Rico was in first, as always. They’d come through the ranks together and became detective sergeants on the same day, staying peers until Narey got promoted. Promoted for being a woman was the canteen gossip, but Rico Giannandrea never joined in. He was as smart as they came and if he ever resented her promotion then he hadn’t once even hinted at it.
The three DCs came in together, deep in conversation. Bryan Dawson had been there the night before and was no doubt bringing Kerri Wells and Steph Harkness up to speed. The group was completed by the two constables who’d been there to arrest Broome – Connor McCartney and Andy Atkinson. With a bit of luck, she’d have the uniforms for the duration to do whatever donkey work was needed.
Narey walked to the front of the room, took a deep breath, and was about to begin when the door opened again. DCI Derek Addison. A long, lanky streak of foul-mouthed outrage, who was a friend but also her boss, and no less a pain in the arse for that. She really didn’t need him being there.
Holding an apologetic hand up to the waiting troops, she went back to speak to him. He grinned irritatingly, seeing her displeasure.
‘Did you get lost, wander in here by mistake?’
‘Funny. I heard what you found and I’m interested. It’s your show, though.’
‘Yes, I know it is. I don’t need babysitting.’
‘Just as well that’s not what I’m fucking doing then, isn’t it? From what I’m hearing, this could be big. Big enough that I need to know about it.’
‘You’re a terrible liar, Addy. For someone with so much practice, you really should be better at it, sir. Have I got this case only because you promised you’d keep an eye on me, make sure I didn’t kill anyone?’
He huffed. ‘You should be a detective. Your card’s still marked, you know that. So yes, I’m on the ticket but I’d just as rather not be doing any work and leaving it all to you. That way everybody wins. Go, tell your troops what you have and just pretend I’m not here.’
‘You’ll just be the elephant in the room?’
‘Give me peace. And Rachel?’ he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Before you went off, it would never have occurred to you that someone thought you needed babysitting. Because you didn’t. And you still don’t. Remember that.’
She screwed her face up in mock confusion. ‘Are you . . . are you being nice?’
‘No, I’m fucking not. Now get your arse up there and get this thing started.’
‘William Broome,’ she began. ‘IT entrepreneur and businessman. He is charged with rape and assault to severe injury and will be up in court tomorrow. All stops have been pulled to bring things forward. However . . .’
She let the pause hang there, as much to get the tone right as for dramatic effect. She didn’t want this to come across as being more than what happened to Leah. She couldn’t diminish that for a second. But . . .
‘. . . there’s more. On a search of his house last night, DC Dawson, along with constables McCartney and Atkinson, found a little treasure trove. Over five hundred photographs of women, all seemingly taken on the streets of Glasgow without their knowledge or permission. If this had been done by anyone else, it would seem highly suspicious and worrying. Done by Broome, I’m not sure I really want to start speculating just what it might mean. But we need to find out.’
She watched their faces, looking for reactions. Some had already known, some had just been told. All were professional, all hard-set and outraged as they should have been, but the two women – she was sure she wasn’t just projecting it – they felt something more. The same thing she’d done. It was subtle, almost unexplainable, but she saw it for what it was.
‘This is the kind of photograph we’ve found in boxes under Broome’s floorboards,’ she kicked the PowerPoint into action and an unknown young woman filled the screen. ‘There are hundreds of them. Some appear just once while some’ – she moved the images on – ‘appear in multiple photographs and on different days. We simply do not know who they are. Yet. That is our principal task.
‘Today, I want to explore just what the significance of this find is. We cannot ignore the fact that the man we believe to have taken them, and who was certainly in ownership of them, is a violent rapist. He isn’t talking, so we’re having to guess at his motivation for having photographed these women. All my guesses leave us with something pretty bad, so if you have anything else, let’s hear it.’
There was a noisy silence. The kind filled with thought and internal debate. No one could think of a good reason for anyone to have done what Broome had. They could all think of plenty of reasons that they didn’t like much.
Giannandrea broke the hush of deliberation. ‘If, as you say, these had been taken by anyone else, someone without a rape charge against them, then I’d think it was just someone we hadn’t caught yet. This isn’t right. Nothing could make this right. But taken by someone like Broome? I’d want to know that these women were safe. And I’d be gratefully surprised if they all were.’
‘I’m completely creeped out by this, I don’t mind admitting it.’ Steph Harkness opened up. ‘This has stalking and rape and God knows what written all over it. I’m creeped out and I’m angry and I’m available for however many hours you need. No way this guy is taking photos for some travel guide to Glasgow. This is sinister as fuck and there’s no other way to paint it.’
Kerri Wells sat next to her, nodding grimly, her jaw clenched, fists bunched.
‘Okay,’ Narey took control of it again. ‘So, we need to know who they are and we need to know where and how they are. Some, hopefully all, might remain unaware of Broome and his camera and whatever the fuck his next move was. But we need to find out. Rico, organise a gallery of every woman missing, murdered, raped, assaulted, verbally assaulted, whatever, that is on file for the last, I don’t know, ten or fifteen years. We need to establish if they’re victims.’
‘They’re already victims,’ Wells blurted out. ‘He’s photographed them. They’re victims of that.’
Narey took it on board and nodded, acknowledging Wells was right. She hesitated before making herself push on. ‘Then, there’s this.’
She moved the presentation forward and the rogue print appeared on screen. All but Bryan Dawson moved back in their seats, eyes screwed up in confusion or disgust.
It had a power that even the others didn’t. Having no face was more disturbing than the endless array of innocent faces. The untidy edges of the cut paper suggested violence, harm, frenzy. Nothing that could be good.
‘What the fuck is that about?’ Kerri Wells got straight to the point. She was a little tough nut who’d started – or finished – more than her share of arguments among the squad. She was only five feet three but never took a backwards step, combative because of rather than in spite of her height. Kerri was the one that would never let the guys away with anything remotely resembling a sexist remark, always calling them on it and shoving it back down their throat. Given how often such remarks were made, it kept her busy.
‘It’s a good question. Let’s hear some suggestions. Why is this one different from all the rest?’
‘Is it his mother?’ Connor McCartney qualified his question before anyone could have a go at him. ‘I’m not trying to be funny. Is he keeping her secret because she means something different to him than the others? I don’t necessarily mean his mother but a girlfriend, a sister, a neighbour, something.’
‘Is it Leah Watt?’ Giannandrea wondered.
‘No. Well, most probably not,’ Narey answered. ‘It was the first thing I thought but the body shape, it’s just not her. It’s possible it was taken when Leah was a lot slimmer but it just doesn’t look like her. I’m saying no.’
They all studied the photograph. All staring into the abyss.
‘Is it because she’s recognisable?’ Harkness wondered. ‘Famous in some way?’
‘But why would he need to remove her face to keep her hidden when she’s already in a shoebox under the floorboards?’ Giannandrea
wasn’t convinced.
No one knew the answer. Or any answer.
‘I’m sure McCartney is right that this woman is different from the others, perhaps because she means something to him, perhaps because of what happened to her, perhaps because of who she is. But I don’t want to guess why, I want to know why. Bryan, find a psychologist, try Lennie Dakers if he’s available. Ask him the question. Steph, get me a photographic expert, find if there’s any way we can date these.’
Both DCs took notes, bobbing their heads in agreement. Narey let the room have a moment, letting it breathe.
‘We might have a serial rapist on our hands here. Possibly on a scale we haven’t seen before. Broome is vicious. He’s violent. The attack on Leah Watt was, in my opinion if not that of the Procurator Fiscal, attempted murder. We don’t know how much further he might have gone.’
She turned and faced the screen, flicking through face after face to make her point.
‘Look at them. Study them. Remember every face. Every item of clothing. We’re going to have to look at a lot of missing women aged between twenty and forty and I don’t want anyone slipping through unnoticed because these faces aren’t ingrained on your brains. Remember them.’
There were nods, some quiet, some fierce.
‘And another thing. This stays within the investigation. It’s not going to do any good for this to become public knowledge, not until we need it to be. So, we keep it out of the media. It’s only going to cause a panic and that’s not going to help.’
‘Better make sure your husband doesn’t know about it then,’ chipped in a voice from the ranks.
There was an uneasy ceasefire until Narey herself was the first to laugh. Bryan Dawson had the fortunate ability to say something like that with a straight face, saved by the schoolboy twinkle in his eyes that must have enabled him to get away with murder as he grew up. The joke broke a spell in the room, just as it was intended to.
‘Yeah, and you better make sure that reporter on the Sun that you’re so friendly with doesn’t hear about it either, you cheeky fucker.’
‘My relationship with her is strictly professional,’ Dawson protested, his chubby cheeks puffing up with mischief before he broke into an operatic guffaw.
‘You can’t even spell professional without using your fingers. Okay, calm down. We know what we’ve got to do here, right?’ They all nodded. She looked to the back of the room. ‘DCI Addison, is there anything you want to add?’
‘Not really.’ He pushed himself from the wall and addressed them. ‘DI Narey has told you everything you need to know. She’s in charge of this and you come back to her with everything you find. And what you need to find are these women. Just one thing though. That –’ he pointed at the missing-head photograph on the screen – ‘is key. Find out who she is and why that sick fucker has cut away her face and you’ll be halfway there.’
CHAPTER 9
Leah and Narey were standing on a flight of concrete steps, being buffeted by wind and the occasional sheet of rain as November howled at them from all sides. Leah worked nervously at a cigarette, her ragged breath struggling to keep it alight amid the bluster. Narey was there as a barrier to it all.
Their shadows reflected dully on the hulking brown marble wall that declared the building behind it to be the Sheriff Court of Glasgow and Strathkelvin. It was reckoned to be the busiest court in Europe and Narey wasn’t likely to argue with that. Half her life seemed to be spent there or at the high court just a couple of minutes’ walk away. It was the sheriff court that saw the traffic though – thousands of lost souls trudging in and out of twenty-two separate courtrooms either in search of justice or hell-bent on escaping it.
The Clyde was just a few yards away, black as night, but rushing noisily as it cut through the city. Narey caught Leah staring at it through a gap in the trees, watching the river run. It had been a battle to get this far, a few minutes away from Broome’s preliminary hearing, and Narey didn’t want to lose her now.
‘You doing okay?’
Leah kept her eyes on the Clyde, intently following the surge and swell. She nodded tightly, hugging her cigarette closer. ‘I’m okay.’
‘It’s going to be okay in there. With a bit of luck, we’ll be back out in an hour.’
The younger woman dipped a hand into her bag and produced her toy owl, waggling the head back and forth just above the rim of her bag. ‘Yeah, Oliver says no problem. We’ll be lucky. Bound to be.’
Narey smiled at the dog-eared toy peeping out at her from the bag. What could go wrong with a lucky owl on your side?
‘You know how this is going to go, right? Broome’s going to be asked to enter a plea for all charges. Guilty or not guilty. If he pleads guilty, then he’ll be sentenced and this ends today. If not, the court wants to know that we’ve agreed on all contentious evidence. That’s where it might get interesting.’
Leah chewed on her cigarette and glared at the river.
‘He can’t get to you, Leah. You’re safe.’
‘You can guarantee that, can you? I used to always think I was safe. Didn’t really imagine any other way to be. Then, once your world’s been invaded, turned upside down, you never feel safe again. You know nothing’s guaranteed. Nothing.’
‘You’re right, I can’t guarantee it. But I guarantee I’ll do my best to make sure of it. He won’t get near you. You don’t even have to look at him in there. Listen, maybe it’s best you just skip court today. I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘No!’ There was panic in her voice. ‘If the first time I see him is at the trial proper then . . . I don’t know how I’ll be. I know I might freak out. I need to do it this way. We’ve been through this.’
This had been the bone of contention for weeks. It was highly unusual for a victim in Leah’s case to attend a first diet but she’d insisted on it. Then she’d fled from the notion and come rushing back to it again, twisting on the wind, spinning on her fears. They’d finally relented despite the warnings from the rape task force and the SOLOs, and despite their own worries.
‘Okay, okay. Calm down. You’re right and it’s your choice.’ Narey glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time to go in.’
As they wound their way along a corridor, searching for their designated courtroom, Narey saw a woman ahead with her eyes fixed on them. She looked to be in her late fifties but as they got nearer it became obvious she was prematurely grey and not much more than forty, overweight and puffy around the eyes. She had a cigarette pack in her hands and was tapping nervously on the top of it. She got agitated at the sight of Narey and Leah and began to pull herself up in readiness for them. She was standing outside Court Fourteen, clearly waiting for them.
Shit. We don’t need this, Narey thought. She had no idea who the woman was or what she wanted but she doubted it was going to be anything that would help Leah’s state of mind. She manoeuvred herself to Leah’s right to keep herself between her and the stranger.
‘DI Narey? Can I have a word. I’m—’
‘No, I’m sorry. This is not a good time.’
‘But this is—’
‘Excuse us.’ Narey had Leah by the arm and turned her own shoulder to the woman as she firmly led them past her. She walked them both to seats just a few rows from the front, close enough to see everything yet far enough away from where the accused would soon be. She put her hand on Leah’s, reassuring her, then stepped to the side to tell a WPC that if the woman with the grey hair and black raincoat tried to sit near them she should be removed.
Within a few minutes, Leah was struggling. Her left leg tapped out an unsteady rhythm despite the hand that rested on it trying to keep it still. The other hand wandered through her hair, pawing at her eyes and wiping at her mouth. She kept turning her head to the door, drawn to it every time it opened or closed, her ragged breathing signalling hope or disappointment.
It was just a first diet, held two weeks before the intended trial to make sure it was going to proceed, but the co
urtroom held the power to intimidate. The trappings of the law were designed to instil fear and command obedience, all oak panelling and cut-out portcullis designs, heraldic lions and the glower of stern men in suits. Leah was wilting under its gaze.
She shook visibly when Broome entered the room. He walked to the front of the court without a glance to where his victim sat, dressed sharply but not flashily in a plain grey suit. His hair was neatly brushed and he gave off a calm, unthreatening demeanour. Leah’s eyes followed him, Narey’s too.
It was hard to reconcile this figure with the one that launched himself at her from the corner of his bedroom. That was animal. She’d seen something primal in his eyes in that moment and heard the guttural snarl of the wolf as he attacked. She’d had a glimpse of what he really was. Now, she saw he wasn’t calm. Rather he was cold. The cold, unthreatened, uncaring air of the predator at rest.
He shifted in his seat, his head swinging round lazily till he was looking at the two women, his face expressionless. He made eye contact with each in turn but still showed no reaction, barely recognition. He lifted a hand to his face as he looked at Leah and traced a finger across his nose and cheeks, a gesture so innocent it could easily have been passed off as nothing. Then he let two fingers drum gently at the side of his face and Narey felt his spittle on her cheek.
Leah’s dancing foot had graduated from a slow beat to a quickstep. It juddered manically and her breath followed suit, hammering in and out, pumping her heart rate ever higher. She couldn’t stop looking at Broome, backing as far into her chair as it would let her. She was terrified and the scale of her fear frightened Narey in turn.
Broome towered over his solicitor, a small, slight man named Arthur Constance whom Narey had the misfortune to have crossed several times in the past. Constance looked like a bird but was nicknamed the Velociraptor for the delight he took in taking chunks out of cops and lawyers for the Crown.
Broome had made a smart choice in hiring Constance. Not only was he very good at what he did, he was a small, physically unintimidating man, softly spoken, and wouldn’t be seen as bullying Leah in the same way as someone bigger or more aggressive. But in his own quiet way, Constance was perfectly capable of ripping Leah to shreds and not shedding a single tear as he stood over her carcass. His presence was not a comforting factor.
The Photographer Page 5
