‘The Four won’t be buying anything from you any more. They’re being arrested. It’s probably done by now.’
His surprise quickly morphed into a shrug. ‘No matter. Someone else will pay. There’s always someone else.’
‘If you kill a cop, they’ll never stop till they find you.’
‘I don’t care. Don’t you get it? I don’t care. I’m dying. Just like you’re going to. And I want to be known. I want to be remembered for a hundred years.’
‘Remembered for being a murderer?’
‘It’s what I am. People can’t fight their nature. Even if they can’t be lions like me, then they’re vultures, circling overhead till they get their own piece of the carcass. That’s what people are. Lions or vultures. Or carcass. Like you.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
She forced herself to stretch despite the pain so she could keep her head high and her eyes on him. Her left arm protectively cradled her stomach and she said a silent apology to her unborn child for what was about to happen. She wasn’t sure she had time to rip the bedcovers back so she waited, letting him get closer and closer before she pulled the trigger and shot through them.
The noise was tremendous. The man staggered back with a look of shock plastered across his face and a growing hole in his chest. She swept the covers back with her left hand, raising the gun she’d had hidden there and aimed again. The cramps stabbed at her, causing her jaw to clench, her teeth biting down hard. She squeezed the trigger and another bullet blasted into him, knocking him off his feet.
You can buy anything on the dark web, and she’d bought a gun.
She was thrown back, too, hitting the mattress hard as her breathing convulsed into rapid irregular bursts. The pain was crippling her and she was sure she was going to pass out. Breathe for two, she told herself. Breathe for two. Count and breathe.
The black continued to close in but she managed to twist her body so that she could crawl to the edge of the bed and peer over, the gun still shaking in her right hand. He was sprawled, one leg tangled beneath his body, his arms wide. By his side, the knife lay like a stain on the bedroom carpet.
He was dead. Eyes wide, mouth open. His blood leaked from him. There was what seemed to be a crooked smile on his face.
Inside her, something curled into a ball and hid. She let her eyes close and gave in to the dark that swamped her, falling deep and deeper till the gun slipped from her hand and hit the floor. It bounced once but no one heard it.
EPILOGUE
WINTER-NAREY. On 23 September to Rachel and Tony, a daughter, Alanna. Mother and child doing well, father extremely tired.
NAREY. Died on 2 May, Alan Morton Narey, retired Detective Inspector of Central Scotland Police. Beloved husband of Christine and father of Rachel. Memorial service 15 December at the University of Glasgow.
MR A. WINTER AND MS R. L. NAREY. The marriage took place on Friday, 2 December, between Anthony, son of the late David Winter and the late Maureen Winter, and Rachel Louise, daughter of the late Alan Narey and the late Helen Narey.
AVAILABLE. Starting bids £5,000. A white Ford Transit van once belonging to Nathan Phimister. Provenance guaranteed. Other items relating to same individual may be available on request.
Acknowledgements
I owe a huge vote of thanks to a number of people, including family and friends, for their support and encouragement during the writing of this book. In particular, to my wonderful editor Jo Dickinson and all at Simon & Schuster; to my indefatigable agent Mark “Stan” Stanton; and to my partner, the astonishing Alexandra Sokoloff. Many thanks too to Tim Sheppard for finding Rachel Narey’s mother when she was lost.
The heart of this book was written far from Glasgow, in the mountains above Temecula in southern California. My thanks go to Dorland Mountain Arts Colony for the gift of such a beautiful and peaceful place to work.
Research for Murderabilia inevitably meant delving directly into its world. In that, I was helped by people I cannot name from whom I bought things I cannot mention. However, my debt is to the victims, such as Sharon Tate, rather than to those who stole their lives. This book is for them.
During his 20-year career in Glasgow with a Scottish Sunday newspaper, Craig Robertson interviewed three recent Prime Ministers and attended major stories including 9/11, Dunblane, the Omagh bombing and the disappearance of Madeleine McCann. He was pilloried on breakfast television, beat Oprah Winfrey to a major scoop, spent time on Death Row in the USA and dispensed polio drops in the backstreets of India. His debut novel, Random, was shortlisted for the CWA New Blood Dagger and was a Sunday Times bestseller.
Also by Craig Robertson
In Place of Death
The Last Refuge
Witness the Dead
Cold Grave
Snapshot
Random
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
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Copyright © Craig Robertson, 2016
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