Murderabilia Page 6

  He was a Scottish National Party member but not part of the cabinet, having resigned his junior post in protest at cuts in local government budgets, the kind of grandstanding gesture that he specialised in. McAlpine was a very ambitious man and no one doubted he’d return in a higher post, most likely with a run at the leadership and to be First Minister down the line.

  He was bombastic and loud, with a talent for practised one-liners and cruel putdowns of his opponents. He’d say anything that would get him an edge and dismiss it later as political banter and accuse his rivals of being bad losers or having no sense of humour. He had many principles, any of which could be swapped for a more convenient alternative. In short, he was the worst kind of politician, and so likely to do very well.

  Winter’s press pass got him past security and he entered the Parliament building for the first time. Up until that point he’d only been paying for it. He was immediately impressed by the intricate design of the place and had to fight to maintain his journalistic mask of disdain. He was pointed to a door at the rear of the entrance hall and he tagged onto the end of a group of other journalists, a couple of whom he recognised.

  They made their way into a spacious room already half filled with reporters, photographers and a couple of TV crews. He was there to photograph as well as take notes and couldn’t do both at once. He’d normally use his phone to record what was said but that meant not having it if Rachel called. With a head full of worry, he reluctantly switched on the record function and left his mobile alongside the cluster of others by the lectern.

  A few minutes later, the rear doors were pulled back and Mark McAlpine swept in, flanked by DCS Tom Crosbie, the head of MIT, and Denny Kelbie. Winter’s jaw clenched at the sight of the short-arsed DCI as he strutted towards the stage. He’d never liked him but there was no way he’d ever forgive him for the way he’d treated Rachel.

  Kelbie sat to McAlpine’s right as Crosbie stood at the lectern. The DCS raised a hand and the room fell into silence apart from the clicking of camera triggers. Winter was standing at the side of the room, his own camera focused on Crosbie and McAlpine, Kelbie being kept quite deliberately out of the shot.

  Crosbie kept it short and to the point. He’d been left in no doubt as to whose event this was and he was to delay McAlpine’s moment no longer than he needed to. He thanked the press for coming, reminded them of the tragic details of the case and said he would take questions later. He sat down and the room waited for McAlpine to rise. The MSP milked it for all it was worth, staring at the floor and leaving a reflective silence before pushing back his chair and standing to face his audience.

  He was a tall, slim man with a full head of fair hair and an infinite sense of his own importance. Winter tried to rein in his prejudice against him, given the circumstances, but it was a struggle. He couldn’t escape the feeling that McAlpine was working this.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of my family . . .’ – his voice caught and he very visibly swallowed – ‘I want to thank you for coming along this afternoon. The days since Aiden’s murder have been extremely trying, unlike anything I’ve experienced in my personal or business life or in my political career. My wife Catriona and I have suffered a loss that only other parents could possibly imagine. And I would not wish that understanding on a single one of them. Our son, our beautiful boy, has been ripped from us. Our lives have been shattered.’

  He paused to sip at the glass of water in front of him and to let his words percolate. When he raised the glass to his lips, Winter’s lens saw that his hand was shaking. Real or for effect? He hated himself for even wondering.

  ‘Our son was murdered and left to rot. He was killed, then publicly degraded in the most abhorrent way. The image that was seen by the world after being shamefully shared far and wide is not how I will remember him. It is not how my wife or our family will remember him. We will remember Aiden as sweet and smart, as being always laughing and helpful. We will remember how he slept with a smile on his face as a child, how he delighted his teachers and neighbours, how kind he was to his sister Chloe. We will remember him as the best son any parents could wish for.

  ‘And . . .’ – McAlpine’s voice hardened and rose – ‘we will never forget what was done to him. The person that committed this vile act, this barbarous atrocity against my son, has no place walking free amongst decent people. He has no place in society. I trust that the police’ – he shot stern glances at Crosbie and Kelbie, who both made sure they stared straight ahead – ‘will ensure that this monster is swiftly captured and given the strongest punishment that the law allows. I expect, as I would for any other parent, that every available officer will work tirelessly to identify and arrest this wicked individual and remove evil from our streets.’

  Winter’s camera closed right in on McAlpine as he worked his way towards a crescendo, seeing the blood rise in his cheeks and the hatred in his eyes. His lips were curled back as he spat out the words like an old-time preacher, full of fire and brimstone. His eyes were reddening, too, and fat tears began to roll down his cheeks.

  ‘It has been suggested that Aiden was murdered as a means of getting at me. That he was killed because of my role in public life. I do not yet know if that is true, but I am assured it is a scenario that Police Scotland are examining and taking extremely seriously. I trust that they will ascertain the truth. ‘In the meantime . . .’ He paused for a gulp of water and steeled himself for the finish. ‘In the meantime, my constituents, my party and the people of this country can rest assured that I will not be driven from my duty to them. I will not back off from things I believe in and will not be silenced. If it was the intention of the monster who murdered Aiden to derail the democratic process, then he will fail. I owe that to Aiden and to those who voted for me. I have a job to do and I will finish it.’

  The last sentence was delivered in a breaking voice that only just managed to squeeze out the final few words. He stood, mouth hanging slightly open, looking out across the press pack towards the back of the hall where the TV cameras were. Staring out at the killer and his electorate.

  Winter’s camera caught the pain and the precision of the pose that McAlpine was striking, the one that would surely feature in the next day’s newspapers. Denny Kelbie pushed back his chair and stood beside the MSP, a tacit offer of an arm if it were needed. McAlpine looked at him, shaking his head before lowering himself unsteadily back into his seat. It had been quite a performance and Winter couldn’t tell what had been genuine and what had not.

  Kelbie remained standing and announced that he and DCS Crosbie would take questions on operational matters relating to the case. The first few were entirely routine, a gentle warm-up for both sides.

  ‘DCI Kelbie, can you tell us the latest in the investigation?’

  ‘We are continuing to focus on a number of areas of enquiry, but it is fair to assume we are paying particular attention to Mr McAlpine’s political position and looking at correspondence he has received in the course of his work.’

  A voice called out from near the front, ‘Has Mr McAlpine received specific threats?’

  ‘I’m not able to answer that at this time.’

  ‘Not able or not prepared to?’

  Kelbie paused, then sighed. ‘Next question.’

  So there it was. The suggestion laid heavily that there had been a threat against Mark McAlpine, without anyone actually saying so, therefore easily deniable later.

  ‘Do you have a suspect?’

  ‘Not one that can be named publicly at this time.’

  ‘But you do have an individual who you believe may’ve been responsible.’

  ‘Neither naming nor confirming a specific suspect would be helpful at this time.’

  ‘Can you tell us about Aiden’s movements on the night before his murder?’

  Kelbie hesitated and Winter was sure he saw a look flash between the DCI and McAlpine. ‘We are continuing to retrace Aiden’s steps that evening and, while we know most of wh
ere he was, we don’t believe they have a bearing on what happened and we don’t want to confirm them publicly while they and the remainder of his actions might be of use to us.’

  So the fencing continued, with Kelbie saying little and hinting plenty. Winter had seen it before and was sure it said nothing more than that Kelbie was coming up empty-handed. He talked about witnesses being interviewed, about urgency and stones not being left unturned. He spoke of offering every care to the McAlpine family, about his own determination and how people could sleep safely in their beds knowing he was on the case.

  Before Winter knew it, his own hand was in the air. Kelbie saw it out of the corner of his eye and nodded his acceptance of it before fully realising who it was. Winter saw his expression change but it was too late.

  ‘I’d like to ask about the pile of clothing left at the scene.’

  Kelbie tensed. ‘What about it?’

  He eased his way in. ‘Can you confirm that it belonged to Mr McAlpine’s son.’

  He couldn’t do anything else. ‘Yes, it did; now next . . .’

  ‘And you believe it was left there by the killer?’

  Kelbie’s face was tightening. ‘We believe so yes but—’

  ‘And can you tell us where the rest of his clothing is?’

  Kelbie flushed and stared at Winter. He couldn’t seem to find an answer beyond one that would have embarrassed him. He didn’t know and probably hadn’t considered it. The pause rippled round the room like a rumour. McAlpine was looking confused, wondering why Kelbie wasn’t just answering and moving the questioning on elsewhere.

  Kelbie did what he did best when cornered: he attacked. ‘Sorry, but I was simply stunned that a member of the press would use this occasion as a chance for self-promotion. Mr Winter is trying to cash in further on personal grief by bringing attention to his rather disreputable photograph of Aiden McAlpine’s clothing. Not only is it a complete red herring and irrelevant to the investigation at hand, it is completely disrespectful and hurtful to the McAlpine family. I will not dignify it by answering. Next question.’

  Winter persevered. ‘Are you looking for other items of Aiden’s clothing?’

  Kelbie bit his lip and for a moment Winter thought he’d have to admit the truth, but groans and murmurs rose from the press pack. ‘Get on with it.’ ‘Get over yourself. ‘Who cares?’

  Winter had one last go, even though the will was seeping from him. ‘Would it not interest the police to know—’

  Mark McAlpine rose to his feet, blood curdling in his cheeks, glaring furiously at Winter. ‘We are here to discuss the investigation into the murder of my son. Not to discuss his clothes. Not to discuss the frankly shameful way those clothes and the reflection of his body were plastered across newspapers all over the world.’

  Kelbie raised a hand and demanded quiet. ‘That line of questioning is over. I’ll take something from someone else or the press conference is over too.’

  Great, all he’d succeeded in doing was turning the ire of McAlpine and much of the room against him. He didn’t imagine Archie Cameron or the Standard’s owners would be best pleased, either.

  He’d been all set to work his way towards the revelations of the underwear for sale so that he could both get the story and do what Rachel needed him to do. Kelbie’s mongrel attack had turned his good intentions into stubborn resistance, and now they could all whistle for it.

  His bolshie self-congratulations lasted until he got home and opened the front door. She was in bed, waiting, expecting. He’d had one job to do and he’d let her down.

  She was sitting up as he walked into the bedroom, arms crossed across her chest. He felt like he was slinking home after closing time with a burst pay packet in his pocket. He decided he’d get his retaliation in first.

  ‘Look, Rach, don’t start. Kelbie shut me down as soon as I started to speak and there was—’

  She held up a hand to say stop. He did so.

  ‘If you’re starting to apologise then, first of all, it’s a crap apology and, secondly, don’t bother. I saw the press conference on TV and you gave them every chance. You gave Kelbie a chance he didn’t deserve. They wouldn’t listen, so I say you go and find who was selling these clothes, you get your exclusive and they get to look embarrassed.’

  ‘Are you sure? Your conscience can live with not handing the information over to them?’

  ‘I’m sure. Kelbie had his opportunity and he blew it. I’m not part of this and I don’t owe them anything. Just do what you need to do.’

  CHAPTER 15

  KillingTime had 117 items of Charles Manson murderabilia listed for sale. Murder Mart had 96. Between them that was 213 things related to the murdering mad sod that was Manson. What were people thinking?

  What was she thinking? She hadn’t really meant to go back in but it had called to her. Just one more look.

  The Manson items available started at a couple of bucks and went up to a staggering ten thousand dollars. For that you could purchase two booking cards, filled out when Manson was booked in for possession of marijuana just weeks before Sharon Tate and the others were murdered. Ten grand for Manson’s inky prints? The seller’s description listed Manson as ‘an icon’.

  For a buck under five thousand, you could buy a piece of red, blue and yellow string artwork that Manson made in his prison cell. According to the site it was a nine-inch rainbow scorpion and it did look a bit like one, she supposed.

  Three and a half grand would get you a piston door from the Spahn Ranch, the old film studio set where the Manson Family lived for much of 1968 and 1969. For three thousand you could have a piece of doodled art that looked like it was done by a two-year-old.

  There were letters and self-portraits, paintings and signed photographs. You could buy a pair of gloves, fashioned for Manson by another inmate. Or a broken guitar string or a signed legal document. There were signed book jackets and Christmas cards. There was even a copy of his parents’ marriage certificate, signed of course by Manson himself.

  There was hair. Lots and lots of hair. Manson’s flowing locks, his trademark Jesus-lookalike look, had been cut away at many, many times over the years to make sellable slices of DNA for anyone wanting to build their own little Charlie from scratch.

  Photographs and hair. Books and hair. Greetings cards and hair. Music and hair.

  There was even more music than hair. Manson’s music was everywhere. There were audio cassettes, vinyl and CDs. Charlie had transcended the formats and was now even available for download.

  Charlie the singer-songwriter. He was so sure he was going to be bigger than the Beatles.

  She was in iTunes before she could stop her fingers. Curiosity. Just the same as with the collectibles, she wanted a feel for it. She wanted to understand it.

  With a silent apology to the refugee, she bought an album. A penny under eight pounds for twenty-six songs by a murderer. Even as she did it, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

  She played his music as she read about Sharon Tate. She’d known the name, of course, and probably the basics, but it was only when she began reading that Narey realised how little she actually knew about her or her murder. She scoured the Internet and read everything she could find. And wished she hadn’t.

  Blonde, glamorous and stunningly beautiful, Tate was an actress and model. She was talented and connected. She seemed to have had everything going for her.

  She’d been nominated for a Golden Globe and for several newcomer awards. She’d starred in Valley of the Dolls and alongside Orson Welles, Dean Martin and Tony Curtis. She was married to Roman Polanski and lived in the Hollywood hills, where she hung out with friends such as Steve McQueen, Warren Beatty, Jacqueline Bisset, Peter Sellers and Mia Farrow. It was a golden life.

  But, for all that, Sharon Tate is remembered for one thing above all else. For being murdered.

  That just isn’t right or fair. Her killers shouldn’t be remembered with her. She shouldn’t be remembered because of the
m. But it seems that’s the way it is. All of us gorging on her death like vampires, like hyenas.

  People selling stuff. People, people like her, buying stuff. Books, magazine articles, blogs, photographs. It was everywhere, kept alive by the bloodsuckers, by the morbid fascination. But it was real. Not some lurid fiction. It was real. Real people died.

  On August 8 1969, Sharon Tate went out for dinner with friends at her favourite restaurant, El Coyote, on Beverly Boulevard. She was heavily pregnant.

  It was the thing Narey either hadn’t known or had forgotten. Now that she read it, it shocked her. Sharon Tate was eight and a half months pregnant.

  Around 10.30 that night, she returned to her home in Benedict Canyon along with the friends – hairdresser Jay Sebring, playboy Wojciech Frykowski and heiress Abigail Folger. Just after midnight, the house was broken into by four followers of Charles Manson.

  Tex Watson, Susan Atkins and Patricia Krenwinkel went into the house in Cielo Drive while Linda Kasabian kept watch outside. What followed was inhuman savagery.

  Sharon was stabbed and slashed sixteen times. Sixteen. In the back and the chest. Eight and a half months pregnant and stabbed to death. She pleaded for the life of her unborn child but they didn’t care.

  Atkins told her, ‘Look, bitch, I don’t have any mercy for you. You’re going to die.’

  They tied her by the neck to Sebring. That was how they were when they were found by the police the next morning, the rope looped over a ceiling beam. The ceiling was riddled with bullets and the floor covered in blood. Her nightdress was soaked crimson.

  Manson wasn’t there but he might as well have been. He planned it, he ordered it. He told them to go to the Cielo Drive address and kill everyone there. They did nothing unless he said so. Manson did it every bit as if he’d wielded the knife.

  The word ‘pig’ was scrawled in Sharon’s blood on the front door.