The original piece was, she was sure, safely locked away, but that didn’t matter. She had a photograph of it from three different angles and, as far as anyone else was concerned, she had the real thing in her possession. As far as the world of murderabilia was concerned, she was going to go online and sell it to the highest bidder.
CHAPTER 31
KillingTime seemed to offer the best chance of finding a way into the UK market as it seemed to specialise in British collectibles more than the others did. She’d previously registered herself as Huntress and now she was going to post her first – and probably only – item for sale.
The wording was tricky but she followed the language used by other sellers and tried to hype it the best she could.
Silver fish brooch.
Once owned by Archibald Atto. Once owned by Christine Cormack.
Extremely rare and sought after item.
100% genuine. Authenticity guaranteed. Starting bid £500.
She uploaded the three photographs, stated that postage would be paid by the buyer, crossed her fingers and pressed enter. Within minutes, her item – fake as it was – was up for sale.
She was still playing Manson’s music while she searched online. Her good intentions to get rid of it had fallen through a dark hole. She played it now while she waited.
Charlie Manson. Sixties singer-songwriter.
After she bought the album, she’d told herself she was playing it because she was wondering what he had to say, whether his lyrics reflected his evil. Whether there had been clues there all the time to show what he was capable of. Truth was, she just couldn’t stop herself.
Dirges and protests, strumming guitar and striving to be the angry, insightful voice of the times. He was a bad man’s Bob Dylan, full of rebellious hippy ideals and his own importance. Some of the titles jumped out of the catalogue. ‘People Say I’m No Good’. ‘Cease to Exist’. ‘Devil Man’. ‘Who to Blame’.
She thought she could hear the malice in his voice but was fully aware her judgement was laced with hindsight. Was she hearing murder? Or hatred? She should be able to recognise psychopathy; it was her job after all. There was definitely rage and resentment, but that was all part and parcel of being a sixties folk singer. Was there more than that, though? She kept playing and kept listening.
Manson’s voice filled her room now, echoing to and from the blue walls. As she searched and watched and waited, Charlie crooned about how he didn’t care what they said and how they could just sit there and burn. He sang about scratching symbols on a tombstone. It was the soundtrack to her day.
He was singing to her as she dipped into a feature of the site she’d either never noticed or had ignored. ‘Wanted’. A section where users could put up their own murderabilia wish list. It was, of course, a haven for crazies.
Someone wanted underwear. Anyone’s, basically, but a murderer’s if possible. Another sought anything connected to a prolific Russian serial killer she’d never heard of until she came to this place. One eejit wanted murder porn.
Wanted: Porn movies featuring female killers. Looking for VHS/DVD of sex tapes involving convicted female serials. Have nice semi-professional tape can sell/swap that has double murderer in various sex acts. Girl in movie is my ex-girlfriend.
She didn’t know where to start with that one, other than wondering why the killer was his ex, but made a mental note to pass it on to the spooks, who could check out the guy’s Internet history. He was a murder or a rape waiting to happen.
There was nothing specific in there that was of any use to her, but she did think she could use it. All she had to do was work out what it was she wanted.
While she did that, Charlie sang to her: ‘Look at your game, girl. Look at your game, girl.’
She’d done some research on KillingTime and knew it averaged around two thousand hits a day. Murder was big business and meant it should be no more than a few minutes before someone clicked on the brooch.
There was a counter on the item description and she sat, her stomach a knot of excitement, and watched it climb. Within half an hour, the brooch had been viewed forty-two times. Something must have kicked in after that, maybe word spreading virally, because after an hour the view counter had hit two hundred and fifty three. She felt the entire murderabilia community was looking on.
She waited and watched. No bids came in despite the watch counter clicking over. Then came the messages.
Along with her newly created username of Huntress came an inbox where buyers or sellers could contact her to ask questions or seek further details. Sure enough, it soon started to fill up, message after message with the same basic theme. Her heart sank as she read them, quickly realising this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped.
Atto’s silver fish? Yeah, right.
You’re trying to sell an item like that on here? You’re either a cop, a reporter or an idiot. Maybe two out of the three.
Who are you kidding?
If you’ve got that, prove it.
If this is real I want it but I’d need to know much more before I parted with money to a newbie.
First item for sale is an Atto trophy? Sure. Sell me Jack the Ripper’s hat while you’re at it.
If you’re for real then you’re in the wrong place. Email me here if you actually have the brooch.
£500 for the silver fish brooch??? I’ll take two.
Smells fishy to me. Or maybe smells like pig.
They weren’t buying it. Neither literally nor metaphorically. The watch counter slowed to a stop. Interest in her Atto brooch was over.
She slumped back onto her pillow, her eyes staring at the ceiling as she closed the laptop over without looking at it. Whom had she been trying to kid? They’d confined her to bed because she wasn’t of any use to anyone. And they’d been right. She couldn’t even con a bunch of freaky collectors that she had something to sell.
Damn it! All she’d succeeded in doing was letting collectors know that someone was noseying into their community. She’d made it harder for herself. Made it worse.
Useless. Amateur. Dreamer. Couldn’t even have a baby properly. Pathetic.
The first grab of pain was somewhere deep in her belly and came with a dizziness that took her breath away. If she hadn’t already been lying down, then she’d likely have keeled over. It spasmed and tightened, doubling her at the waist and scaring her. She didn’t know or care if the tears were from the pain or the fear.
It lasted for only a few moments but that was long enough. She reached for the phone to call him but stopped herself as she felt the pain roll back. Whatever it was it had passed and wasn’t worth worrying him over. But it was sufficient to convince her she had to calm down – and quickly.
She went through the breathing exercises she’d been taught, clearing her mind of murder sites and messages and thoughts of failure, counting to twenty, then thirty, then fifty, steadying herself the best she could. Her pulse settled, her breathing with it until she released a long gasp of relief. It was okay, scary but okay. No harm done.
She sat up, pillows propped behind her, and rubbed a hand idly across her stomach, patting and reassuring. One voice inside her was telling her she had to do less. Another was telling her she had to do better.
The words from the messages came back to her whether she liked it or not.
You’re trying to sell an item like that on here?
If you’re for real then you’re in the wrong place.
On here. The wrong place.
That meant there was a right place. That meant there was somewhere else. Somewhere the likes of the silver fish brooch might be expected to be sold.
Maybe she wasn’t so useless after all.
CHAPTER 32
It was two days later when she heard Tony’s footsteps on the stairs and immediately knew he was angry. His tread was heavy and quick, determined. He was coming straight for her and she didn’t know why. Her mind flew to the things she’d ordered online and she was s
ure he’d found them. This was going to be messy.
The look on his face when he came through the door didn’t encourage her any. He was in control, not ready to rant or rave, but he wasn’t happy. She knew the look.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Not stressed?’
‘No.’
‘Just doing as the doctor instructed?’
Shit. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re definitely not getting stressed?’
‘No.’
‘Quite relaxed?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘Well that’s good to know. So maybe, without getting agitated in any way, you could help explain something to me.’
‘Okay . . .’ She didn’t know where this was going but she was pretty sure she didn’t like it.
He reached into the bag that was slung over his shoulder and brought out a newspaper. He was already turning to an inside page but she caught a glimpse of the front page and saw it was the Sun, not his usual reading choice.
‘Page nine,’ he announced, finding what he was looking for and folding it over so that the page was visible. ‘Family’s fury at Atto Internet sale.’
Shit!
The subheading didn’t make any better reading. ‘Unknown seller cashes in on murder victim.’
Shit!
He looked at her, gauging her reaction, before starting to read the article to her.
‘ “The family of slain 21-year-old Christine Cormack were distraught last night to learn someone was selling her personal items to the highest bidder.
‘ “A brooch worn by the Glasgow girl and taken by her murderer, notorious serial killer Archibald Atto, was offered in a ghoulish online auction.” ’
He stopped and looked up at her again. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Sure, why not?’ She could hear how unconvincing she sounded.
‘Okay. “Christine’s sister, Pamela Kinross, said she was devastated to learn about the sale and condemned the person trying to profit from her sister’s death as heartless and cruel. She said she had to break the news to her elderly mother before she learned of it from someone else.” ’
He pushed the paper closer to her. ‘Do you want to read it?’
‘Tony . . .’
He ignored her. ‘You have to wonder who would do a thing like that. And how they could do it. How they could possibly get their hands on that brooch. But the thing that puzzles me most of all? The photograph that the seller used of the brooch. That was my photograph. Mine. No question about it. Strange, isn’t it?’
She said nothing.
‘Of course, you might think that maybe someone inside Police Scotland has taken the brooch and accessed my photograph from the files to advertise it.’
‘That seems the most likely explanation.’
He smiled. ‘Does it? Why would someone take the risk of stealing it and making it so public? That would be risky and stupid. And also, do you see this mark here on the photograph, just under the brooch? That’s my mark. And it’s only on the copy I kept for myself. Only on the copy that’s in my personal files.’
Shit!
‘Listen—’
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Rachel? Tell me how you could possibly think this was a good idea.’
He was keeping his voice as calm as he could but she could see his hands were tight and his knuckles white.
‘Look, Tony, I know I’ve been taken off this investigation but—’
‘No. No, no, no. Don’t even begin that sentence. Don’t even think of doing this. You’ve been consigned to bed for a reason. You’re ill. You’re at risk. Our baby’s at risk. You cannot do this.’
‘I’m not doing anything. I was told to stay in bed, I’m staying in bed. I’m not going anywhere, not doing anything. But—’
‘No buts. I don’t want to hear it. You are supposed to be relaxing. No stress whatsoever. You agreed you would back away from this murderabilia shit and leave it to me.’
She sighed heavily. ‘I am relaxed. Or I was until you started interrogating me. And I’m relaxed because I’m doing something. Tony, seriously. Doing nothing? It was driving me crazy. It was stressing me. I’m more relaxed now. Honestly.’
His hands went to his head and he turned slowly on the spot. ‘Driving you crazy? What the hell are you trying to do? Jesus, Rachel, that girl’s family . . .’
She had to look away, that was something she ought to have accounted for but had chosen to ignore.
‘Okay, I didn’t mean that and didn’t want that. I didn’t think it all the way through. But, Tony, there is something going on here. I’m on the right track. I know it.’
He was open-mouthed, starting to speak and stopping again. He blew out his cheeks, threw the newspaper onto the bed and walked away, waving a hand at her dismissively as he left the room.
Shit!
Her head fell back onto the pillow and she stared at the ceiling above her. Shit, shit, shit!
She felt absolutely fine. She wasn’t ill, not in any real sense. She’d felt like a fraud lying there. It was no surprise she wanted to work, surely. Surely. How could he not understand that?
The newspaper was staring up at her accusingly from the bed. Family’s fury. Unknown seller cashes in. Sister devastated. Elderly mother.
She picked it up and forced herself to read on.
The brooch, in the shape of a silver fish, has been listed on a site called KillingTime which specialises in the sale of true crime collectibles, or murderabilia as it is known.
A spokesman for KillingTime last night refused to identify the seller, saying that it would breach their user protocol.
Pamela Kinross said that her family had never fully recovered from Christine’s death and that incidents like this only served to reinforce their heartbreak.
‘I don’t understand what kind of person could do this. It seems vindictive to me. People might think this doesn’t hurt anyone but I can assure them that simply isn’t true. My mother is 87 years old and she cried herself to sleep last night.’
Shit!
It was ten minutes before he returned. Ten minutes before he’d calmed down enough to talk to her again.
‘You know why you’ve got to rest, right? You know why I’m not happy with this?’
‘Yes, I know. You’re worried.’
‘Worried? Rachel, I’m terrified. The thought of losing you or the baby . . . I couldn’t cope with either of those things happening.’
‘They won’t happen. Either of them. The doctors are on top of this. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘It’s much more likely to be fine if you do what you’re told. Seriously, what do you think you’re up to? What was this all about?’
She exhaled hard. ‘Sit down. You’re making me anxious pacing around like that. Pull up a chair.’
‘Have you heard of a short story called “The Yellow Wallpaper”?’ she began.
‘No. Should I have?’
‘Probably not. I read it when I was in university. It’s by an American writer called Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Written in the early 1890s. It’s regarded as an important piece of feminist literature. Which probably explains why you’ve never heard of it.’
‘Yeah me being such a sexist dinosaur and all that.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, the story is about a woman whose husband is a doctor and takes her away for the summer to an old mansion he’s rented. He’s convinced her she had depression after giving birth and his treatment involves keeping her in one room of this old house and forbidding her from working. She keeps a journal but hides it from the husband and his sister, who’s the housekeeper.’
He frowned. ‘Am I the husband in this story because if I am—’
‘Shush. So, she can’t get out of the room apart from going to the bathroom. She’s not allowed to do anything. She gets no mental stimulation at all and so she becomes obsessed with the yellow wallpaper in the room.’
�
��Okay . . .’
‘Pretty soon, all she can think about is yellow and yellow things. Not good yellow things like buttercups but “old, foul, bad yellow things”. She fixates over the shapes in the wallpaper, sees the swirls change and move. She sees women hiding round the edges of the pattern and she begins to think she’s one of them. She sees someone hiding on all fours behind the wallpaper.’
‘So she goes crazy.’
She shook her head at his bluntness. ‘Yes, she goes crazy. The husband eventually finds her creeping round the room on all fours, touching the wallpaper. Then she refuses to leave the room and starts to strip the wallpaper to free the woman that’s imprisoned behind it.’
‘And you’re telling me this because . . .?’
‘Because if I don’t have something to keep my brain in gear then I’m going to be circling these walls and scraping that fucking blue paint off with my nails. And you wouldn’t want that, would you? And I might not know where to stop and end up scratching out your pretty blue eyes as well.’
‘Okay, I get that but this . . .’ He waved his hand at the newspaper.
‘I’m not sure you do get it. I’ve been stuck in here and my mind’s had nowhere to go but in on itself and it’s not helping. I’ve been going through these sites . . .’
‘You shouldn’t have been anywhere near it!’
‘Probably not. But I couldn’t help myself. Tony, I can’t just lie here and look at those bloody blue walls. They’re my yellow wallpaper and I’m not going to let them beat me. Let me do something. Help me, watch me, monitor me, whatever you need. But don’t let me start scratching that paint off.’
‘You do realise you sound a bit crazy right now?’
‘Don’t say that!’
She’d shrieked it. Surprised herself as much as him. She saw the wary look on his face and tried to backtrack.
‘Please don’t say that. I’m worried I am going crazy. I keep having these dreams. About Sharon Tate – you know, the actress? I keep seeing her and she’s pregnant and covered in blood and then I’m bleeding and it’s—’
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