Murderabilia

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Today, those officers got a breakthrough. They spotted Aiden walking along Gibson Street and then turning into Kelvin Way just after midnight. He walks past where I am standing now, into the park and is then never seen again.

  ‘DCI Denny Kelbie is the man leading the investigation into Aiden’s death and joins me now.’

  Narey’s teeth clenched as the little shite appeared on her screen.

  ‘DCI Kelbie, do you see this as a breakthrough in the McAlpine case?’

  ‘Caroline, this is a significant development, something that we have worked hard to achieve, and I think it sheds much light on what may have happened to Aiden that night. There is much work still to be done, but your viewers can rest assured we will not rest until it is completed.’

  Smug little shite.

  ‘Please talk us through what you think happened the night Aiden was murdered, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Of course. As you say, we picked him up on camera as he walked along Gibson Street and watched him turn into Kelvin Way. He entered the park alone, wearing the clothes that were found with him the following morning. We have studied footage from the camera covering this entrance for several hours after the time Aiden entered. He did not leave from here. We have similarly looked at other cameras and there is no sign of him leaving the park alive.’

  ‘Do you believe he was murdered within the park?’

  Kelbie looked grave. ‘I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, Caroline, but it’s safe to say we are exploring the possibility of that being the case.’

  Caz Denton furrowed her brow in a way that Narey had seen her do many times. She was going to ask the question.

  ‘Chief Inspector, the park has a somewhat lurid reputation in the evenings, particularly after dark, particularly after midnight.’

  Kelbie squirmed a bit but nodded. ‘It does, yes.’

  ‘In fact, it is known for being a refuge for drug addicts and sexual activity between gay men. Do you believe it was either of those pursuits that led Aiden to enter the park after midnight?’

  Kelbie blanched and stumbled. ‘There is no suggestion that Aiden McAlpine was a recreational drug user. A comprehensive analysis was done on his blood and there was no evidence whatsoever of illegal substances.’

  Caz started at him and waited for him to continue. When he just swallowed awkwardly instead, she moved in.

  ‘So you are saying he might have been here to meet men for sex?’

  He frowned as if disapproving of the question but Narey wasn’t buying it. ‘That would be unhelpful speculation, Caroline. We have no knowledge of that being the case and certainly wouldn’t present it to the media before knowing it to be true.’

  Caz had the merest hint of a smile on her face as the camera swung back to her. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. So, Bill, these are the latest dramatic developments on the murder of the son of MSP Mark McAlpine. A tragic story which clearly has much yet to give us. Now, back to you in the studio. This is Caroline Denton for Scottish Television, outside Kelvingrove Park.’

  So there it was. Kelbie had laid out the McAlpine murder as a gay slaying. And yet he hadn’t, of course, said so.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Narey shouted at the TV. ‘Bollocks! Complete bollocks.’

  Or was it? McAlpine being killed for going after rent boys or whatever Kelbie was alluding to didn’t match up with her own ideas, but that didn’t make it wrong. Kelvingrove – of course you’d think along those lines. And if you were Kelbie you’d think it to the exclusion of everything else. She needed another viewpoint from inside the investigation.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Rico. How’s it going?’

  ‘Hey, Mum. Sorry, but I’m working just now.’ He paused as if listening. ‘Okay, okay. Give me a minute.’

  She heard him walking, probably just far enough away that he couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘Are you trying to get me sacked, boss?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘First thing that came to mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to know why. So what’s happening. Was the McAlpine kid gay?’

  ‘Yes. Not that anyone gives a toss about that one way or another. We’ve asked around his friends and it seems he was but kept it quiet because of his father. Who didn’t know, before you ask.’

  ‘And of course Kelbie thinks that’s why he was murdered.’

  ‘He likes the line. He doesn’t like that he’s had to sell that to the father, who’s gone apeshit. But Kelbie thinks paying for it in the park at night is why the son was killed, yes.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  She heard him sigh heavily. Rico didn’t like guessing.

  ‘I think you shouldn’t be asking me. You’re off limits. And I don’t know. Crawling into the park at that time and not crawling out again? Hard to ignore it.’

  ‘But then hanging him out to dry for the world to see? Doesn’t make sense. Not without some message saying that’s why he’d done it. Some kind of sick warning to others.’

  ‘Why are you even phoning me, boss? What happened to bed rest and quiet recuperation?’

  ‘I’m bored off my tits, Rico. I’m not bothering anyone. Except you. Come on, what’s happening?’

  ‘That’s it. We’re trying to interview some park regulars in case any of them saw Aiden, but they’re not quite so keen to talk to us. Kelbie is rattling cages. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of the softly-softly approach.’

  ‘He’s such a twat.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘What about this body on the mattress?’

  ‘No idea, we’re not on it. I heard Addison’s got it. Strange one, though. All I know is what’s on the news. Kelbie wanted it, I know that much, but the brass said no.’

  ‘Addison. Great.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well there’s no way he’ll tell me anything, will he?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. He’s not a soft touch like me. I better go. Kelbie’s on the prowl. Take it easy, Mum.’

  Rico either hadn’t thought it or he wasn’t willing to share it with her. No one was thinking there was a link? Surely someone must be. Or maybe she’d been in this room too long and was going stir crazy.

  Killed for murderabilia or rent boys? Yes, maybe she was the crazy one. But she had an idea how she might find out.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Station Bar on Port Dundas Road had been Winter and Addison’s local for six years. It was a proper pub and that suited them much better than any of the wine bars, craft breweries, prosecco palaces or gin joints that had sprung up in recent years. When all the hipster dives had shaved off their beards and been turned into nail bars, the likes of the Station would still be standing, as they always had.

  It was rarely a two-pint destination for them. It was a four or six-pint venue, always an even number of course. It was a place to put the world to rights – and their worlds had enough wrongs to demand multiple drinks.

  They’d be guaranteed to be left alone, and that helped. Plenty of the regulars knew what they did for a living but would give them space, either because of or despite that. The pub was named the Station because it served the thirst of the nearby cop shop, fire station and ambulance HQ. Working for the emergency services was very thirsty work.

  It was half past ten before they could meet and that would doubtless mean a competition to see how much they could drink before last orders. And then a sprint to see how much they could get after it.

  Winter turned up to find Addison already posted in the mezzanine with two Guinnesses, one that was already a casualty of war, and two halves of whisky.

  Addison liked a drink. He liked it a lot. Winter often wondered if his friend was borderline alcoholic but usually decided against it. Maybe he was a functioning drunk in the way that much of the city was. He and they were just sociable. Sociable to a point that their livers would grumble with but their working lives could handle. Just.

  ‘Whisky? That kind of day?’

 
Addison shrugged brightly. ‘It’s always that kind of day when you serve at the coalface of justice.’

  ‘Oh Jeezus! It’s one of those nights, is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Just up to my arse in alligators as per usual, and now a new case on top of all the shit I already had to shovel. So how is Rachel? Really. And how are you, wee man?’

  ‘Ach I’m fine. Forget about me. She’s . . . she’s a bit stressed.’

  ‘Let me guess. She’s being a difficult patient.’

  ‘Aye, you could say that. I’m glad to chew on a beer for a while, put it that way.’

  Addison raised his glass in salute. ‘So were you two ever going to tell us she’s expecting? Although, given the time it took you to tell us you were a couple, maybe you were going to tell us just before the kid went to university.’

  Winter shook his head. ‘You know what she’s like. She didn’t want anyone to know until they had to. She wanted to work on as long as she could and, while she was working, she didn’t want anyone to judge her because she was pregnant or make excuses for her because she was.’

  ‘Make excuses for her? She’d more likely have brought some gangster down in between contractions.’

  Winter didn’t laugh and Addison’s face crumpled. ‘Sorry. Just tell me to shut the fuck up.’

  ‘It’s okay. And it’s all going to be okay. It’s down to the doctors. And to her doing what she’s told.’

  ‘Good luck with that. She’s never been good at doing what she’s told. I’ve never managed to get her to do it.’

  He knew Addy was right. She was as stubborn as a blood stain. He still couldn’t get his head round her not being interested in the guy on the mattress. He was, though, and it was why he was meeting Addison now.

  ‘So what’s the new case?’

  Addison took a sup at his pint, pausing mid-gulp to look suspiciously at Winter, wondering why he was asking.

  ‘Mattress Man. I take it you’ve heard about him.’

  Winter admitted that he had.

  ‘Just what I needed. Mattress Man. The floating fatality, the corpse on the Clyde, the cadaver in the current. The body in the Broomielaw? You newspaper types like a good bit of alliteration, don’t you?’

  Winter drew deep on his Guinness. ‘This is my fault somehow, is it?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, wee man. Of course it’s your fault. You’re the media. The news manipulators. My job has just gone from overloaded to batshit crazy all because some poor sod goes for a nap and floats down the water as if Ryanair did cruises. How big are you going to use the picture of the hole in his head?’

  ‘Addy, we didn’t kill him or stick him on the mattress for the whole city to see.’

  ‘No, you’ll just stick it under everyone’s nose till they either puke or demand to see it again. Or both. You’ll make sure it’s on every front page, every news bulletin every hour, every carton of milk and sack of potatoes. You’ll not be happy until there’s mobs on the streets demanding all mattresses be destroyed.’

  Winter sank his Guinness as if it were the Titanic. ‘You want another?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  Winter glanced at the table as he stood up and knew Addison’s whisky would be gone before he returned. He nudged his own glass across the table towards him. ‘I’ll get two more of these as well.’

  ‘Very good. Get me a couple of packets of crisps, too. I may as well have a bar supper while I’m at it.’

  ‘So who’s the guy on the mattress?’

  He got the look of suspicion again but he still got an answer.

  ‘Name of Calvin. Calvin. I mean, seriously. Did his mammy just remember the name from the dad’s boxer shorts and think that was what he was called?’

  The room froze. Or Winter did.

  ‘Calvin?’

  ‘Yeah, as in Klein. This guy was called Calvin Brownlie.’

  Winter didn’t hear much of what was said next. He didn’t know if it was on his face but wasn’t sure how it could not be. Calvin Brownlie. The most public of killings.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ He managed to sound just professionally interested.

  Addison peered at him over the rim of his pint. ‘None of this appears in your rag with any possible suggestion that it came from me, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Okay. Then I don’t really know how I figure it. The eejit disappears from the street and next thing he’s floating on the Silentnight. It’s Glasgow, shit happens. Chances are he’s pissed off the wrong person, maybe shagged some gangtwat’s girlfriend, and he goes for the long cruise on the nearest thing that’s handy.’

  Winter gave that wisdom due consideration and drank.

  ‘Were all his clothes on him as far as you could see?’ Nice, he thought to himself. Subtle.

  Addison actually put down his glass. ‘What?’

  ‘Was there anything missing? Shoes or socks or something?’

  ‘Wee man, what do you actually want to know?’

  ‘I was just wondering . . .’

  ‘Course you were.’

  ‘. . . whether there was anything that maybe should have been there that wasn’t.’ He took a breath. ‘The way that the clothes in the McAlpine killing went missing.’

  Addison’s whisky followed the Guinness as night follows day.

  ‘Are you pumping me for a story or do you already have one?’

  Winter considered the question. ‘Bit of both. I’ve got a line but it needs firmed up.’

  Addison laughed. ‘Wee man, that means you don’t have a story. You have a theory. What is it? You think someone is nicking evidence or selling it?’

  Winter tried to keep the surprise from his face but couldn’t. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Any idea who?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Okay, let me think about that one. There might be something in it. And, if it leads to you getting a story and me finding a link that allows me to have the McAlpine case off Kelbie, then that would be something to drink to.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Another pair of Guinness it is, then. But, before I go buy them, I’m going to test your loyalty, wee man.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  Addison leaned in close to whisper.

  ‘Calvin the Clydeside Corpse? He always wore a watch that had an inscription on it from his mum and dad that they gave him on his eighteenth birthday. Never left home without it. When he was picked up? No watch. Now, if that bit of info ends up in the Standard I’m going to boot your balls from here to Hampden. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  CHAPTER 30

  She wanted to be on the other side of the murderabilia sites, somewhere she could see what was actually going on. In the real world, her normal world, she would know where to go and who to talk to. She’d know who had the skinny and who was full of it.

  That was what she needed now. To talk to those who knew how it worked. Or at least to know who they were.

  None of it made much sense, and she wasn’t confident that she was thinking clearly at all. This room, this bloody room, was strangling her, cutting off the oxygen to her brain. She needed out, one way or another.

  Tony’s computer was in the third bedroom, the one that he used as an office when there was no one staying over, which was most of the time. He used his laptop for day-to-day use but he kept the PC for storage and backup, and it was where all his photographs were. Sick as he was, he’d kept a copy of every photo on every job since he’d begun with the old Strathclyde force.

  Before they’d moved in together, he even had a wall of them in the office of his flat. A neat square of twenty black-framed prints, four rows of five, of ‘special’ jobs. She could never quite decide whether the wall was a reason to dump him or love him. They were stunning in their own way, beautifully shot and grotesquely unnerving.

  They were now all logged in his PC, out of sight but probably not out of his mind. If he could be relied on
for anything, it was his dedication to the organised collecting of his work. Everything would be in there and everything would be in order. That was what she was counting on now.

  She was also banking on the fact that she could read him like a book. The computer was password-protected, not from her as such, but just by habit. Anyone could try to log on.

  She booted it up and waited for the sign-in screen to appear. Password, please. If she knew him at all then she’d be fine.

  She typed ‘Metinides’. The name of his muse, his hero, his inspiration, the Mexican tabloid photographer who chased fire engines and ambulances for over fifty years. Nothing. Hm. She tried again: ‘Metinides1’. She was in. She’d need to remember to have a word with him about security.

  She quickly found files of photographs, tens of thousands of them, but all thankfully searchable by both date and name. She went straight to A and found the person she was looking for. Archibald Atto.

  Atto. Serial killer. Serial liar. A dark and extremely dangerous man. Convicted of four murders and undoubtedly responsible for many more. He’d been in prison for seventeen years but his reputation hadn’t dimmed. This was partly because Atto had worked hard to keep his name in lights over that time, drip-feeding newsworthy hints to police about the extent of his killing. Also, three years ago, she and Winter had managed to con him into divulging the location of two shallow graves where he’d buried young female victims. That had made plenty of headlines.

  Atto had kept a nasty trophy collection, items he’d taken from his prey as souvenirs. He’d kept rings and watches, necklaces and pendants, many of them from girls who had never even been identified. Winter had photographed some, in particular a piece that had once belonged to Atto’s first victim. It was a distinctive, and now quite famous, silver fish brooch.

  Sure enough, there it was in Tony’s files. Photographs of an innocuous little piece of jewellery that Atto had ripped from a twenty-one-year-old named Christine Cormack, after he’d beaten, raped and strangled her. He’d kept it as a piece of ghoulish vanity and that was what finally convicted him of her murder. The brooch’s notoriety was well known but, crucially, it had never been shown publicly.