The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  Narey looked round to see that the courtroom was largely empty, as would be expected for a hearing of this nature. There were a number of cops and court staff, lawyers collecting their fees and just a handful of members of the public. An older woman, seventies maybe, sat on the other end of the same row as her and Leah. She dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief and was comforted by what seemed to be a much younger relative. Narey was fairly sure it was Broome’s mother.

  Further back was the woman who’d tried to accost them outside court. She looked at Narey resentfully, her mouth fixed in a scowl. Whoever she was, she wasn’t happy.

  The sound of chairs scraping made Narey turn and she saw that the judge had entered the court. The play was about to begin. She reached for Leah’s hand and squeezed.

  Judge Erskine called the proceedings to order, the charges were read out and Broome was asked how he pled. Narey felt Leah’s hand twitch.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  Leah gasped despite knowing it was coming. From the corner of her eye, Narey could see a tear begin to make its way down the young woman’s cheek.

  Grant Whittle, the procurator fiscal depute who was prosecuting the case, read out his list of witnesses, Narey and the other cops who arrested Broome in his home among them. Constance did the same for the defence.

  However, as Whittle began his pronouncements of uncontested evidence, Constance stood and interrupted him. ‘Your honour, I’d like at this time to broach the matter of a piece of evidence which is very much in contest and which I believe can be dealt with summarily. May we approach the bench?’

  Whittle protested immediately, saying that Constance knew very well the order of such things.

  ‘My learned friend is, of course correct within the letter of the law but not, I suggest, within the spirit of these proceedings. I believe that if the evidence in question is even mentioned in court then my client’s ability to be afforded the fair trial to which he is entitled will be placed in extreme jeopardy. For that reason, I ask to be heard now.’

  Whittle groaned theatrically but his breath would have been better spent making legal argument. The judge called them both forward and switched off his microphone.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Leah’s voice wavered.

  ‘I don’t know. Broome’s lawyer is the kind who is always trying something. We need to just let them deal with it.’ She tried to sound more confident than she felt.

  From behind, all Narey could see was much arm waving from both sides while the judge remained impassive, taking notes without speaking. As Whittle turned side on, she saw his face was heated, the blood rising in his cheeks. He was jabbing a finger in Constance’s direction then turning to wave an arm towards Broome. Constance remained calm, as if explaining something very simple.

  After ten minutes that seemed so much longer, the judge raised the palm of his hands to both men, urging them to desist. He shooed them back to their seats and announced the court would be adjourned until he made a ruling on the evidence in question. Whittle fell back into his seat with his face the colour of a sky full of thunder.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Leah demanded. ‘This isn’t good, is it? Rachel, I don’t like this.’

  ‘It’s okay. Just stay here. I’m going to talk to him.’

  She made her way to the front row where Whittle was just about to get out of his seat. She squatted beside him with an arm firmly on his.

  ‘Grant, what the hell’s going on?’

  He exhaled noisily. ‘That prick Constance is insisting that the photographs you found in Broome’s flat are thrown out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, but I think he might succeed too. He’s argued that no crime has been committed. That—’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s not. His argument is that the photographs of the women were taken in a public place and that the European Court of Human Rights says anything done in public has no legitimate expectation of privacy. Further that there has been no complaint of harassment from any of the women pictured in the photographs and therefore no crime.’

  ‘Because they don’t know they’ve been taken!’

  ‘Yes, I know, but still no complaint. Further, our victim, Ms Watt, is not among the photographs, therefore, in the gospel according to Constance, the photographs bear no relevance to this case. They do not go to motive or character or suggest previous behaviour. He wants them excluded and Erskine is making a decision right now.’

  ‘Shit! And you think that’s what will happen?’

  Whittle heaved his shoulders. ‘I’ve argued that the case for the inclusion of the photographs is self-evident. That they are clearly Broome’s, he has clearly taken them and they demonstrate behavioural patterns consistent with psychological profiling of violent rapists. That to not allow them to be presented would be a miscarriage of justice. That each of these photographs potentially represents a crime as serious as the one before this court. And on and on. Erskine will make his own mind up. But if he throws out the photographs then we might well be fucked. We’ll only have your . . .’

  Whittle stopped, realising that Leah was standing beside them, her eyes wide and face flushed, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘All you’ll have left is me? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Leah, let’s not panic . . .’

  ‘It will all be down to me? Well that’s not going to happen because I’m not doing it. It’s too much of a risk. You said it would all be okay, that we had him. Well it’s not and we don’t!’

  Her voice was getting higher and louder. ‘If there’s no photographs then I’m not testifying. I mean it. I won’t do it.’

  ‘We can talk about this. Let’s just—’

  ‘No!’ She was shouting now. ‘I won’t testify. I can’t. I don’t recognise that man. I’ve never seen him before. I made a big mistake. It’s not him.’

  The whole court was listening now. Arthur Constance most definitely was.

  Ten minutes later, Judge Erskine called both sides into his chamber and told them he was throwing out the photographs. If that wasn’t enough, he ruled that they were Broome’s property and had to be returned to him. He ordered Police Scotland to hand over the originals along with any and all copies both digital or in print. No mention of the photographs could be made in court or elsewhere.

  By the time they returned to the courtroom, Leah Watt had disappeared and so had their case. Whittle managed to argue for a continuation to allow Leah to be spoken to and confirm her evidence. And everyone knew she wouldn’t. It was over.

  Narey wanted to throw up. For herself, for Leah, for every woman that was in every one of Broome’s photographs and every woman that might have been. Shit. Her bosses were going to go through the roof.

  She was walking from Court Fourteen in a daze, her head trying to make sense of how they’d messed up so badly and desperately trying to think of a way to change things. As she stepped into the corridor, she almost walked straight into someone standing there waiting. Her peripheral vision took in grey hair and a black raincoat. The woman from earlier. This was all she needed.

  ‘DI Narey. Can I speak with you, please?’

  The woman was wide-eyed and anxious, so not what Narey needed to deal with. There was something manic about her. Narey had enough anger and agitation of her own without having to share someone else’s.

  She pushed on past her. ‘No, I’m sorry. This really, really isn’t a good time.’

  The woman kept on at her frantically from behind. ‘I have information that can help you. I know things about William Broome.’

  Narey kept walking.

  The stranger’s voice went up an octave. ‘He’s done this before!’

  Narey slowed, then spun on the spot. ‘I’m listening.’

  The woman took a deep breath, composing herself.

  ‘My name is Lainey Henderson. I’m a rape counsellor. And I know he’s done this before.’

  CHAPTER 10

>   They sat either side of a table deep in the corner of the Victoria Bar in Bridgegate, two coffees cooling slowly between them. Narey had used the short walk across Victoria Bridge to try to call Leah but had got no reply. She left a message more in hope than expectation.

  There was a young couple sitting just a few tables away and a small group of women chatting animatedly over a bottle of prosecco to the other side of the bistro. It was enough to make both Lainey and Narey keep their voices low.

  ‘He got to her,’ Lainey warned. ‘Broome got to her while you were talking to the lawyer. I saw him.’

  ‘What? He spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what he said. When you left her alone, Broome turned and said something. I couldn’t hear it but I saw her reaction and she was terrified. I tried to go over but a lady cop stopped me. Whatever it was, it was a threat, simple as that. She got up and left the court. I didn’t blame her because I knew exactly how she felt.’

  Narey let that statement swim in the air for a while. Lainey Henderson had a story to tell and it would be better to let her tell it in her own time than drag it out of her. She’d been trying to get a read on the woman opposite her but was struggling. Narey thought she was probably anxious rather than nervous, angry rather than worried, but wasn’t sure. She looked like she didn’t sleep much or care that it was obvious. The dark rings under her eyes weren’t covered by make-up but worn like badges of honour.

  ‘I still resent the smoking ban,’ Lainey announced. ‘What’s it been, ten years? Still doesn’t feel right. I remember coming in here when it smelled like a proper pub. Not like this.’

  ‘And when your clothes stank of it whether you smoked or not. And you got second-hand smoke whether you liked it or not. I prefer a bit of progress over nostalgia and lung cancer.’

  ‘Each to their own. I could do with a fag, I know that much.’

  She’d smoked one on the walk across the Clyde, puffing furiously while Narey was on the phone. They hadn’t said much, little chance that they had, both trying to process what had happened in court. Lainey had a thick blue plastic folder wedged under her arm, clinging onto it like it was solid gold. It now lay next to her on the table and Narey’s eyes kept getting drawn to it.

  Lainey saw the look but ignored it, looking for answers in her coffee instead. Her hands were continually on the move, picking things up, putting them down, pulling at her hair and her clothes, constantly fidgeting, tap tap tapping on the top of the cigarette packet she couldn’t open.

  ‘I’ve known about him for thirteen years. I’ve been . . . following him.’

  Narey’s coffee mug stopped halfway to her mouth. ‘Following him?’

  Lainey shrugged unapologetically. ‘Not physically. I didn’t know his name, not till very recently anyway. I didn’t know who he was but I knew he existed, knew what he did. I’ve been keeping a file on him.’

  Narey looked at the folder again but knew she’d be made to wait. Lainey told her story.

  ‘In 2004, a man broke into my house, beat me and raped me. He left no evidence, no fingerprints, no useable DNA. No one saw him enter or leave. I could tell the police nothing other than an estimate of his height and build and what he did. They did nothing, could do nothing. I was told to get on with my life.’

  She drank some coffee to buy some time, composing herself as best she could.

  ‘I gave up my job, just couldn’t handle being round people, round men. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t stand the thought of being touched or being in a relationship. I was a mess. A friend suggested counselling and that helped a lot. Helped enough that I retrained and actually became a counsellor myself. I’m not sure I was ever the best counsellor in the world because I became angry too easily, too emotional. But I sure as hell knew what they’d gone through and I used that as best I could. I was still a mess in my own life – I got fat, I didn’t trust anyone, I drank, I smoked too much, pissed off my friends and family, all the good stuff – but I was able to help others.’

  She lowered her voice still further and Narey could see she was struggling to hold herself together.

  ‘Then a woman, a girl, came for her first session. Her name was Jennifer Buchanan. She turned up black and blue, her eye cracked, her nose flattened. Just seeing her set off all my old anxieties. Then she sat down and told me what had happened to her. How a man had broken into her flat and beat her to a pulp then raped her. How he called her “slag” every time he punched her in the face.’

  Lainey watched for Narey’s reaction to that and saw what she’d hoped for.

  ‘She was telling me all this and my head was screaming inside. She was describing what had happened to me. It was like she’d stood in the room and saw what the guy had done to me. Except he’d done it to her too. She told me her story and when she left, I threw up. I had to leave and go home.’

  When Lainey paused, Narey found she’d nothing to say. She wanted to reach out, to console, to hug, but she already knew enough to know that wouldn’t be welcomed. She could only sit and wait, smothered in the distant chatter and the silence at its heart.

  ‘The way the support sessions work, when your name gets to the top of the waiting list you get a phone call to come in and begin counselling. I called Jennifer myself and there was no answer. We went to the address she gave us and there was no one there by that name. I hired a private investigator to look for her and she couldn’t be found. This woman, who’d spelled out my own nightmare, had given a false name or disappeared or gone into hiding or something worse. All I knew was that if what she’d told me was true then the person who raped me had raped her and had probably raped others too.’

  ‘Did you take this to the police?’

  Lainey laughed in her face. ‘Oh, brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that? I took it to the police. Twice. And twice they weren’t interested. Or not interested enough. Inspector, I tried to get your lot involved but they didn’t want to know. So, I did it myself.’

  Narey felt duly chastised. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I knew he was out there, somewhere. I didn’t know his name but I knew what he did so I began looking for signs of him anywhere I could. News articles, case reports, talking to other counsellors, to people I knew at Glasgow Archway. Looking for attacks that fitted the profile. I volunteered for more shifts, figuring the more hours I did, the more chance I’d hear something.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Lainey reached out and laid her hand on the folder in front of her, tapping it with her fingers. ‘More than I wanted. And less. You know what I mean?’

  Narey did.

  ‘Some of these might not be him. I can’t be sure. But I know that a lot of it is. None of it has ever been proven. Nothing has ever come to court. Until today. I never even had a clue to his name until now.

  ‘Listen, Inspector. I know I look crazy. Plenty of people seem to think I am crazy. And you know what, maybe I am but I’m not making this stuff up. Everything in the file is real. This is nearly ten years’ worth of work.

  ‘I know the precise moment I began searching for him. Not from the time he raped me. Not even from the moment Jennifer Buchanan told me what happened to her, although that was what really started it all. I was still scared then, shocked to a standstill. It was when I found out Jennifer disappeared, or hadn’t existed, or whatever her story was. That’s when I knew I couldn’t be prey any longer. Prey always ends up dead.’

  She pushed the folder across the table towards Narey but then slapped a hand on it as the DI reached out to pick it up.

  ‘I’m not just giving this away. I need to know you’ll do something.’

  ‘Then keep it,’ Narey edged the file back towards Lainey. ‘I can’t give any guarantees. Not after today. Today, William Broome effectively walked free. I might well not even have a case against him that I’m working any more. I can’t make any more promises that I can’t keep.’

  Lainey’s eyes widened and she leaned forward in disbelief.
‘You’re not seriously telling me the police are turning me away for a third time?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I want to look at it. I want to know what you’ve got. Believe me, I do. But I’m telling you that I come with no guarantees, with no promises. Except one. I’ll do whatever I can because I want that bastard put away as much as you do. I just don’t know what I’m going to be allowed to do – today has changed everything.’

  Lainey stared back at her for an age, her eyes locked on Narey’s, looking for something she could trust. Finally, she lifted her hand from the folder, hesitated, then pushed it forward.

  ‘I’m trusting you. With a lot.’

  Please don’t, Narey thought. Please don’t.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was two hours after getting home before Narey could get close to looking at Lainey Henderson’s file. The preceding time had been filled with Alanna.

  There was a prolonged period of ‘hey I’m home’ time, which as ever was a mix of Alanna’s relief and Narey’s guilt, resulting in much hugging and kissing and discussion of how their days had been despite the lack of verbal communications skills.

  There was play time and bath time, all classified as precious time. Someone must have switched the speed setting on those to overdrive compared to the long office hours without her. They flew by.

  She never failed to be amazed at how her daughter was capable of pushing her close to laughter or tears or edging her heart close to bursting just by a smile or a giggle or doing something that probably wasn’t that remarkable but seemed extraordinary in the moment. She was the mother she never thought she’d become.

  Their little green-eyed ball of fun was now fast asleep and her attention could turn to the file. She poured herself half a glass of wine then, with a glance at the folder and thoughts of what lay inside, she topped the shiraz up to the brim.