The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  With a final sigh, she flipped the folder open and began to work her way through it. Within seconds she was glad of the wine as inoculation against the horrors inside.

  Lainey had been nothing if not thorough. Obsessive was closer to the mark but it sounded more critical than Narey meant it to be. This was missionary work and Lainey was a zealot.

  She’d labelled her attacker, the man she thought responsible for Jennifer Buchanan’s rape and the others, as The Beast. His name, his presence, was everywhere.

  On newspaper clippings and typed-out A4 sheets, the word Beast was scrawled in highlighter pen or scribbled in the margins, sometimes with question marks, sometimes underlined twice, very occasionally in capital letters.

  A woman named only as ‘Cathy’, the quote marks making it clear it wasn’t her real name, had been spoken to. Interviewed would have been overstating it.

  ‘Cathy’ very nervous. No surprise. Didn’t want to talk. Tried to slam door in my face. Terrified. Only spoke because I’m not police. Wouldn’t talk about attack but agreed to answer one question, yes or no. Confirmed attacker called her slag while punching her. THE BEAST!!

  It had been all she’d got from the victim but the rest was filled in with a brief client report that seemed to have been copied from files, most likely without anyone else knowing. Lainey had been taking risks.

  Client CMcD. Age 28. Victim of home intrusion, violent beating and rape. Client has not reported crime. Says she will not go to the police. Refuses any persuasion to do so. Agreed to counsel without further reference to Police Scotland.

  Lainey wasn’t working entirely alone though. There was also a note suggesting help from an unidentified female police officer. Whoever she was, Narey approved.

  WPC Goodcop says she attended Cathy in hospital after call from paramedics. Cathy wouldn’t talk but was in very bad shape. Broken nose and cheekbone, fractured skull. Paramedics said someone had obviously broken in and bedroom was like a war zone. Cathy wouldn’t press charges.

  Then finally:

  Tried to talk to Cathy again. She’d moved. Neighbours no idea where she’s gone. Said she didn’t speak. Hope she hasn’t taken same route as Jennifer B.

  There was a cutting from the Daily Record from 2009. Court reporting on the trial of a man found not guilty of rape and assault on a twenty-nine-year-old Glasgow woman. Douglas McPhee walked free from court after a trial lasting eight days.

  The jury had heard gruesome details of the woman’s ordeal after a man, later identified as McPhee, broke into her house, beat and raped her. She had suffered a broken arm and ribs, suffered severe damage to her face and neck, as well as being raped.

  McPhee was six feet tall and slim built. He certainly fit the physical profile of the descriptions that Lainey had collated. He had a previous history of nuisance calls – heavy breathers – and a caution for an attempted rape charge that never made it all the way to trial. However, he also had an alibi that stood up to the prosecution’s attempts to demolish it. Five people said he was at Shawfield, the greyhound stadium, at the time of the attack. He even, conveniently, had ticket stubs of two losing bets.

  The victim’s right to anonymity was sacrosanct and correct, however much Broome protested, but right now it wasn’t helping Narey’s cause. She had advantages that weren’t available to Lainey Henderson, though. She could, and would, call in every bit of intel that might help get a line on the woman who was attacked.

  As she waded on through the file, more than anything she found case histories that had never got near newspapers or the police. Women whose courage had got them as far as a rape crisis centre and no further, although God knows the strength it took to do even that.

  If there was any crossover at all with the profile of The Beast then Lainey was all over it. Some of it looked like a stretch to Narey’s more dispassionate eyes but three of them were a much closer fit.

  Anna C was attacked in her own home. She woke to the sound of breaking glass and didn’t get as far as the telephone before her bedroom door burst open and a man rushed her. She couldn’t be sure if he was masked or not, the room was too dark to tell. She thought he was probably tall but could only really remember his smell, an aftershave that reminded her of wood or bark or campfires. He hit her hard. He hit her often. He was speaking but she couldn’t make out a word. She spent three weeks in hospital and had to have surgery to save an eye.

  KD was a student at Glasgow University. She woke to find someone on top of her, a hand clamped to her mouth, the other alternately pinning her down and punching her. She slipped into unconsciousness quickly enough that she believed she’d been drugged with chloroform or the like. She woke to find she’d been beaten and raped.

  D was also a student. She was studying late into the night, working towards a history degree at Glasgow Caledonian when she heard a noise in the bedroom of her ground-floor flat in Partick. She had a cat, a year-old tabby named Ed, who was wandering somewhere in the flat so thought nothing of it. When she heard another noise, catlike but wrong, she went to investigate.

  She was grabbed as soon as she was through the bedroom door, her head bashed against the wall making her brain crash against her skull and the room judder and spin. As she hit the floor, she saw Ed, skull broken, lying a couple of feet away. Hands grabbed her again and threw her on the bed.

  ‘Hayley’ seemed to be one of Lainey’s own counselling clients. Both the levels of detail and secrecy were higher. The notes suggested Lainey had spoken to her directly but they were sparse, only half a sheet of A4.

  Hayley endured a classic Beast attack. Woke to the sound of glass, intruder burst into her room and punched her repeatedly until she was unconscious. She was raped several times.

  Hayley ended up in a coma and had to endure protracted surgery. The little description she was able to give to the police matched the height and body shape of The Beast.

  Then, seemingly later and in a different pen, were updates.

  Hayley is feeling stronger physically, if not yet emotionally.

  Have convinced her to report the attack. Incredibly brave decision on her part to do so. The Beast damaged her but hasn’t broken her.

  Every case, every report, had Narey horrified. Sure, she was professional, she’d done her job long enough to know how to safeguard her emotions from the worst of it, but it tore at her. It was a catalogue of wickedness.

  Lainey’s dossier also held cases that Narey really struggled to link to Broome or The Beast, assuming they were one and the same. But they were no easier to read for that. Latest figures showed three sex crimes reported in Greater Glasgow every day – that added up to a thousand a year.

  Miss SM had been drinking with friends in Bath Street, leaving them to walk home alone to her Merchant City flat. She was walking by the entrance to St Vincent Lane, one of the many narrow, dimly lit lanes that criss-cross the city centre, when her arm was caught and pulled, a hand clamped over her mouth to silence her. She was hit repeatedly, punched into submission, before being raped and left unconscious. An hour later, she was found wandering dazed and bleeding by a young couple walking home. She remembered her attacker calling her a fucking slag as she was hit.

  Miss TN was a runner, in training for a summer 10k. Her regular route took her through Bellahouston Park. Her mother and her fiancé had warned her often enough, asked her to run somewhere else, but she was fearless and headstrong, why shouldn’t she run where she wanted? She was skirting past trees not far from the Palace of Art when the masked figure stepped out and knocked her to the ground. She took a kick to the guts and one to the head before she was dragged out of sight. She remembered him as being around six feet tall and slim, his balaclava was black. She never ran again.

  The file was like wading through a sewer. The stink of it was dripping from Narey and sending her into despair.

  She thought about her own wee girl, wrapped up in Peppa Pig pyjamas. She thought about William Michael Broome. And she went back to read the file
through from the beginning again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Leah’s anonymous statement was made through her lawyer. Delivered by him to the Crown Office and leaked to the press. Narey’s hurt was that she only got the news with the rest of the world. Her anger was at the damage the statement would cause.

  It was short, simple and straight to the point.

  I am the person identified as Miss W in the court case brought against William Michael Broome.

  It was only when in court that I realised, beyond any doubt, that Mr Broome was not the person who attacked me. I made a grave error. I categorically state that I made a mistake in identification and that I alerted the police to the wrong person.

  I apologise fully and sincerely to Mr Broome. I deeply regret any damage done to his reputation and hope that he can forgive me.

  This case should never have come to court. I shouldn’t have made the mistake but also, the police and Crown Office should never have let it happen. I was wrong and they should have known that.

  The shit and the fan were on a direct collision course.

  CHAPTER 13

  The bitter taste of disappointment was still curdling her stomach when word came through that Broome and his lawyer were to make a statement on the steps of the court. Cops and the Fiscal’s Office swore loudly and journalists rushed to Carlton Place.

  When they got there, they found Arthur Constance in his element. A free opportunity to grandstand and no one to tell him to play nice. He positioned himself and Broome at the top of the steps with the court in the background and the assembled press below. They could have held their press conference anywhere but Constance wanted it to look like they’d just walked free and vindicated from the arms of injustice.

  ‘My client has committed no crime, broken no law and yet his name has been dragged through the courts and the mud for all to see. This public humiliation has been incredibly trying for him and he has borne unspeakable stains on his good character without the opportunity to defend himself. Even now, he has been deprived of his day in court where he could and undoubtedly would have proven his innocence in this matter beyond any doubt whether reasonable or otherwise.’

  Constance was building himself up into a crescendo of righteous indignation.

  ‘And yet, while he has been forced to endure an iniquitous and very public slur, his accuser has been allowed to hide under the veil of anonymity. This is a travesty which goes against the very fibre of natural justice and the inevitable consequence is that women like this are given free rein to make spurious and unsubstantiated allegations, to cry rape, against decent men like my client. It is a poor interpretation of the law that cannot offer the same protection to men from outrageous accusations as it does to those who lie for their own gain.’

  There was a collective murmur among the press, the noise that signalled they knew they had a story. The sound had no regard for whether what they heard was accurate or right, only that it would make a headline. Tony Winter recognised it for what it was, an easy page lead that would come with the scaffolding of inevitable outrage. It didn’t prevent him from wanting to tighten Arthur Constance’s tie till he squeaked.

  Constance was nodding gravely at the press, sure that they all understood the obvious truth of his statement. With that, he retreated two steps and let Broome take the stage.

  He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, red tie neatly in place, hair brushed perfectly, his face a picture of hurt. He stood looking at the ground, seemingly composing himself, milking the moment for all it was worth. Finally, he lifted his head and began with a tremble in his voice and a shake in the hand that held two sheets of A4 paper.

  ‘The law, such as it is, prevents me from being able to challenge, far less name my accuser. She has the freedom to say what she wants, claim what she wants, with no consequences for her but incredibly traumatic and quite undeserved consequences for me. However, the law does allow me to name, and indeed shame, those who colluded with her to bring this sham case to trial.’

  Winter looked up from his notebook, pulse quickening, dread souring his mouth.

  ‘And I am going to take that opportunity today. Detective Inspector Rachel Narey of Police Scotland saw fit to bring to court a case with no evidence, with no motive and with no chance of prosecution. She took the side and the word of a woman who lied, who concocted a fake story for reasons known only to herself. My accuser may be mentally ill and if that is the case then I can have some sympathy with her. However, I can have no sympathy for the officer who blindly believed her despite all indications to the contrary, who took up her cause with the ferocity of a suffragette, who enabled this woman in her lies and madness.

  ‘It is my personal view that Detective Inspector Narey could not see beyond the possibility of the woman being right and the man being wrong. She has been conditioned to always believe the woman, to always condemn the man. Truth and justice are easy victims when it comes to blind hatred of men. There was a time, I’m sure, when women did not have equality in society but that has gone so far the other way that men are increasingly the victims of miscarriages of justice and of blatant prejudice. I am living proof of that.’

  Winter could barely wield his pen because of gripping it so tightly, strangling it in anger. Broome was getting a taste for his lies and wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Detective Inspector Narey is the epitome of what is wrong with the law and society today and I intend to bring a civil case against her for defamation. I will have my day in court and she will have to answer to that. This woman lied when she came forward to hurt me. The event never happened. It was a total fabrication. I can’t sue the liar but I can sue the woman that chose to bring the lies into court.’

  Some of the other reporters shot sideways glances at Winter. Their notebooks were full, as were their front pages and news bulletins, but they all knew he was married to Narey and all twitched at the prospect of a response. One look at his face left them sure they’d only be told to fuck off. He was raging.

  When Constance announced his client would answer a few questions, it was Winter who was at the head of the charge. The anger in his voice was controlled but obvious.

  ‘Mr Broome, you say DI Narey couldn’t see beyond a woman being right and a man being wrong. Is that not in itself defamation of someone who was only trying to do her job? How can you seriously believe that men are so prejudiced against? Surely a rape victim has the right to—’

  ‘Right?’ Broome worked himself up to a fury. ‘Why should she have rights and I have none? She can just say what she wants, you think that’s right? And as for Narey only doing her job, that slag—’

  Constance stepped forward in front of Broome and Winter felt two arms grip him by the elbow and side and hold him firm. Don’t say anything. Leave it, Tony. Don’t rise to it. Sympathetic voices restrained him.

  ‘I think we’ve taken that line far enough, ladies and gentlemen. Any other questions?’ Constance narrowed his eyes at Winter, seeming to recognise him but not being sure. He continued to look while other questions came to his client, less demanding lines, ones not designed to wreck the story but to support it, sensationalise it.

  When Broome was done with it, pontification over, he and Constance left and the journalists switched off their recorders and closed over notebooks. They formed an instinctive huddle to discuss what had happened and Winter strode into the middle of it. He didn’t know them all but recognised most. Not that it mattered. He was going to say his piece regardless.

  ‘Listen, I asked those questions as a reporter, same as you. But I’m not part of this story. If anyone quotes me by name then I will cut your fucking nuts off and feed them to squirrels. Do you understand me?’

  They did.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘He won’t sue. He can’t and he won’t. It’s just noise. He can’t take the chance of suing me for fear of what might come out in court. But he’ll say it often enough and loud enough that people will believe him.’

  ‘P
eople that want to.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Winter and Narey sat with a clutch of newspapers in front of them, the Standard included, pages open at the coverage of Broome on the steps of the court. Her name was plastered all over them.

  Broome’s claims were shouting from headline after headline. His accusations, his promises of legal action. All meat and drink to the press. Fuel too for pressure groups, men’s groups, who suddenly saw Broome as some kind of oppressed Messiah. There were quotes from them, screaming how Broome was right, how unfairly men were treated, and how the courts and the police were all against them. Her name was brought up again and again.

  The main group quoted, Men for Equality, said Narey should be sacked and called for Police Scotland to do it right away. They looked forward to her being sued and imprisoned. In the meantime, they would not let up until ‘justice’ was served.

  The online attacks had already started.

  The Police Scotland Twitter feed had been inundated with offensive tweets and #SackNarey was trending for a while. Someone had also discovered her police email and it had found its way onto one of Men for Equality’s online forums. From there, her mailbox was flooded with abuse until she got the tech guys to shut it down. She didn’t read any after the first few but it was obvious the trolls were all men, mostly young, all embittered.

  Some of them had found her Facebook page and even though all her settings were at private, meaning they couldn’t see anything, they had invaded the Message Request folder and dropped their poison there. She deleted them without reading but it still felt like someone had broken into their house.

  He continued to read the newspapers while she went to the desk to see what the news sites were making of it. Just because she knew it was a masochistic torture didn’t mean she could resist.