The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  He knew where his prey was, hiding in plain sight, being all big and brave and cowardly by attacking under cover of aliases. Going straight to them would be fatal though, like an old lion charging after a herd of gazelles and seeing them scamper into the distance at first sight of his mane. Instead, he had to circle them, get cover, then pick them off one by one when they were looking the other way.

  So, he didn’t follow the worst offenders, not to begin with. He followed their followers and those they followed, infiltrating the pack. He liked and retweeted their outbursts, flattered their fragile egos, buddied up to them and endorsed their views, however hateful.

  He made a particular point of liking and retweeting the posts that talked about Broome. It wasn’t hard to find them. The bastard had become some kind of twisted martyr for the men’s movement, a totem for perceived injustice. The collapse of the case against him had been seen as a validation of every rapist that had ever cried Not Guilty, conveniently ignoring that Broome was as guilty as sin.

  Broome himself retweeted some of the dark, hateful remarks that wore his name but he was clearly very careful with his own original words. ‘Retweeting is no endorsement’ was the get-out clause for the culpable. Danny retweeted Broome retweeting them.

  He started to throw his own tweets out there too, looking for hashtags as bandwagons to jump on. A young actress was getting heat for losing a lot of weight and then doing a lingerie photoshoot. The bullies were out in force, all of them paragons of physical perfection somewhere in their own minds.

  You may as well get back on the biscuits. Makes me puke just looking at you

  U were fat and ugly. Now ur skinny and ugly. Well done

  Now I only need to put a bag over your head and I could fuck you

  It didn’t exactly make him feel good but he piled on. His own barb was crafted with all the subtlety of the others.

  Funny how u were a feminist when u were fat. A slut now ur skinny

  It got likes, then it got retweets and replies. Good 1 dude. U tell da bitch pmsl. These brought followers and more retweets. None of it brought him pleasure but it was getting him nearer where he needed to be.

  The online gaming community was a rich seam for increasing his band of disciples. It was predominantly male, teens and early twenties, mostly locked away in their bedrooms and insulated from the boundaries of real human interaction. Any woman who dared to be part of this world, either as gamer or designer, ran the risk of constant abuse. Getting told to get back to the kitchen often came neatly sandwiched between death and rape threats.

  He picked up on a barrage of abuse directed at a software designer who was getting all the blame for the latest edition of a popular game not being all that the geeks thought it should be. It had already been confirmed she was only one of dozens who worked on the game but she was the only woman, so she took the hit. Apparently, the ugly bitch should leave it to men, get back to the kitchen, stop being a whore just to get a man’s job, and she’d be stabbed and raped if she ever dared to work on the game again.

  BigD was a pig about it too.

  If women were meant to design games, god would have given them balls and a brain. Get back to the kitchen u slut

  The unwashed lapped it up. Liked, retweeted all day long. Not quite viral but plenty of traction and a few hundred new followers.

  There were still no nibbles from the core group of Rachel haters but he had cover and used it to creep closer.

  There were four who attacked her more than the others. Four who seemed to have nothing better to do than to continue their assault. Some of the tweets must have been on an automated loop as they hammered away at it all day long.

  BigWeegie. Tormentor. ItsaMansWorld. BlueSnake.

  Those were his prime suspects for the night calls and the rat. Them and, of course, William Broome. They were his prey.

  He was sure at least one of them was responsible for the fake Twitter account. Their obsession was so all-consuming that it seemed unlikely they wouldn’t be involved. What he needed to know was how much further they’d gone. And how far they might go.

  He’d noticed that Tormentor had taken his eye off Rachel just long enough to launch an attack on a pop star who’d had the nerve not to give in to the pressure to be anorexic. Tormentor had taken it upon himself to lead the fat shaming charge.

  Ur so fat u should just hang urself bitch

  Danny ‘liked’ it and retweeted it. Then he replied.

  Need to be a really strong rope

  He sat and looked at it on the screen, waiting for it to make an imprint, reminding himself he was entitled to a proper drink later to wash the taste away.

  The likes arrived, retweets too. Lots of lols in reply. Then his notifications went up by a full count in a single jump. Like. Retweet. Reply.

  Tormentor.

  Nice one bro. Fat bitch would need a forklift truck to get her up there

  Danny responded immediately. Like. Retweet. Reply.

  lol she would break the truck

  And so it went on. Puerile, unfunny, cruel, and all too easy to do.

  He waited for Tormentor to tire of abusing the singer, waited for his Rachel obsession to kick in again. It didn’t take long. The troll’s attention span was about as short as his penis. He posted yet another call for the bitch to resign or be sacked, ending it with the haters’ two favourite hashtags, #SackNarey and #lyingcopbitch.

  Danny didn’t like or retweet this time, trying not to be any more obvious than he could avoid. Instead, he made a mental apology and posted a tweet of his own. It played well to the crowd, got picked up through #SackNarey and was retweeted dozens of times. Nothing from Tormentor though.

  Had the troll even seen it? It was so easy for a tweet to get lost in the blizzard.

  He tried again. A little more poisonous this time.

  DI Narey. A liar & a slut. Die Narey #SackNarey

  The likes were immediate. Some passed it on with a new hashtag #DieNareydie.

  In jumped the Tormentor. Like. Retweet. Follow. Direct Message.

  Cool tag bro. Die die Miss Piggy die. Keep the heat on that bitch. Ur one of the good guys

  Danny followed him back and sent a direct message in return.

  She deserves all she gets. Hope she is getting loads of grief

  Oh she is bro. Believe me. Tons of grief

  Good. Bitch asked for it

  He left it at that. Mark made. Don’t push it. Not just yet.

  He closed the laptop and headed for the fridge. His mouthwash was chilling inside a brown bottle. As he downed a large gulp of the beer, a quote came to mind. Something he used to have stuck inside his locker back when he was on the force. It was from Frederick Nietzsche.

  ‘He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.’

  CHAPTER 35

  It had taken Addison a full day to get permission from on high to seek an interview with Broome over the disappearance of Leah Watt. Officially, it had gone as far as the Deputy Chief Constable but no one doubted that McInally had covered his own back by going one step higher again. The prevailing mood was for no further hassle on that front, but that the Watt situation could not be ignored.

  Narey’s unauthorised venture into the HardWire office hadn’t helped, but Addison argued that the circumstances had demanded it. She’d added more fuel to her own funeral pyre by strongly suggesting to Leah’s parents that they make their feelings known and they’d duly done so. Command didn’t enjoy being squeezed but had to be seen to both satisfy justice and follow procedure.

  They wouldn’t sanction Broome being brought in as a suspect but only that he be approached as a potential witness. The decision on being interviewed was to be his and his lawyer’s. As far as Narey was concerned, they’d crawled on their bellies and let Broome walk all over them.

  After much hesitation and declarations of persecution, Broome’s people agreed
, but with a long list of caveats that the Deputy’s office agreed to. There was to be no taping of the interview, neither audio or visual. Broome was not to be cautioned and nothing he said would be used in evidence against him. He was helping the police with their enquiries. He was not a suspect.

  The rules of engagement had all been settled in Broome’s favour but the defining decree as far as Narey was concerned was that his lawyer could simply reject anything he didn’t want his client to talk about. She was going into battle with both hands tied behind her back.

  It was the best they could do, she was told. Just be grateful you’re getting to talk to him at all. Don’t blow it. Don’t make things worse.

  It sickened her. If she could handle the fallout and embarrassment from the case collapsing in court then they should too. They were allowing themselves to be bullied by this man and his little prick of a lawyer.

  Addison was to sit in with her, riding shotgun but also to stop her from getting herself or the force into trouble. The very notion bugged the hell out of her. Broome was the trouble.

  ‘So, whatever happens, stay cool,’ he told her. ‘Don’t get angry, don’t bite no matter what he says. If we piss them off then Connie will haul Broome’s arse out of there and we’ll be done. He’ll be able to say he helped the police with their enquiries etc. etc. and we’ll be back where we started.’

  She resented his advice as much as the situation. Maybe because she wasn’t sure she could stay calm. She wore thoughts of Leah like a shroud but this was her job, this was what she was trained to do.

  Arthur Constance escorted his client into the interview room in Stewart Street like a courtier advancing in front of royalty. Clearly, money could buy you a man’s morals as well as his counsel.

  Broome took a seat across the desk from them, shuffling awkwardly into place with all the unease of someone who resented being there. He positioned his shoulders and studied the desk, his face tight and surly. When he raised his head, he looked at Narey for longer than was necessary, a clear and successful attempt at making her feel uncomfortable.

  She thought there was a hint of bloodshot to Broome’s eyes, a puffiness to them too. Had he been drinking heavily, perhaps a sign of him struggling under the pressure of what he’d done?

  Constance made a show of making unnecessary adjustments to the sleeve of a navy pinstriped suit that probably cost a month of Narey’s wages. He cleared his throat and demanded attention.

  ‘Before we commence, I would like to place on record that my client is here willingly but reluctantly. He has already suffered harassment and public ignominy at the hands of Police Scotland and would be entirely entitled to feel sufficiently aggrieved at his treatment to deny such an unreasonable request for interview. He has, however, agreed to participate under the conditions agreed with your superiors but is doing so while reserving the right to terminate this interview at any time. A right we shall not hesitate to use.’

  Narey had Addison’s warning to stay cool and calm running on a loop through her head.

  ‘It isn’t an unreasonable request, Mr Constance. A young woman has disappeared. Her last known location was adjacent to your client’s place of business. We trust that as a responsible citizen, he would like to assist us in any way he can to help find that young woman.’

  Constance smiled. ‘An admirable attempt at sleight of hand, Inspector. Your interest in Mr Broome goes beyond that of neighbourhood witness and it would serve us all well if you admitted that so we could bring these unnecessary proceedings to a swift conclusion.’

  She ignored it. ‘Mr Broome, were you aware that Leah Watt was outside your building around four thirty that afternoon?’

  He lifted his head and looked at her as if for the first time. ‘No, I was not. In fact, I’ve only got your say so that she was ever there.’

  ‘Oh, she was there. We have indisputable evidence of that.’

  Constance let out the smallest of laughs. ‘All evidence is disputable, Inspector. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘Your office overlooks the lawn in front of the Templeton Building, does it not, Mr Broome?’

  ‘You know it does.’

  ‘The lawn is barely used at all during the winter months. Anyone out there would stand out, wouldn’t you say? Easy to spot, hard to miss.’

  ‘Inspector, do you have anything other than statements of the obvious? My client is familiar with the geography. We readily concede that fact.’

  ‘Were you in your office at that time, Mr Broome?’

  ‘I can’t recall.’

  ‘I’m sure your office staff will remember. Should we talk to them? I’m sure your diary will confirm or deny it. Should we go to your office and look at it? Perhaps we should check your emails.’

  Constance laughed again. ‘You’re a trier, Inspector. I’ll give you that. Such a pity that your unbridled enthusiasm sometimes gets the better of your judgement. As I’m sure you’re aware, we have no need or desire for you to pick your way through Mr Broome’s offices in search of wild geese. Next question, please.’

  She tried a different tack. ‘You’re interested in photography, aren’t you Mr Broome?’

  The lawyer’s face darkened. ‘You know those photographs are off limits. We are not going there.’

  It was what she’d expected and it pleased her. ‘I’m not talking about those photographs. It’s you that’s brought up those photographs. I’m talking about the prints on Mr Broome’s wall, the photographs of Glasgow. Tell me about those, Mr Broome.’

  The man shifted in his seat, unsure if he was being tricked. His lawyer looked equally uncertain.

  ‘I’m a photographer,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s a hobby. I love Glasgow and I love photographing it. That’s it.’

  ‘They’re very good,’ Narey encouraged him. ‘Really captured the city.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Broome was flattered but Constance was wary.

  ‘People make a city, don’t you think? The landmarks are great but I really like the way you have people in all of them. It brings the photos to life. Do you always like to have people in your pictures? Even if they are unaware you’re photographing them?’

  Broome was about to answer when his lawyer shut it down.

  ‘No chance, Inspector. Move on or we move out.’

  ‘Okay, I’d like to ask Mr Broome once more if he was in his office at four thirty that day. It was only a few days ago and I think he ought to remember. As I said, it would be easy to confirm.’

  Constance swivelled his head to look at Broome. The message was obvious. She can check, just tell her.

  ‘I had a meeting in the West End later that evening so yes, to the best of my recollection, I was in my office at that time.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her voice contained the minimum of gratitude.

  ‘Has anyone in your office reported hearing a disturbance, perhaps a scuffle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone hear a scream or shouting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that? Have you asked them?’

  ‘Inspector . . .’ Constance’s voice resonated with warning. ‘My client won’t be answering that question. It is provocative and he has already answered it.’

  ‘He hasn’t answered in terms of his workforce but okay, let’s move on. There was graffiti spray-painted on the wall of the building. Were you aware of that, Mr Broome? Either having seen it personally or heard of it from your staff?’

  His eyes narrowed. Unhappy with the suggestion.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The word painted on it was ‘rapist’. Given recent events, I’d have thought that would have been the talk of the steamie. You sure you didn’t hear any talk about it?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Really? That’s surprising. I’d have been sure someone would have noticed.’

  ‘My client has already told you he heard no such talk. Move on, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m happy to. CCTV footage shows L
eah Watt arriving at the Templeton Building. It does not show her leaving. Can you explain that?’

  ‘No. How could I explain it? Why should I?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s strange? Or worry that she might still be in the building?’

  Broome sneered. ‘I might be worried about what she’s done. Or that she’d infected the place.’

  She just let that hang, feeling the contempt from the rest of the room, Constance included. She could hear Addison’s anger, nothing more than a rush of air from his nose but she knew the sign. Like a bull readying to charge.

  ‘We also found fibres of clothing snagged on the lower wall. They are a match to the sweater Leah was known to be wearing when she disappeared.’

  ‘A match?’ Constance interrupted. ‘A confirmed scientific match to a sweater that you don’t have possession of. That sounds unlikely in the extreme.’

  Narey ignored it. ‘The location of the fibres suggests she was pushed face first against that wall. It paints a worrying picture of violence, don’t you agree, Mr Broome?’

  ‘I wouldn’t agree that it was worrying, no. And it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Why do you think Leah might have been at the Templeton Building?’

  Constance ran interference again. ‘My client isn’t a mind reader, Inspector Narey. He can hardly be expected to know why a stranger was in the vicinity of his workplace.’

  ‘Why do you think Leah Watt might have been there, Mr Broome?’

  She saw anger in his eyes. Nothing else so much as flinched but she saw the response where he couldn’t hide it.