‘Shit . . .’ Narey’s voice betrayed her. She didn’t know what she’d expected but this wasn’t it. She nodded at Atkinson and gestured towards Broome. Film his reaction too. The man’s face was contorted in a silent rage, his eyes blazing crazily.
Dawson reached down into the hole again and groped around until he produced another shoebox, tied in a red ribbon like the other. He slid the lid off and they could see immediately that the contents were similar to the first. A third box followed and finally, after he thrust his arm in as far as it could go, he found a fourth.
He took some items from each box and spread them around the floor so they could all see. Dozens upon dozens of them. Narey’s guess was that there were a few hundred in all. Photographs.
Many of them were in crowd scenes, some just sitting on a park bench or walking a dog or waiting for a bus or working in shops. They seemed to have no idea they were being photographed.
All women. All attractive. All between their late teens and early thirties.
Hundreds of them.
CHAPTER 5
Narey was glad not to have to explain her feelings at seeing the photographs and their subjects. She knew most people wouldn’t understand or sympathise with the emotions that were writhing inside her, coiling round each other like snakes. Other cops would get it. Probably journalists too. Tony would understand for sure.
Coping with conflicting reactions was part and parcel of what they did. If you couldn’t cope with that then get out and work in a bank or a bar or an office. She’d learned it was okay to feel the way she did; more than that, it was the only way to survive.
First up, she was shocked at the sheer scale of it. Maybe 400 photographs, most with background details that, just like the prints on Broome’s wall, she immediately recognised as being in Glasgow. The Donald Dewar statue at the top of Buchanan Street behind one young woman’s head. The net of lights over Royal Exchange Square above another. Byres Road. Ingram Street. Ashton Lane. It was a grubby A to Z of the city’s busiest spots, every woman prospective prey for this prying lens.
She was disgusted too. This was a gross invasion of privacy. Being in public didn’t mean you were public property. Certainly not the property of this creep and his camera. They were simply walking, talking, sitting with friends or catching the sun, minding their own business and not inviting any scrutiny. She’d sat at most of these places, walked past all of them. It made her skin crawl.
But above and beyond all that – all of which she could freely admit to in the most unforgiving of company – she was excited. It was a squalid sort of excitement, the dirty secret you don’t admit to. This was potentially, perhaps probably, something big. But for it to be what she instinctively felt that it was, something bad would have to have happened to some of the women in these photographs. Someone’s god forgive her, but it didn’t stop her feeling the way she did. Her only saving grace was that she knew it was wrong.
‘Who are these women?’
Broome didn’t lift his head but stared fiercely at the floor, his eyes not straying to either Narey or the photographs. Anything the man said would most likely be inadmissible in court but she’d ask anyway. She repeated the question but he didn’t budge.
‘Did you take these? Are they your photographs?’
She saw the skin around his mouth tighten as he grimaced harder but he wouldn’t look at her or reply. She turned to Dawson and the uniforms. ‘Do any of these look familiar? Anyone at all that you might have seen before?’
The men just shrugged. ‘I’ll need to take a longer look,’ Dawson offered.
‘We all will. And Mr Broome is going to help us. Aren’t you?’
She got the response she expected. ‘Constable McCartney, you stay with him. If he moves, please be gentle. Bryan, get SOCO in and have these bagged, dusted and catalogued, then you and Atkinson keep tossing this place. See what else you can find. And look for the camera that took these.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off the photographs. The women, some of them just girls, were oblivious to the camera and the man behind it. She picked up one of the boxes and took it into the large, barely furnished, sitting room, laying as many of the prints out as she could on a glass table. Some of them had an older feel than others, the quality not so good and the fashions dating them. Others were pin sharp and felt just days old.
Wait. She’d seen this girl’s face before, in one of the other prints. Blonde hair cut into a bob and a broad smile. Where? She scanned through the others until she found it. Different clothing, different location, but the same girl. Early twenties, button nose and pretty. There she was, walking on what Narey was sure was Argyle Street, dressed in skinny jeans and trainers with a long lacy sweater that came to her knees. There she was again with what had to be Hillhead subway station behind her, a black trench coat buttoned to her neck. Same girl, different days.
Shit. There she was again. Narey didn’t recognise the street but the trees in the background looked like the West End. A pink umbrella raised above her blonde hair, the photo taken from across the road and closed in beyond reasonable focus.
Another woman appeared twice. Tall with long dark hair, possibly Asian or mixed race, strikingly attractive. First stepping down a short flight of concrete stairs from an office, wearing a dark, tailored business suit, her hand sweeping through her hair. Then in another, sitting on a park bench with another woman who was only half in the frame, this time dressed casually and hair worn up.
Narey took her phone from her pocket and quickly photographed as many of the prints as she could before going back to the hallway where the other photographs were still laid out on the floor. Broome watched her work. There was the businesswoman, looking in a shop window in Princes Square, different outfit, different day. A pencil-slim redhead appeared at least twice. No, wait, three times. She was in a group of friends in two of the shots, one walking along Cresswell Lane and the other through the window of University Café, but the other women were cut out either partly or completely. The photographer only had eyes for her.
When Narey looked up, she saw Broome had a smirk on his face that she immediately itched to wipe off.
‘These aren’t all random, are they? You have your favourites. You do know that stalking is an offence and each of these multiple cases would represent a separate offence, each liable to imprisonment for up to five years?’
Broome smiled at her and said nothing.
She kept flipping through them. Woman after woman. Familiar backgrounds. Disgust and a mounting fear crawling over her.
She felt the next print before she saw it. It lay underneath the one she was looking at, a pretty Asian woman with raven-dark hair who was going down an escalator in Princes Square. Her fingers sent a message to her brain, alerting her to something different, urging her to leave the photo in front of her.
She could feel ragged edges, her forefinger slipping across and almost through the print. Was it torn?
She slipped out the rogue print and placed it on top. And stared.
There was just one woman in the frame, standing in front of an unidentified shop window. Could have been anywhere. She was slim, wearing black ankle boots and tight black jeans. A grey, fleece-lined hoodie billowed in the wind over a dark green top.
And that was it. No more to be seen.
There was a hole in the print where her head should have been.
Someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut out a rough section of the print, completely removing the woman’s head and hair.
CHAPTER 6
It was around four thirty when she sneaked back into her own bed, the cold of her flesh wakening Tony immediately. She’d already slipped into Alanna’s room and risked everything to pick her up and cuddle her. Her baby had stirred briefly but didn’t open her eyes, just alternately grumbled and purred like a cat.
‘Shit, your feet are freezing! You didn’t wake her, did you?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t pick her up, r
ight?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Liar. How was it out there?’
She slipped an arm over him and pulled herself against his back, causing him to flinch again before he settled and let her steal some of his heat. ‘It was okay. We got the guy but . . . oh, I don’t know. It’s not a world I want our daughter to grow up in.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Nope.’
‘Off the record.’
She bit playfully at his neck. ‘Nope. You’re never off the record. Seriously, it’s bad stuff. Weird shit. Saying it out loud will just make it real. Just lie there and make me warm. It would be nice if you’re still here when I wake up too.’
‘Can’t. But I will feed Alanna before you wake up, then I’ll drop her in beside you.’
‘Mmmm. Perfect. I’d rather have her than you anyway.’
‘I know. Last chance to talk about it or I’m going back to sleep.’
‘Thanks, but no. I need to think this one over by myself. It could be . . . Shit, it could be anything. Go to sleep. It’s nearly—’
‘Don’t tell me. Let me believe I’ve got another six hours before I have to get up. Don’t tell me it’s twenty minutes.’
‘Not saying a word.’
She snuggled her head into the middle of his back and shielded herself from the world. Why couldn’t it all be like this?
It seemed like hours before she fell asleep but it was probably minutes. She lay there, clinging on to Tony and the bed and the world, in that state where she was either awake or simply dreaming that she was. Behind her eyes, she could see the prints, all those women, all those faces. Yet as she drifted somewhere between reality and nightmares, one by one the women filed past her, their heads carelessly removed, leaving just raggedy holes in raggedy photographs.
CHAPTER 7
Leah Watt was twenty-seven going on fifty-five. Her premature ageing wasn’t her fault.
Narey often found herself wishing she’d known Leah before Broome had wrecked her life, her confidence and her future. Everyone said she was the heart and soul, a party girl with a big laugh and eyes that lit up the room. A personality stolen.
It wasn’t lost forever though, Narey kept telling them both that. In the couple of months that she’d known her, she’d seen a change. An unfurling, a re-emergence, however slight, into the world. Her voice was that little bit louder, a touch bolder too. Rather than wrap herself in her own arms, she now occasionally had the courage to throw them wide as she spoke. It was a sign of the thing Narey was thrilled to finally see in Leah – anger. Where there had been meek acceptance and quiet self-loathing, there was now the slow burn of righteous rage.
She was still battered and bruised inside but a partial recovery had started. Which made Narey feel all the worse for giving her news that made her turn back in on herself.
‘Two weeks? I’m not ready. I’m not ready for court. Rachel, I can’t! Why so soon?’
‘Leah, it will be fine. Trust me. I wouldn’t be putting you through this if I didn’t think you could cope. Please, sit down. It’s going to be okay.’
Broome had appeared in court the day after they’d found the photographs in his home and he’d been remanded in custody. Now it was down to the Procurator Fiscal to decide what happened next. They had 140 days to get him to trial but Narey knew it would have to be sooner, while Leah still had the nerve to do it. No one knew how long her will to face him would last and they needed her.
Narey burned with some shame as she watched Leah’s ravaged face crumple into reluctant agreement. Most of the discolouring had gone, the remainder hidden under make-up. Her eye socket remained tender but no longer swollen. Her right cheek was still strangely flat and probably always would but you’d only likely see it if you knew to look. Anyway, Narey knew it was what couldn’t be seen that hurt most.
They were in Leah’s parents’ house in Knightswood, a bit over four miles from her old flat in North Kelvinside, the one Broome had violated. She didn’t have anywhere near the nerve to go back there or to live alone so had moved back into the bedroom she’d occupied as a teenager, with posters of Justin Timberlake and the cast of Friends on her wall. Mum and Dad, Heather and Charlie, had gone out to give them space.
Narey watched Leah sitting in a chair that was too big for her, a little girl lost, worn down with the world-weary jaundice of the middle-aged. She needed to be tucked in and cuddled but she also needed to be given the strength to stand on her own two feet.
In her hand was Oliver, a toy owl that she’d had since she was a kid. It had seen better days and was ripped at one ear but Leah wouldn’t be parted from it. She hugged it now as if it was magic.
‘Leah, this may sound a strange question, but were you ever aware of someone hanging around, perhaps taking photographs of you?’
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘What? Where’s this come from? Why are you asking me this now?’
Her confidence was as fragile as a bird. Anything unexpected and she’d fly.
‘I’ll explain in a minute. Trust me. But I have to ask you before I tell you what it’s about. Do you remember ever seeing anyone hanging about with a camera?’
The young woman pulled her legs up and tucked them under her, withdrawing as deep into the brown leather armchair as she could. She took a deep breath and held on to it while twirling the ends of her copper-coloured hair. It was a mechanism Narey had seen dozens of times.
‘Okay. Ask me again.’
‘Maybe when you were out shopping or with friends, somewhere public. The person with the camera might have been on the other side of the street, might not have looked like it was you he was photographing. Can you think of anything like that at all?’
She took her time. Pulling a cushion over her face as she thought. Little gurgling noises coming from behind it.
Narey found herself crossing her fingers and saying a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening. Please. Let it be.
When Leah re-emerged, she was damp eyed and apologetic. Tears began to stream the way they always did when she felt she was letting Narey down.
‘I’m sorry. Rachel, I’m really sorry but I can’t. This is important, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I wish I did but I don’t remember anything like that. I just . . .’
‘It’s okay. Shhh.’ Narey was out of her seat and perched on the arm of the chair, wrapping her arms around the girl. ‘Leah, you can’t remember it if it didn’t happen. It’s okay. It’s just something I needed to ask.’
Leah’s head broke loose from her grasp. ‘Why? Tell me now. What is that all about? Photographs?’
So Narey told her. About Broome and his grotesque collection that Leah wasn’t in. About how she wondered, no more than that, if he’d stalked and photographed potential victims. How it could help them in court. How it would go to character. How they could now run his DNA against what they had from the night of the attack. The rape.
All it did was confuse her. Narey was guessing at many of the thoughts she could see twisting their way across Leah’s face. Why me? Why not me? Did I miss him watching me? Why me?
‘That will go against him at the trial, right? I mean, it’s got to.’
No lies, that was Narey’s rule. Just hopeful truths. ‘We think so and we hope so. It can only be bad for him.’
The girl looked sad and weary.
‘Are you still having the same nightmares?’
Leah breathed out hard as she nodded. ‘Most nights. Always the same. I can’t move. I freeze. Just like I did when he broke in. I can smell him in the room, feel his weight on me but I do nothing. I just lie there and let him hit me. Let him put—’
‘Leah . . .’
There was the flash of anger. ‘I know.’ She talked as if spooling back what she’d been taught. ‘It was him. I didn’t have to fight to make it wrong but I should still have fought him. I wish I’d fought him. I’d feel fucking better about myself if I had. And I know all the arguments about that, I�
�ve heard them all. This time, Rachel, this time I’ll fight. I promise.’
She wiped a last defiant tear from her face with a violent swipe of her sleeve. ‘I’m doing this for you though. So you can get him. You’ll be beside me, won’t you?’
‘All the way. But, Leah? Don’t do it for me. Do it for you.’
Leah managed half a smile and half a nod.
CHAPTER 8
Narey fretted in the quiet of the incident room while she waited for the team to join her, pacing back and forth talking the facts through, just loud enough that they didn’t go past the door. It was pre-match nerves, she knew that. Trying to get herself together enough that it would come across as if at least one officer in the room knew what they were talking about. Even if that officer was damaged goods.
The Anti-Corruption Unit’s investigation had been thorough to say the least, rummaging through every cupboard in search of a skeleton. The press had been all over it too, sensing at least a story if not a scandal. She’d told the truth and thankfully the truth had been enough. There had been no charges to answer but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an asterisk against her name. She knew damn well there was.
There had been cases since her return. A kidnap, an attempted murder and one that was eventually knocked down to culpable homicide even though they had little doubt there was intent to kill. This one promised to be different. Bigger. Harder. There were other descriptions fighting to be heard and she gave in to them. More meaningful. She wanted this, needed this, badly.
She did a final check of the PowerPoint, ran through the facts in her head one last time and reminded herself that she was good at this. Nothing had changed.
They began to file in one by one, forcing her to put her game face on. It was a small team and would stay that way for now until they proved they had something that demanded more bodies, more time and more money.
The Photographer Page 4
