The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  She phoned Leah again and the call was terminated immediately. She tried again a few minutes later and the result was the same. She sent her a text. Call me. Please.

  Five minutes later, her phone beeped. A text from Leah. Just one line.

  Leave me alone.

  CHAPTER 17

  Winter was driving home from the Standard office, crawling along Great Western Road in nose-to-tail traffic. He’d have been quicker walking but had a boot full of camera gear plus a couple of large packs of nappies that would have taken a lot of juggling.

  He was in a bad mood to start with and the congestion wasn’t helping. He wasn’t usually quick to bang on the steering wheel but when a car three ahead blocked up the junction, he snapped and hammered on the horn. All it succeeded in doing, of course, was rousing a retaliatory chorus from those who thought he was beeping at them. It made everyone feel a little better for a handful of seconds.

  Turning on the radio to drown out the impatience all around him, he found himself half-listening to talk radio, some shock jock blasting out from his pulpit. It flowed over him far faster than the traffic, only really jolting into his consciousness when he picked up on keywords.

  Men haters. Rights. Rape. Fake news.

  The other voice, the guest, wasn’t familiar but it took him just moments to work out who it was.

  ‘I was put on trial, shamed in front of the world, for something I hadn’t done. They had no case, no evidence, the court saw that in a matter of minutes and threw it out. But you’ve got to ask how it got that far. How the hell did this farce ever get as far as court? Because the police officer in charge of the case was a woman. Simple as that. She’d made her mind up, as soon as she heard her sister’s sob story, that the man had to be guilty.’

  William Michael Broome.

  Winter’s hands tightened on the wheel and he blasted his horn again for no reason that the cars around him could possibly understand.

  ‘There’s no way a male police officer would have made the same decision. He’d have been detached and professional and seen that there was no evidence. But no, this DI Narey just ignored the facts and wasted time, public money and my reputation. Quite honestly Phil, it’s disgraceful. This woman is a . . . a . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard people use the word feminazi,’ the host offered. ‘Is that maybe what you’re thinking of?’

  ‘Yes! That’s exactly what she is. And she should lose her job for it. She clearly isn’t capable of doing her job properly. But the Crown Office is just as bad, letting this get as far as it did. Someone there should get sacked too.’

  ‘Well, I have to agree with you William. But do you think it might be a problem that the head of the Crown Office and the Procurator Fiscal Service is the Solicitor General, and the Solicitor General is a woman? I wouldn’t want to suggest she was anything other than impartial, of course.’

  Broome’s voice got louder. ‘Of course she’s not impartial. It’s a political appointment and that makes everything about it political. She’s a woman trying to keep women happy by perpetuating the myth about the number of rapes that they say take place.’

  ‘You don’t think the figure is as high as they say?’

  ‘Of course it’s not. I’ve read that it’s less than ten per cent of what the feminazis claim it is. The mainstream figures are just fake news. It’s practically impossible for it to be that high. They are taking every false claim, counting them as real and multiplying by ten. I should know, it’s exactly what happened to me. This Leah Watt woman—’

  ‘Whoa, I’ve got to stop you there, William.’ Phil the shock jock didn’t seem too fussed at all, but was having to go through the motions. ‘Right or wrong, that young lady’s identity is protected and we’re not allowed to name her.’

  ‘Well it’s wrong!’ Broome protested. ‘It’s very wrong. Leah Watt made false allegations against me and the law doesn’t protect my name, doesn’t keep my name secret. She is . . .’

  Phil let out a small laugh, like he was dealing with a cute but misbehaving infant. ‘William, William. I know you’re angry but we really have to obey the law on this one. Sometimes the law is an ass but you still have to give it carrots, you know what I mean?’

  Winter couldn’t take any more and slammed his hand against the radio button. It was only when the speaking stopped that he became aware of the cars raging all around, horns blaring directly at him.

  A green traffic light was staring him in the face, perhaps four car lengths in front. He’d missed the cars moving, being so wrapped up in the bile seeping from his radio. As a gesture of apology, he blasted his horn before stamping on the accelerator and lurching forward.

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Tea or coffee, Rachel? I could do with something stronger but for some reason they’re against me bringing gin in.’

  Helen Connarty’s otherwise sparse office was dotted with family photographs. Small family groups, her and what was presumably her husband plus two children at various ages. The boy and girl smiled out of frames on the desk and on shelves next to bound books, from toddlers to teens. Narey had little doubt it was an attempt to anchor some sense of normality amid the swamp Connarty had to wade through. She declined the offer of a hot drink.

  Connarty fell into the chair behind her desk with a heavy sigh. Her face was lined and the dark circles suggested a distinct lack of sleep.

  ‘Christ, I’m done in. I didn’t get into this to be a bloody politician but it feels like that sometimes. I’ve been explaining strategy to a Holyrood committee and it was like describing Brexit to four-year-olds. Except the four-year-olds would have pretended to listen before throwing a tantrum.’

  The Detective Superintendent kicked her shoes off and pushed back into her chair. ‘Heading up the task force is so different from anything else I’ve done. It’s like being constantly knackered and yet energised at the same time. You know what I mean? Being drained by it but ready to go again.’

  ‘I do ma’am. It’s the same on the Major Investigation Team. A case gets a hold of you that you work till you’re ready to drop but you just keep going.’

  Connarty nodded. ‘Exactly. Except don’t bother with the ma’am stuff. The door’s closed. Call me Helen. You ever thought of a move, Rachel? Away from the murder squad?’

  It took Narey by surprise. She’d never thought of a switch, what she did was in her blood. At least until Alanna was born.

  ‘I’m happy doing what I’m doing. Never say never though, I guess.’

  ‘How’s your daughter doing?’

  The timing of the question meant Connarty either read her mind or had thought this out beforehand. Either possibility was a bit unsettling.

  ‘She’s great ma’am . . . Helen. Developing her own personality and not slow to let you know how she’s feeling.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that stage. Wonderful, isn’t it? Mine are both in their teens and they certainly let me know how they’re feeling. I’m guessing it would be good to always get home before she goes to sleep and be there when she wakes in the morning, right? We’re not exactly nine to five in the task force but we’re more regular than you’re used to. We could really do with someone like you on the team.’

  ‘Someone like me?’

  ‘Dedicated. Determined. Smart. Caring. Professional. A woman.’

  ‘Thanks Helen but I’m not . . .’

  ‘Do you know how many sex crimes are reported in Scotland? It’s now over ten thousand a year. The highest it’s been in forty-five years. Other crime is at its lowest since the same time but rape and sexual assault have gone up.’

  ‘I know the statistics but—’

  ‘Do you? Do you know how many rape victims in Scotland are asleep when they’re attacked? One in five. Twenty per cent of them. Sure, they’re not all like Leah Watt, their homes might not be broken into, but still, one in five are sleeping when some guy decides to help himself. I’m not having that, Rachel. Not on my watch.’

  There was a crackling
intensity to Connarty. Words and numbers spat out of her.

  ‘And the fact that reported rapes have gone up five per cent? That’s the only bit of good news. It’s not rape that’s risen; it’s reporting. If we’re making women more confident that they can come forward, that they’ll be taken seriously and that the rapist will be put away, then we’re doing our job.

  ‘You’ve not been with us but you’ve been around long enough to know how much things have changed. We’ve made huge strides, Rachel. The way we work is night and day from what it used to be. And thank Christ it is. We failed them before, the victims. We let them down time and time again. Historically, it was a disgrace. Not just in Scotland but the rest of the UK too and probably most of the world.

  ‘I’ve worked damned hard to make sure every cop in every cop shop in Scotland knows they can’t be the way they were. They know they have to treat victims with dignity and respect. They have to be thorough no matter who’s involved, no matter where it’s happened. Our focus is the victim, no matter whether it was a husband, a boyfriend or a stranger who attacked them. The old boys’ way of doing things is finished.’

  Narey knew it was true. Processes had been overhauled, focuses had been shifted. Maybe it still wasn’t all it could be but it was unrecognisable from how it was.

  ‘Do you remember the John Worboys case?’ Connarty was in full crusading mode now. ‘Multiple rapist who drove black cabs in London.’

  Narey did, although not much of the detail. What she did remember was that two of Worboys’ victims had successfully sued the police for not properly investigating their complaints.

  ‘I remember two victims came forward, the police did next to nothing and the women later sued the Met.’

  Connarty’s face twisted. ‘Of course that’s what you remember. It took getting sued before the force sat up and took any bloody notice. What you should remember is that John Worboys raped and sexually assaulted over a hundred women in a five-year period. You should remember that if the Met had done their job, taken the first woman seriously, then another seventy-four women would have been spared what they went through. If they’d done their job properly when the second victim came to them in 2008, when they actually arrested the bastard and let him go again, then another twenty-nine women wouldn’t have been attacked. All we have to do, is do our fucking job.’

  It stung and it was probably meant to.

  ‘Are you saying I didn’t do my job and that’s why Broome is back on the street?’

  Connarty didn’t blink. ‘I wasn’t flattering you when I listed your qualities. That’s what I hear from everyone I talk to. First-class cop. Would make a first-class asset to the task force. Most likely with a promotion thrown in. But we have a problem and that problem is William Michael Broome. I’ll tell you this right now, Rachel, he’s not going to be my John Worboys. I won’t let him be. He gets put away or he gets forgotten about, no middle ground.’

  ‘Him being put away is exactly what I want. You said I had a reputation for being determined and I am. I don’t give up on something lightly. Something like Broome I don’t give up on at all. Give me the chance and give me time and I’ll bring him in. And this time—’

  Connarty interrupted her with a raised hand.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. Everything we do is as much about perception as it is reality. You can go into a courtroom and it doesn’t matter if a judge or even a jury likes you or hates you. As I said to you before, if you’ve got enough evidence, you can get your conviction. I need more than that. I need them onside, need them believing me.

  ‘Do you know why the reported rapes are up? Because women are beginning to trust that we’ll treat them with respect, that we’ll take every report seriously, that we’ll act on it and justice will be done. It’s all about giving them the confidence to come forward. Every case that goes wrong dents that confidence and sets the reporting rates back further. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She understood all right. This wasn’t all about girl power, no sisters under the skin, no call me Helen, no job offer. This was about making sure Narey knew she couldn’t afford to mess up. There was far too much at stake for everyone.

  CHAPTER 19

  The house on Belhaven Terrace was asleep, or at least its inhabitants were. A building of that age never fully slept. It slumbered at best, groaning and creaking as it breathed in and out. The same noises were there during the day but passed unnoticed as the world talked and walked and wondered. In the dead of night, they reverberated. Whether the squeak of a loose floorboard or the rumbling rumour of wind in the attic, an old house was never truly silent.

  That was maybe why neither Winter nor Narey paid any attention to the phone on its first ring. It was another mid-night sound to add to those they’d learned to ignore. Winter stirred on the second ring as it seeped into his dream and pulled him out.

  He sat up, shaking the sleep from his head as he tried to gather thoughts. The clock next to the bed read 2.14. There was never good news at that time of the night. His mind did calculations, worst case scenarios forming. He stretched a hand out to his left and was relieved to feel her lying next to him.

  He heard the third ring echo on the extension in the hall, next to the baby’s room. Damn. Alanna would be awake in no time.

  He lifted the receiver, head fog slowly clearing.

  ‘Hello?’

  The sleepiness meant he wasn’t sure if the line went dead as soon as he’d answered or whether there was a gap. The click woke him though. He was trying to process if it was good news or bad that the call had ended, thinking maybe someone had changed their mind about how important it was when he hadn’t answered immediately, when he heard Alanna start to cry.

  ‘Whassit?’

  Rachel was more asleep than awake, barely able to form a sentence, looking at him through half-shut eyes.

  ‘It’s Alanna,’ he half-lied. ‘I’ll get her. Go back to sleep.’

  She mumbled something that might have been ‘thanks’ and rolled back over, leaving him to head to the baby’s room. Alanna was standing in her cot, holding onto the side and emptying her lungs.

  ‘Come here, darling. It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  He lifted her up and cradled her to him, her head at his shoulder so he could whisper in her ear. ‘Did the bad phone wake you up and give you a fright? Yeah, it scared daddy too. But it’s okay now. Probably.’

  He excused himself on the basis that she didn’t know what the words meant. Probably.

  The crying stopped but there was no way she was going back to sleep. He tried to put her back down but she complained immediately, forcing him to scoop her up in his arms again and walk round the room talking to her.

  The phone call plagued him. Did the caller hang up just as he answered or after he’d spoken? He wandered into the hall, shifting Allana’s weight to his left shoulder so he could pick up the phone, dialling 1471 to see who’d called. The automated voice informed him that the caller had withheld their number.

  He paced the bedroom, his daughter chuntering away in her own language, enjoying having daddy to herself while the world slept. Or some of it.

  The phone rang again, cutting through the night like a chainsaw.

  He strode out of the bedroom towards the hall, conscious of not scaring Alanna but desperate to get to the phone before her mother did. It rang three times, four, and he thought he was making it but when he was two yards away, it stopped.

  Rachel’s voice was faint from the other room then rose. ‘Hello? Hello?’ He heard the chink of the phone going back into its holder.

  When he got into their bedroom, she was sitting up, clearly irritated but still only half-awake.

  ‘Was there anyone there?’

  ‘No. Went off just before I answered it.’ She gestured towards Alanna. ‘Is she awake?’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘Just bring her in. Come here, baby girl.’

  The three of them snuggled.
Rachel and Alanna asleep within minutes, Winter staring into the dark, listening. Sometime in the next half hour, he drifted into that half-world between sleep and dreaming. That’s how he was when the phone rang again.

  He caught it on the second ring, awake enough to hear the disconnect click just as he picked up. He checked for the number but, of course, there wasn’t one to be had.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Rachel demanded. ‘If this happens again I’m going to rip that phone off the wall.’

  ‘Probably kids.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. Maybe big kids. One more and I’m phoning it in.’

  ‘Why don’t you go sleep in the spare room? Take Alanna with you. I’ll deal with the phone.’

  She didn’t argue, just lifted her sleeping child from the bed and left, only stopping in the hall to bend down and pull that phone from its socket.

  Winter wasn’t going to sleep this time. He switched on the bedside lamp and sat up, watching the digital numbers turn on the alarm. As they slowly moved over, glowing red in the half-light, he watched them edge to 3.29 and felt a buzz of expectancy.

  His hand hovered over the phone, waiting. At 3.30, on the dot, it rang.

  He had it to his ear immediately. When he heard the line was live, he knew he’d beaten the caller to the punch.

  ‘Who is this?’

  There was just silence, maybe a surprise at getting caught out, but there was breathing. There was definitely someone on the line.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  There was laughter. High-pitched, slightly manic giggling. It was out of control, coming from booze or drugs or madness.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he kept his voice low but the anger was unmistakeable.

  There was silence again, other than the sound of the person breathing. It was broken just enough to say one thing before the line clicked dead.

  ‘Bitch is gonna die.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Winter’s desk in the Standard office faced the door. His news editor, Archie Cameron, figured that was appropriate, as his photo-journalist lived in constant danger of being asked to leave through it. Except he put it more colourfully, suggesting that one more fuck up and Winter’s arse wouldn’t stop till it bounced onto Waterloo Street.