they were in to stay. So he could be confident that the person he wanted to be in there would be.

  He’d watched the place long enough to be sure they had all settled down for the night. The odd lamp still burned but most were in sleeps that they’d likely never rise from. It would be a blessing, for whatever that was worth.

  For old codgers like them, fires must be a regular risk. Very forgetful, very careless. Just close their eyes for a minute and they drop off. Not that it mattered if anyone knew it was deliberate. As long as one person was fairly sure that it was.

  There was just one fire exit in the building. That and the front door and windows were the only way out. The front door was also his most likely way in. A place like this – why would anyone want to break in and why would anyone bother with heavy security?

  It was easy prey. A steal down the darkened path, a bit of specialist plastic in the jamb, a wiggle or two and he was inside. Nice and quiet, just in case.

  You need three things to start and sustain a fire. It’s what they call the fire triangle. Oxygen, a fuel source and heat. One, two, three, go. That’s your basic fire.

  To really get a blaze you up the stakes. You make sure two of the factors are on your side as much as possible. Up the fuel load, increase the oxygen content. The first you do by adding flammable material or adding an accelerant. The second by opening windows to get an air flow.

  As he padded round the care home in the near dark, he knew how simple this was going to be. Plenty of combustible material. Curtains, furniture, bedding. Plenty of accelerants too. Nail polish remover, hair lacquers, cleaning products, maybe some alcohol. He was going to keep this simple.

  He moved to the heart of the building, hearing the low hum of sleeping humans around him. Smoke alarms dotted the ceiling but he doubted they would beat the speed of his fire. There were two fire extinguishers, but they wouldn’t come close to matching the fire’s power.

  He opened the door to a large open-plan space that he assumed worked as a day room. Sofas and chairs, a television set, a side table with tall, white candles on it. This was the place.

  Taking the bottle from the inside pocket of his jacket, he unscrewed the top and splashed the contents freely over one of the sofas and the carpet around it, trailing it towards the door. Once the path was set, he opened two of the windows. The better the air flow the better he liked it. Going back to the centre of the room, he struck a match and lit the candles on the table, which was no more than a foot away from the couch. He watched them burn for a few moments, enjoying the anticipation. They were a convenient starting point, enough to put doubt in the mind of the fire investigators, but he’d have found another way if he’d needed to.

  With a gloved hand, he nudged one candle into the other causing it to topple onto the sofa and the flame to bite into the douse
d fabric. Sparkle time.

  He stepped to the side, ready to flee, ready to help the fire on its way if it was needed. There was no need. It began with a low rumble and quickly grew to a cough and a bark. Flames jumped and the fire was on.

  He made his way quickly to the door, making sure he would outpace the heat that was racing at his heels. He pushed the door wide and paused in the corridor just long enough to open another window and lay the contents of another bottle of liquid along the carpet before leaving through the front door.

  He stood in the shadows of the trees in the road opposite the nursing home and watched. There. There it was. The first curl of yellow flame rising above the height of the windowsill. And there. The first pane of glass blown out by the heat.

  Nothing would stop it now. It would eat the building alive.

  CHAPTER 63

  The first scream came well after the first window had blown out. A high-pitched female shriek from the member of the night staff who heard the smoke alarm first. Not the alarm in the day room, because it had been switched off, but one towards the rear of the home. By that time, the fire was thriving. By that time, it was virtually unstoppable.

  Jess Docherty threw back her bedroom door and was greeted by searing heat and flames licking at the walls. The scream burst out of her and she began to retreat back into her room for her own safety before she realised what she had to do. She banged on the bedroom door of the other person working nights, Maggie Dornan, just a few feet down the corridor.

  The woman emerged, dazed but wide-eyed and quickly let loose a scream of her own.

  ‘Get them out!’ Jess roared at her. ‘We’ve got to get them out!’

  Maggie looked terrified and lost, tears streaming down her face. She screamed again and Jess slapped her.

  ‘Open the doors, wake them up and get them out.’

  Maggie nodded, but it took a shove from Jess before she moved, thumping on the nearest door and opening it. All along the corridor they went, heads low trying to avoid the smoke that curled its way into their lungs.