Murderabilia

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Sorry, Dan.’

  ‘Don’t be. Looking like a dinosaur is one of my best disguises. They never see me coming. As for where you’d go to buy or sell something dodgy online, have you heard of the dark net? Sometimes called the dark web or deep web?’

  ‘I think so. Yes.’

  ‘That’s where you need to go.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘Ha. No. Nowhere near it. And that’s where you should go. Nowhere near it. What’s this all about, Rach? And I’m not buying it’s just to stop you from being bored. That’s what The Jeremy Kyle Show is for.’

  ‘I’ve been nosing around and there’s something that interests me. Think it will interest you, too.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Martin Welsh.’

  ‘The bus-stop boy?’

  ‘Did you work the case?’

  ‘No, but I know guys who did, and I follow it as close as any of my own. Like every cop, every parent, did. If you’re a certain age, it’s a huge case.’

  ‘What if I said I might have a lead?’

  Danny whistled. ‘I’d say I’ll be at yours in half an hour. Don’t bother putting the kettle on, I’ll do it when I get there.’

  ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Nineteen seventy-three. That spring and summer, it was all about Martin. The boy was everywhere. Plenty of us were hoping to get the call to join the investigation but it didn’t come for me. I still read everything I could, watched every news bulletin, talked to everyone I knew who was working the case. You couldn’t help but think it might as easily have been one of your own.’

  ‘Who did you like for it at the time?’

  He shrugged his big-bear shoulders. ‘It was all secondhand guessing. Not my favourite way of policing. But . . . I never liked the father. Alex Welsh just came across as a quick-tempered, violent, cowardly little sod. I didn’t believe he was grieving the way he should. The way I know I would have. The mother was a wreck, a strong, strong wreck, but she was bleeding. The dad wasn’t.’

  ‘That’s Scottish men and women for you.’

  ‘Ha. Maybe, aye. Also, I know I’d have liked to have spoken more to the lorry driver, Michael Hill. It seemed awfully convenient to me that he was there at just that time and no one could know if the boy had got in or not. Nothing more to go on than that.’

  ‘What about Alastair Haldane?’

  ‘He was the popular choice, certainly. Quite a few of the cops on the case thought it was him but they had nothing much to go on. It was mainly local gossip and circumstantial. There was more than a whiff of mob rule about it. They did everything short of standing at the school gates with pitchforks. He didn’t do it for me, though.’

  ‘You don’t think he killed Martin?’

  ‘Like I say, I don’t like guessing, but no. I don’t think he did. He was just a bit weird and people had him convicted because of that. What do you make of this guy Dalrymple?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I don’t like the way he’s so desperate to get things connected to Martin. My instincts tell me there’s something there.’

  ‘Mine too. So talk me through it some more, this thing you shouldn’t be doing. I’m getting that it’s all about crime collectibles, this Dalrymple plus Tony trying to buy the McAlpine kid’s clothes from the guy at Hampden, but what do you actually think is going on here?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Danny. I’ve had my head stuck in this thing so deep that I can’t see out again. Maybe I’m just stir crazy. Or plain old-fashioned crazy. I’ve not been sleeping and, when I have, the dreams are weird. Really weird.’

  ‘One thing I’m sure of: you’re not crazy. Now, tell your old Uncle Danny all about it.’

  ‘So how do I get into the dark web?’

  ‘Well, first of all you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But, if you do, you need special software for a start. Everything is encrypted to the nth degree. There’s no way to hack it without the software.’

  ‘Where do I get it?’

  She heard him breathe out hard. ‘You don’t. I know a man who can get it. Leave it with me. I must be off my head but I’ll sort it. Even then, though, you’re still going to have to find a way into the places you want. You’ll need passwords and an invitation.’

  ‘Okay, let’s worry about them later. What am I going to find when I get in there?’

  ‘It’s a vipers’ nest. You can buy anything you want on there. It doesn’t matter how illegal, how dangerous, how immoral, you can get it. Guns, drugs, sex, kids, those bastards trade in the worst of human depravity. It’s unpoliced but guarded like Fort Knox. When the cyber cops do catch up, which isn’t often enough, then they start again like cockroaches after a nuclear holocaust. My advice, which I know you’ll ignore, is not to go near it. You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Which is why I’m asking you.’

  ‘I don’t know either. I know about it but not how to operate in there. It’s a different world. If you do go in, go slow. And watch your back.’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m going into another country.’

  ‘Worse. It’s another world. Listen, you can be anyone you want on the dark net. Do anything you want. All you have to do is pay for it; all you need is to know where to look. But the problem with being anyone you want is that people make bad choices.

  ‘You think people act bad on the Internet because they’re unknown? It’s nothing compared to the dark side. It’s depressing, Rachel. The way people act when they can be assured of being and remaining anonymous. They don’t act well. They act very, very badly.

  ‘Listen, we try to kid ourselves on that people are basically good, but the way they behave in the dark web tells us it’s not true. The only thing that encourages them to behave decently is the fear of being caught. When that risk is removed, they revert to the animals they are.’

  ‘Danny, I’m bringing a child into this world. I can’t let myself believe it’s that bad.’

  He shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, love. But there’s only one reason the deep web is dark. And that’s because human nature is dark. We’ve both seen enough of it to know that’s true.’

  She stared at him, hiding herself from the truth. ‘So you can get me the software. But what about passwords and an invitation?’

  He looked grim. ‘Well, there might be a way.’

  CHAPTER 38

  It had been three years since Danny stood in the rain-lashed tarmac car park in front of HMP Blackridge along with Tony and wondered what awaited them inside its tall, grey walls. The weather was the same that day as this, although you’d have got very short odds from a bookie on its being any different. His sense of foreboding was the same, too.

  He hadn’t been convinced Atto would agree to see him, nor was he sure he wanted him to. The man was a monster, convicted of the murder of four young women but undoubtedly guilty of killing many others. Danny couldn’t look at him without wanting to rip his head off.

  He and Tony had gone to see Atto when a string of murders took place in the city that mimicked the Red Silk killings of the early seventies. These were crimes that Danny had investigated back then and that Atto was thought to be responsible for.

  He turned his collar to the rain and let his mind wander inside, thinking what kind of reception he might get. Quite possibly, Atto was going to spit in his face and send him back on his way. Danny checked the time and knew there was nothing else to be done. He had to go in and he had to do it now.

  The guard who led him to the visiting room had remembered him from a previous visit. A stocky guy with a bald bullet head and a scowl stitched to his face. He instructed him to sit at one side of the table and to keep his hands in sight at all times. When the forty-five-minute session was over, the prisoner would exit the room but Danny would remain seated. Did he understand? He did.

  When the door to the room slid back, there was a sense of the man even before he was seen. There was a pause, quite probably for dramatic effect, befor
e Atto stole into view. He was the same unremarkable everyman he’d always been but he looked distinctly older. More lines in his face and more grey in his hair, heavier too. He sat down and slowly made himself comfortable before he deigned to look at his visitor. He was making the point that he had the power.

  When he finally lifted his head, his dark, dead eyes drifted over Danny as if measuring him for a coffin.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Neilson. You never write, you never call . . . It’s almost as if you don’t care.’

  Mister Neilson. Atto liked to remind Danny that he wasn’t a cop any more. Any little edge he could find to put himself in charge. Danny’s instinct was to tell him to get stuffed but today he needed Atto’s help, so he reined it in.

  ‘We can cut the shit if you want and just get straight to it.’

  ‘Fine by me. What made you think I’d even see you? You’re a piece of shit, Mr Neilson.’

  ‘So why did you agree to let me visit?’

  ‘I was curious. Wondering what it would have taken for you to show your face here again. Is it to do with the body found hanging at Queen Street?’

  Danny’s mouth betrayed him, opening just enough to let Atto know he’d been right. A smile spread slow and wide over the man’s face. It had been a guess, a bloody guess. Danny cursed himself for showing it.

  ‘Interesting. I saw your nephew’s photograph that hit all the front pages. Nice picture. I was a bit disappointed that he switched professions, though. Journalists are such utter arseholes, don’t you think, Mr Neilson? He’ll never be as happy doing that as he was photographing dead bodies. He’s got a dark heart. And I should know what that’s like.’

  ‘He’s not like you, Atto. Nothing like it. His heart might be a bit dark but it’s good. Not sure we can say that about you, can we?’

  ‘So . . .’ Atto ignored him and was thinking out loud. ‘This poor bastard is found swinging from a rope, the MSP’s son, and somehow that’s brought you to visit me. Very interesting. Your nephew’s police friend, Miss Narey, was investigating the case and then she wasn’t. She got promoted, didn’t she? I was so happy for the bitch.’

  Danny didn’t rise to it for all that his fist was curling into a ball.

  ‘So you’re here because of her. But why?’

  ‘I want some information. And you can give it to me.’

  Atto laughed. ‘You’re in a bad way if you’re relying on me for help, old man. In fact, you must be desperate because you know what the chances are of me wanting to help you after what you did.’

  Three years earlier, Danny had taken away much of the thing Atto treasured most. His notoriety. And Atto hated him for it. Danny’s only hope was to offer to give some of it back.

  ‘The kid’s clothing that Tony photographed? Some of it was missing. And I think it was taken so it could be sold. And I think you can help me with that.’

  Atto grinned slyly. ‘You think that? Or she does? No matter, tell me what makes you think I know anything about that?’

  Danny knew he was being played, could hear it in Atto’s voice, but went along with it anyway. ‘There is a market in such things. They call it murderabilia.’

  ‘Is that so? Fascinating.’

  He heard the tone. Teasing. Mocking. But it confirmed what he’d suspected and it gave him hope. He continued.

  ‘People are selling things, things like the clothing that belonged to Aiden McAlpine. Things that have a value because they’re connected to a murder. A high-profile murder. There are a couple of sites specialising in these sales. And among the things being sold on one of those sites were items of yours.’

  All he got was a shrug. ‘I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t. I’m famous, you know.’

  There it was, Atto’s ego. His weak link.

  ‘Aye, you used to be famous. But, you see, the interesting thing about that stuff was that two of them were put up for sale just two months ago. And the only person I can think could have sourced them to sell is you.’

  Atto spread his arms. ‘Maybe. But I’m in prison. In case you’d forgotten.’

  ‘I thought we were going to cut the shit. You sold these or had them sold. I want you to tell me how it all works.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You want your face in the papers again. You want your name back in the headlines. Tony can give you that. Notorious murderer sells trophies while behind bars, that kind of thing. Just the way you like it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Up to you. No one’s talked about you for a long time and I can’t see that changing unless you take this chance. You’re yesterday’s news.’

  It stung, and the hate flared in Atto’s eyes.

  ‘If I’m yesterday’s man, why are people so keen to buy anything they can that’s connected to me? They snap it up because of who I am. Because of what I did. My name’s worth money. My things are wanted because I did something.’

  Keep talking, big man, keep talking.

  ‘I could put my toenail clippings up for sale and some idiot would buy them. Because I’m somebody. I’m famous.’

  ‘Only amongst the freaks that want this stuff. Not with the public. They’ve forgotten you.’

  ‘Fuck you! I know you’re winding me up but you’re wrong. The ones you call freaks want me because the public knows me. If I make one of my trinkets available then they’re snapped up right away. The little trophies I earned from some of the young ladies I’d met along the way.’

  Young ladies. He meant the girls he’d murdered. Melanie Holt. Louise Shillington. Beverley Collins. Emma Rutherford. And the unknown rest.

  A drawer had been found in Atto’s house. A horror find of jewellery, twenty-six items in all. Brooches, ladies’ watches, bracelets, pendants, rings and necklaces. Pieces that had been stripped from their owners, stripped from the dead.

  ‘They were all found by the police.’

  ‘All?’ Atto sneered gleefully. ‘Not all.’

  ‘So you sell it. How? How do you do it from prison when you aren’t even allowed Internet access.’

  Danny knew the answer to his own question but he wanted to give Atto the chance to gloat and show off.

  The smile was suitably smug. ‘Getting hold of a mobile phone with Internet access is no problem. Expensive but not a problem. You think an iPhone is expensive on the high street? It sells for three times the price in here. Do you know what the record is for one person smuggling in phones hidden up their arse?’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘Three. Plus a charger. Impressive or just stupid, what do you think?

  ‘Probably both. I need to know who does the buying. Who are the collectors?’

  ‘The collectors on these sites aren’t the people you’re looking for. It’s kid’s stuff. You’ll only see a fraction of my sales on there and very rarely any of the good stuff.’

  ‘So where?’

  ‘The real sales, the heavy-duty items? They’re done elsewhere, and most go to a particular group of collectors. It’s all off the grid. Have you heard of the dark web?’

  Bingo. ‘Vaguely. Who are this group of collectors?’

  ‘Never mind. You wouldn’t even know where to look. I sell on a dark-net market. A cryptomarket called Abbadon. It’s a place you can buy and sell the kind of things you’re looking for.’

  ‘Abbadon?’

  ‘It’s a Hebrew term. Means bottomless pit, the place of destruction. It’s also the name of the angel of the abyss, a demon known as the destroyer.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Atto laughed. ‘Oh, I doubt you’ll find Christ in there, Mr Neilson. Just the Devil. And there will be no one that can save your soul because, if you’re in there, you’ve already lost yours. Or sold it.’

  ‘So how do I get in?’

  ‘You don’t. That’s the whole point. It’s by invitation only.

  ‘And who can invite me?’

  Atto’s smile broadened into a malicious grin. ‘Just me. I very much doubt anyone else you kno
w can get you in. It’s an interesting place.’

  ‘Then do it and your name will be back up in lights again, just the way you like it.’

  ‘Make sure you spell my name right.’

  As Danny made his way out of Blackridge and across the car park in teeming rain, he did so armed with an invitation into hell. What he couldn’t see was a man sitting alone in his prison cell with a large, satisfied grin on his face.

  If he’d been able to see it, he would have assumed it was because the man’s ego had been satisfied and he was purring at the prospect of publicity. He would have been wrong.

  CHAPTER 39

  She’d chosen Myra as her username on Abbadon. It seemed appropriate enough for being on a dark-net market. Sure, she didn’t feel entirely comfortable naming herself after one of the UK’s most infamous killers but she’d long since given up on the morals of the thing. It was about doing what she needed to.

  Myra had the key to get inside. Myra had the software, the right words, and she had the bitcoins. She wanted to know what was out there and she was a serious player. Or at least she hoped she could convince them she was.

  Myra was going to buy and she was going to chat and she was going to learn whatever she could.

  As it turned out, being in was one thing, but getting anyone to deal with you was another. Not only was the site encrypted so as to keep out anyone without a key, but areas within Abbadon were also padlocked. Access to those were not granted without the say-so of those already inside the walls.

  As soon as she entered, she was seen and challenged by a gatekeeper.

  Who are you?

  Newbie. Not to the field but to this market.

  How did you find us?

  A mutual friend.

  Name?

  No chance.

  Name!?

  No way. If it takes giving up someone’s name to get in this place, then it’s maybe not for me.

  Nothing. She waited. It was probably only thirty seconds but seemed longer. Then the screen moved.