‘It basically came down to her word against his. I believed her, didn’t think she had any reason to lie and wasn’t convinced by Broome at all. He was angry at even having to talk to us, didn’t understand why we weren’t throwing her off her course.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Not everyone took the same position I did. Some, understandably I guess, thought there just wasn’t enough evidence to make a clear decision. There certainly was unlikely to have been enough for the police to have been able to take action, but my stance was that the university should expect a higher standard of behaviour from students than just not being a criminal.
‘At my insistence, we strongly suggested to him that it would be in everyone’s interest if he left his course. We wouldn’t, and in truth couldn’t, put anything on his record, so he’d be free to continue his career elsewhere. He took it very badly, shouted and ranted at us, saying he didn’t want to stay somewhere that took the word of a liar over an innocent man.’
‘So, he left the course?’
‘Yes. It was unsatisfactory all round. Some thought he’d been hard done by, the female student thought he’d got off lightly. His mother wrote a scathing letter to the Principal. I was left just feeling uneasy about the whole thing.’ He paused, weighing everything. ‘I’m still uneasy. He’s done something else, hasn’t he?’
‘He might have,’ Narey conceded. ‘As I said, just background checks for now.’
Fenton nodded. ‘My gut feeling, unscientific as it is, is that he’s trouble. Put it this way – I wouldn’t want my daughter left in a room with him.’
She thanked him for his time and was just about to leave when another thought occurred to her.
‘One more thing, I don’t suppose you remember an art student named Karen Muir around 2003?’
Fenton looked at her oddly. ‘Are you on a fishing trip? The student who made the complaint against Broome wasn’t named Karen Muir.’
‘No, that’s not it. It’s a separate matter. Honestly.’
Karen Muir was named on the command and control system as the girlfriend that Broome argued with in public, leading to the police being called.
‘Okay, I believe you. But if she studied Fine Art it was at the Art School, not here. Let me make a call.’
Fenton made two calls. The first unsuccessful but the second producing a series of nods to let Narey know he had something.
‘That was a colleague and occasional drinking partner. He does remember Karen. In fact, he still sees her around occasionally. She has a small gallery of her own. She’s a landscape painter, apparently very good, but pays the rent by doing scenes for Christmas card companies, postcards for tourist boards and the like. It lets her spend time doing her own thing and she sells the landscapes on top of that.’
‘Where can we find her?’
‘She has a little gallery on Hidden Lane.’
Hidden Lane was in Finnieston, just off Argyle Street, an old cobbled entranceway leading into another world.
Narey and DC Kerri Wells went through and were greeted by a warren of old buildings that had once been merchant’s quarters and old stables and now housed nearly a hundred creative businesses. They were painted in a drunken rainbow of colours, lurid yellows and warm oranges, pale blues and rousing purples. It was very West End, very Finnieston.
There were furniture makers, jewellery designers, a fashion studio, recording studios, artists and designers, picture framers and yoga classes. The brick front of KM Designs was painted in blood red, with a distressed white door in the middle. Through the glass panes, they could see a woman with her back to them, perched on a wooden stool and working on a broad white canvas.
Narey pushed her way inside, a bell signalling their entrance but seemingly not loud enough to encourage the woman to turn around.
‘Hi. We’re looking for Karen Muir.’
‘Why? Is she lost?’ The reply came without a missed brushstroke or the slightest turn towards them.
‘I hope not. We’d like to speak to her. We’re the police.’
This time, the brush stopped mid-stroke and the blonde head swivelled. The woman pushed a pair of glasses back off her face with the heel of her hand and studied them.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m DI Rachel Narey, this is DC Kerri Wells. Can we have a word?’
Muir stood up and turned to face them. She wore a ponytail and her jeans and sweatshirt were daubed with paint. Looking from one cop to the other, her face screwed up in confusion. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s in connection to an incident that police were called to in Sauchiehall Street Lane a number of years ago, involving your ex-boyfriend, William Broome.’
‘What? That wanker? That was over ten years ago and he was not my boyfriend.’
‘The incident report stated that you were together. Is that incorrect?’
‘I was with him on that night. It was a first date and there was never going to be a second one, even before he hit me.’
Narey was aware of Wells turning to look at her, but didn’t share the glance.
‘Could you talk us through what happened?’
Muir sighed heavily. ‘I’m not really sure I want to. It was a long time ago and I’d rather just forget about it.’
‘Please. It’s important.’
‘Fucksake. Okay, okay.’
Muir strode past them and closed the front door, turning over a sign to show the gallery to be closed. She sat back on her stool and wiped her hands with a rag.
‘Okay, find a seat where you can. What do you want to know? And why the hell do you want to know it now?
Narey parked herself on a swivel chair so she was at eye level with the artist, leaving Wells standing at her shoulder.
‘I just want to know what took place that night. I can’t tell you why or why now, not yet at least. What happened between you and him?’
Muir closed her eyes, maybe remembering, maybe dreading the recollection or the telling. She sighed again and began.
‘It was a date, that was all. I was talked into it by a friend who knew a friend of his. They thought we’d get on and they were completely wrong. I think I knew within five minutes that it would be a first date and a last date. He had no chat, no interest in me or what I did. He was far too up himself and I just didn’t like or fancy him. There was a coldness to him.
‘We had drinks in The Social at Royal Exchange Square but I insisted on going to the bar when it was my round so that I was able to buy myself a soft drink. I wanted to stay sober. Maybe I had a feeling that I needed to, I don’t really know.
‘I got out as early as I could politely manage it but he insisted on walking me a bit of the way home. I think he thought it had gone a lot better than it had. He was talking about another date and I was ignoring it as best I could.’
Her voice caught and Narey knew they were cutting to the chase.
‘We were walking past Sauchiehall Street Lane and he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into it. I didn’t like it but wasn’t too worried, not right away. It wasn’t violent, didn’t feel particularly aggressive. More like he was going to try his luck. And he did, he tried to kiss me. I turned my head away so he couldn’t but he didn’t get the message and tried again. This time I pushed him away.
‘He punched me in the face.
‘I was stunned. I’d never been punched before. I screamed. I kept screaming and he pulled his arm back to swing at me again but two guys came running into the alley.
‘Broome made out it was just an argument, nothing to do with them, but one of them called the cops and they stopped him from leaving till the police got there. They took statements from us both. I’m not sure what he said but they seemed to believe it, saying it would be difficult to get a conviction as it was his word against mine and I’d started it by shoving him. I think he’d told them he’d shoved me back and I fell. They said it was still up to me if I wanted to press charges.
‘He was staring at me
as the cop spoke to me. The look in his eyes was terrifying, threatening. I said I’d leave it, not press charges, if they’d just get me home safe. They drove me home and that was the end of it. He never contacted me again.’
CHAPTER 4
NOVEMBER
Narey was trying to make a guess at how many times she’d sat waiting to make the knock and lead the charge through the door. Dozens for sure. Over a hundred? Probably. It didn’t get old and it didn’t get easier.
This one churned her guts more than most. In the penthouse suite of the luxury block of flats in front of her was the man who’d occupied much of her waking hours and some of the sleeping ones too.
That was what she resented. He deserved every minute of her working life but there shouldn’t have been any room left in her head for him to creep in outside of that, yet he’d managed it effortlessly. She’d be changing the baby, her beautiful little sleep-stealer, and he’d barge in. She’d be feeding the wee one at three in the morning and he’d be standing in the shadows. Her head would be full of Tony or her dad, or of Leah Watt. And sure enough, he’d appear. She’d be washing, drying, driving, pacing, shushing, nappy changing, cooking, cleaning, and he’d be there. Lingering like a bad smell.
Now, finally, she’d be able to put an end to it all. William Michael Broome. Rapist. Those were the words she was ready to see printed on Crown Office stationery. He wasn’t going to be the first person she’d put away since she returned to the job but he was going to feel like it.
The digital clock on the car dashboard turned over to 2.00, shining a lurid blue in the darkness. With one last fleeting thought to the nine-month-old who was hopefully keeping her father awake, she turned to the three cops in the car beside and behind her. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’
The four of them, her and a DC plus two uniformed officers, slid quietly out of the car and pressed the doors closed. This was costing overtime and she’d had to twist arms and make assurances to get the constables along. It was going to be worth it though. William Michael Broome was going to be worth it.
It was the wrong time but the images from Leah’s case file flooded her mind. Face swollen in angry purples and reds, blackened skin bulging around her shattered eye socket, the other eye sealed shut, nose misshapen, cheekbone collapsed, teeth broken. A human punch bag. Leah was why she was here and not with her baby.
There was no light showing in the top flat, front or back, and there hadn’t been for more than an hour. Broome was asleep or at least in bed. The warrant that allowed her to wake him rudely was smouldering in her coat pocket, burning a hole and pleading to be used.
They woke the residents of one of the lower apartments, showing a warrant card through the video entry system, and stole quietly inside and climbed the stairs to the penthouse.
She rapped loudly on the door while speaking. ‘William Michael Broome, this is Detective Inspector Rachel Narey of Police Scotland. I have a warrant for your arrest and to search your property. Please open the door now.’
She paused for a heartbeat. ‘Okay, that’s long enough. Open it.’
The lead uniform, his head encased in helmet and visor, wielded the metal battering ram and the wood groaned as it splintered. He swung a second time and the door flew open as the lock gave way. The enforcer was dropped inside and the uniforms poured through with the detectives at their heels. They’d studied the layout of the house and were sure Broome was in one of two bedrooms either side of the bathroom. The larger of the two was on the left and that’s where they were heading.
The first cop crashed through the bedroom door, baton in hand and saw him immediately. ‘Boss! He’s in here.’
Narey walked into the room, her nose wrinkling at the stale stench of sleep and man and musk. Enough moonlight sneaked through the window for her to see him cowering in the corner, the bedclothes thrown back where he’d leapt from under them. He was crouched, naked, feet planted, his eyes wide and wild, his back pressed tightly to the wall as if trying to force his way through it.
She threw the light switch and stood in front of him, making a show of shaking her head at the pathetic image he presented. He was unshaven, with dark, tousled hair that went where it pleased. A sheen of sweat made his forehead shine and his mouth hung slack with shock. He was shaking with fear.
One of the uniforms, McCartney, moved in front of her and cuffed the man’s hands in front of him then stepped back to let her resume. She was savouring it, making him wait. Weeks of donkey work, of knocking on doors and pressing her face up against computer screens till her eyes bled. Weeks with Leah, comforting, cajoling and persuading. All to get to this. She wasn’t going to rush the moment. She wanted to see his face when she said Leah’s name.
‘William Michael Broome,’ even saying that felt good. ‘You are being detained under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure (Scotland) Act 1995. I have a warrant to inspect these premises in relation to the assault to severe injury of Leah Watt and to the rape of Leah Watt on 17 July, 2017.’
There it was. Nothing. At the mention of rape, yes, but nothing at her name. He didn’t know who she was. The rape engendered no surprise and the name nothing at all. She wanted to slap him. Slap him and throw him to the ground and kick him till he couldn’t piss for a month.
‘You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. Do you understand?
The man nodded his head sullenly, his eyes searching for a friendly face but not finding one. She knew he was a bit over six feet tall but he seemed a lot smaller, skinny too, with his knees pulled to his chest and his chalky skin shaking under the harsh glare of exposure.
She half turned towards the others. ‘Bryan, you and Atkinson search this place top to bottom. McCartney, you—’
She hadn’t finished before Broome launched himself at her. Springing up and away from the wall, arms outstretched, fingers clawing despite the cuffs, he was in her face, spittle peppering her cheek. His breath filled her nostrils and his crazed blue eyes filled her vision. Cops moved and grabbed, holding him back and leaving him snapping like a dog on the end of a leash.
They hauled him away but he didn’t struggle, just grinned maniacally through his pain as he spoke for the first time.
‘Get out of my house, you fucking slag.’
It had been her own fault. She should have had McCartney cuff his hands behind him rather than in front but she’d been content to savour him trembling in the corner like the cornered animal he was. She’d enjoyed the fleeting power of standing over him, letting him know she was unafraid and that he was a pitiful piece of shit in the presence of any woman able to fight back.
So it was that she had his spit staining her cheek. She’d been stupid and paid the price. All she could think was that she held that cheek against her baby’s own powder-soft one. It was one of their bonding things, skin to skin, heat to heat, mother to daughter. And he’d ruined it.
He was back in the corner, silent once more, his hands handcuffed behind him now and a blanket round him. McCartney stood guard, waiting for the chance to bring him down if he tried anything else.
The others moved around from room to room, assiduously searching for anything to help build the case against Broome. Anything that meant it wouldn’t all come down to Leah’s testimony. Narey prayed for something concrete that would avoid putting the woman in the witness box and forcing her to endure the humiliation of describing what the bastard did to her.
It was partly why she’d called for the early morning crash through the door. She wanted Broome to feel some of what he’d put Leah through. The fear as his house was invaded in the middle of the night. The trauma of quivering in the dark. Not knowing who was coming to your bedroom or why. It would never be enough but it was something.
The penthouse was flooded with light now, showing off a sterile, minimalist apartment, all whitewashed walls and modern furniture. She wondered if he’d just bought the showhouse and left it as it was.
&nbs
p; She turned into another room, a second bedroom, and threw the light switch. The walls were studded with photo frames, all in black ash and holding black and white prints, set out in neat rows. It shook her, immediately making her think of Tony’s photo collection that had hung on the wall of his flat, his haul of crime-scene images that he’d acquired over the years.
She went closer, familiar visions of Glasgow coming into focus. The Kelvin Hall, the Duke of Wellington statue with obligatory traffic cone on his head, a summer scene across George Square to the City Chambers, the uplifted arms of La Pasionara by the Clyde, the Heilanman’s Umbrella and the Provand’s Lordship.
The photographs were good, sharp and evocative, capturing something of the spirit of the city, most with people in shot in front of the landmarks. These weren’t standard tourism photographs and she imagined Broome had taken them himself.
‘Boss!’ The voice belonged to Bryan Dawson, her DC for the night. It was urgent, anxious almost, but there was good news in it, she heard that much. ‘You need to come see this.’
Narey nodded at McCartney to bring Broome along and the constable pulled the man to his feet.
Dawson was in the hallway, a rolled back rug at his feet and two missing floorboards at the side.
‘We lifted these and found just an empty cavity. We were about to put the floorboards back when we realised there was a false bottom.
She turned to see Broome’s reaction and saw he was far from happy.
‘You’ve no right. You can’t do this!’
Narey wafted the warrant in his direction. ‘This says I have and I can. What are we going to find, Mr Broome?’
He tried to kick out at her but McCartney was ready and hauled him back till his legs fell away from under him and he crashed onto his backside.
Make sure one of you is recording this,’ Narey instructed. ‘I don’t want him claiming anything that isn’t true.’
Atkinson nodded and tapped at his chest to indicate his Body Worn Video was switched on as Dawson reached down into the hole and lifted out a shoebox tied with a red ribbon in a single bow. He freed the box from its incongruous leash and took off the lid. With a gloved hand, he eased out the contents one by one and placed them on the wooden floor.
The Photographer Page 3
