The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Had you arranged to meet her?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a coincidence that she was there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. How am I supposed to know how a woman like that thinks?’

  Constance was ready to interrupt but Narey was quicker. ‘A woman like that? A woman like what, Mr Broome?

  ‘Inspector, my client—’

  ‘I don’t mind answering that. In fact, I’d like to.’

  Everyone else in the room shared glances. The one who found the words most uncomfortable, quite clearly, was Constance. He questioned it with nothing more than a raise of his eyebrows, but Broome was determined to have his say.

  ‘I think it’s quite clear the woman was mentally ill. Possibly a pathological liar. Certainly a fantasist. If she was outside the building? Well, for one thing I’d consider it harassment and if you do find her then I’m instructing Mr Constance here to bring a case against her. At the very least I want a restraining order against that slag.’

  The atmosphere in the room tightened like a noose. Every one of them felt it. It was the last word that did it. Broome’s signature insult for women.

  ‘Do you have a problem with women, Mr Broome?’ She tried to keep her voice level, determined not to rise to his bait.

  ‘That is hardly within the scope of this interview, Inspector,’ Constance cautioned. ‘You have a small window of opportunity yet seem determined to slam it shut on yourself.’

  ‘Connie,’ Addison’s patience, always on the tightest of wires, had snapped, ‘if your client continues to be a complete arsehole then I’m going to lob a half brick through that window of opportunity and I don’t give a flying fuck if it smashes or not. He’s not coming into my interview room and using terms like slag and talking about victims as if they were shite on his shoe. He can behave himself or he can crawl back into the hole he came from. Now, is that within the scope of this interview?’

  Constance’s mouth made like a goldfish. Broome exploded.

  He was out of his chair, face contorted and spittle flying from his mouth. The first few words were almost unintelligible amid the fury and the rest tripped over themselves in their rush to get out.

  ‘. . . talk to me like that. Came here of my own free will. Sue you. Sue all of you. Slag. Have your job for this. You really don’t want to mess with me. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  Even Constance, not unaccustomed to representing scumbags, was taken aback by the wild ferocity of it. His eyes bulged.

  ‘Mr Broome, sit down please. Do not say anything further! Chief Inspector—’

  ‘I’ll call her a slag because she’s a fucking slag. This one here too,’ he jabbed his finger at Narey. ‘All in it together. Think they can run the place. Think they can ruin men’s lives.’

  Addison leaned back in his chair and smiled. For a moment, Narey thought he was going to put his feet up on the desk and cross his hands behind his head.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Constance was shaking. ‘This apology for an interview is over. Chief Inspector, you know you have not heard the last of this. Mr Broome, we are leaving right now. Accompany me out of the door now please, sir.’

  The lawyer had to take his client by the arm, the man looking around as if unaware of what he’d said or where his anger had come from. He knew his mask had slipped and they’d all seen his face. He was led away, still muttering.

  When the interview-room door closed, Narey looked at Addison with a shake of her head. ‘You know Constance is going straight to McInally with this, don’t you?’

  Addison shrugged. ‘Fuck it. You remember the scene from the end of Rocky III where Apollo Creed tells Rocky to be cool then Apollo loses it and starts scrapping with Clubber Lang before the fight?’

  ‘Funnily enough, no.’

  ‘Well he did. Rocky says, “I thought you said be cool?” and Apollo is like, “That was cool”.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me you were cool?’

  ‘Nah. I’m telling you I just couldn’t take any more of that bawbag’s shite.’

  She couldn’t keep a smile off her face. ‘I think I might need to buy you a drink, sir. You won’t be able to afford one once they sack you.’

  CHAPTER 36

  Winter’s Maggie May was actually named Julie Petrie.

  It had taken him an age to be sure, because Broome’s photographs of her were so different from the ones used in the press. He’d looked online as well and it was her. No question.

  Julie Petrie. Christ.

  She’d made headlines. The story was she left her home in Cambuslang one morning and was never seen again. The presumption was she’d been murdered. The presumption by many was that she’d been murdered by her husband.

  Except, Winter now knew she’d been photographed on at least three separate occasions by William Broome.

  He felt like a dog who’d been chasing a car and had no idea what to do with it once he caught it. He had to think.

  Everything he knew said that Julie Petrie was pushing up daisies so he could hardly ask her to testify against Broome.

  He could tell the cops, of course. He could tell Rachel.

  That wasn’t in his game plan though. Not yet.

  As he stared at Julie’s photograph pinned to the cork-board, her sipping on a glass of wine on the Sauchiehall Street pavement restaurant, an idea began to form in his mind.

  It would be risky, but what was life without a little risk?

  What if he were to convince Archie Cameron to let him run a piece on Julie Petrie in the Standard? Retell the story and interview relatives, hang it on some anniversary or maybe some new information coming to light.

  And he’d interview the husband, of course. The prime suspect. Until now.

  He’d get the family and the grieving widower to say how they’ve never given up hope but fear the worst, to make a fresh plea for witnesses, for him to proclaim his innocence.

  A smile crept across Winter’s face as the plan unfolded in his mind.

  He was sure he could write a story that would enrage Broome, provoke him enough that he might lose it and do something stupid.

  Except that it wouldn’t be the story that would inflame Broome. Not quite.

  Winter would, obviously, illustrate the article with a photograph of Julie.

  Not any of the photos that had been used in the past, though. He was going to use one of the photographs that Broome had taken. It would drive him crazy.

  His smile spread wider.

  CHAPTER 37

  Danny was on the fake Rachel Narey Twitter page, keeping his enemies close and his new online friends closer still, looking to see which of them was posting abuse.

  There were fifty-six new notifications. Direct messages, likes, tweets and retweets, all of them vile. He forced himself to read every one. Every insult, every threat, every puerile sexual remark, every invasion of privacy and violation of decency. Any one of them might hold the clue he was looking for.

  He saw that BigWeegie had been on the rampage again, posting a succession of hate-fuelled messages about what he’d do to Rachel, empty boasts of sexual prowess studded with violence. It all read like the bludgeoning menace of a thirty-year-old virgin screaming in frustration, yelling words he’d heard others use.

  Tormentor too was trying to live up to his name. Nasty little essays in bad grammar and phonetic spelling. Tormentor hated everyone and everything but right now he was focusing his bile on Rachel. His vocabulary consisted of little more than rape, bitch, cut and die.

  BlueSnake kept playing the sacking card. He was tweeting everyone he could find, from the First Minister to MPs to celebrities demanding they sign some petition to have Rachel kicked off the force. When they didn’t respond as he wanted, they became the enemy and were accused of endorsing prejudice against men.

  There were new haters too, odious cowards who piled on, unable to resist the howl of the pack. For them, victims were there to
be victimised. Most had Twitter handles they aspired to, usually chauvinist shit or something anarchic. Little boys playing big boys’ games.

  It took him a while to notice the profile picture had changed. He’d become inured to the fake Rachel staring back at him and had only ever once looked at the disturbing photoshopped image that he didn’t want in his head. He’d worked his way through the notifications and some of Fake Rachel’s tweets before he saw that it was different.

  Instead of the police-issued portrait photo that had likely been stolen from a news website, there was a more informal head shot, Rachel not quite looking at the camera. Not looking at it because she didn’t know it was there.

  His fingers moved quickly through the page, searching for other photographs. He found what he didn’t want to see.

  There were another five photographs of Rachel that hadn’t been there before. Judging by her clothing, three were taken on one day and three on another. They were taken on the street. Her getting out of her car, walking on what looked like George Square, on her phone in front of some shops, putting Alanna into her car seat.

  The photos were recent. No more than a few days old.

  It took him five minutes before he could react to the pictures. Five minutes of pacing round the room talking to himself, searching for some calm and finding only more reasons to get angry.

  He couldn’t lose it though, no matter how tempting. He had to think like them, become the monster in order to fight it. He returned to the laptop, forced his fists to unclench, and began to type.

  Every one of the four main bully boys had tweeted the photos. They didn’t mention that they were newly taken, they didn’t have to. The menace was there, just waiting to be found.

  He stared at the Like button under BlueSnake’s tweet for an age. Become the monster. He hit it, liked it, signalled his approval to the world. He doubled down and retweeted it too, spreading the poison.

  For Tormentor, he added a reply.

  New pix of the lying piggy? Nice job from someone. Lovin their work!!

  The response was almost immediate.

  She gonna shit herself when she sees these! Bitch gonna be scared to leave her house bro. Best for her she stay at home!!!

  Stay in it, Danny told himself. Don’t blow it. He sent the troll a direct message.

  These ur pics bud? Okay if I share them?

  Share away bro. We want the bitch to see them. Are they mine? That be telling

  So tell, you nasty little scrote. Spill your guts. Boast. You know you want to. But he didn’t and Danny couldn’t push him, not yet.

  Say no more bud. Keep the pressure up and piggy will squeal. Anything I can do just let me know

  Will do bro. Need all the good guys we can get. Bitch needs taught a lesson. We’ll teach it

  I’m up for it. Going for a drink to celebrate ur pics. Merchant City for me.

  Merchant City? U made of money?

  Where u get ur poison then bud?

  I like the Rum Shack innit. Catcha later bro

  The Rum Shack. It was on Pollokshaws Road. It was a start.

  Maybe he could go there and rip Tormentor’s throat out. See how he managed to drink rum like that. Christ, those photographs.

  Some bastard had followed Rachel. Rachel and the baby.

  CHAPTER 38

  Julie Petrie was twenty-eight years old and a teacher at a primary school in the East End. She’d been there three years, popular with staff, pupils and parents. No disciplinary issues, no complaints, no problems.

  She’d been married for four years and she and her husband Iain lived in Cambuslang on the south-eastern outskirts of the city, where he was an estate agent. They didn’t have children; friends said that they didn’t seem to be in a rush, happy to be enjoying their lives.

  She was a member of the gym, played squash once a week, ran two after-school clubs, went to the pub quiz at their local and had a good circle of friends. Life had seemed pretty good.

  One Tuesday in December 2009, she’d spent much of the school day taking her primary fours through their role in the upcoming Christmas concert. Herding nine-year-olds wasn’t easy but Julie loved it. Once they’d been drilled until they knew their cues, their steps and most of their lines, she collapsed into a chair in the staff room for a while before heading home. Everyone said she was happy, healthy and nothing at all seemed out of the ordinary.

  She was never seen again.

  There were fleeting, unconfirmed reports of her car being seen between the school and home. It was picked up at two points on CCTV and that was it. The car, a blue Ford Ka, was found abandoned two days later.

  It had all the ingredients the media needed. Young, attractive, school teacher. A class of cute kids heartbroken before Christmas. A murder mystery.

  And it had a villain in waiting.

  Julie’s husband had been the chief suspect as far as the cops were concerned. Look close to home and you’ll never go far wrong is the way most detectives think and it doesn’t let them down often. It’s a thousand times more likely to be a family member or friend or lover than a stranger.

  Iain Petrie swore that wasn’t the case. Sure they’d argued, sure they’d had their problems like any young couple but that was as far as it went. He’d never laid a hand on her, never would. Hated the idea that anyone could even think it. He’d always wait for her, would never give up hope.

  That was what he’d said in newspaper interviews eight years ago. Now, he was remarried. Now, Julie was officially declared dead.

  He was still an estate agent. The rise of the internet hadn’t yet killed his firm and a quick search showed he was working out of the same premises as he was when Julie disappeared.

  Winter had asked around among his cop contacts and the favoured scenario was that Iain Petrie had been having an affair with one of his clients, Julie found out about it and he killed her. Some thought it was an argument that got out of hand, some thought he planned it all out and did away with her to be with the other woman. Either way, he was suspect number one.

  There were press comments from Julie’s family when Petrie got remarried. Nothing too critical but nothing too complimentary. The space between the lines reeked of suspicion. It was the chatter of Cambuslang too. All fingers were pointed at one man.

  Now, however, Winter knew something that no one else did. No one except, probably, William Broome.

  Winter telephoned Atheneum, the estate agent’s office on Cambuslang’s Main Street, and was quickly transferred to Petrie. The voice was firm, friendly and ready to do business.

  ‘Iain Petrie? Hi, I’m sorry to bother you at work. My name is Tony Winter, I’m a reporter with the Scottish Standard. I was hoping to have a word with you.’

  The ensuing silence spoke volumes before it was broken tersely.

  ‘I’m very busy. What is this about?’

  ‘Mr Petrie, I’d like to speak to you about the disappearance of your wife. Could we meet to discuss it? I’m happy to come to you.’

  ‘No . . . I . . . That’s all in the past. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  ‘I have some new information, Mr Petrie. I think you’ll want to hear it. If you talk to me, I intend to run a story that will stop people from thinking you had anything to do with your wife’s disappearance.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ It was blurted out before he took in the significance of what Winter had said. ‘What new information?’

  ‘I’d rather discuss that in person. Do you have time to meet today?’

  There was a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll make time.’

  Petrie had aged quickly in the years since the last press photos Winter had seen. Your wife disappearing, probably murdered, would do that to you though. There were hints of grey at his temples despite him being just in his late thirties, and his face was lined, heavier.

  The man was a little over six feet tall, sharply dressed in a grey business suit, with dark hair fussily swept back on his head. There was a faded attractivenes
s about him, like someone who’d once nearly made it big on TV.

  He seemed nervous as they shook hands, his eyes barely meeting Winter’s. He shuffled and fidgeted, constantly looking around the café to see if anyone recognised him or was likely to listen in. They were in McCallum’s, a greasy spoon on Main Street with a bright red sign promising hot and cold filled rolls, all day breakfasts and homemade steak pie. Winter had eaten in it a few times before and really liked it even if his arteries didn’t. Petrie didn’t seem quite so impressed.

  ‘Just a coffee. Black.’

  Winter ordered the coffee and treated himself to a black pudding roll while he was at it, knowing he might regret it in the long run but he would love it in the here and now.

  Petrie sniffed at the brew as if expecting it to poison him. He didn’t seem a happy man.

  ‘My paper is running a series of features on cold cases, particularly unsolved murders. And I’ve been looking at your wife’s case.’

  ‘Julie isn’t a murder case. Not technically, She’s a missing person. Or she was.’

  ‘Do you think she was murdered?’

  Petrie swept the room again for anyone listening in. ‘Yes, I do. I think someone killed her and dumped her body. She wouldn’t have just walked out, disappeared. She just wouldn’t. Someone murdered her.’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’

  Petrie’s eyes flashed furiously. ‘It wasn’t me. That’s all I know. It wasn’t my job to find out who did it. It was the police’s. What’s this new information you talked about?’

  Winter had taken an instant dislike to the guy. He was full of himself and overly defensive, bordering on flat-out offensive. Victim or not, he was a pain in the arse.

  ‘We have reason to believe Julie was followed by someone over a period of time. She was photographed in public on a number of occasions without her knowing.’

  Petrie’s jaw slackened and dropped. He tried to speak but his mouth just opened and closed again.

  ‘Photographed her? How? I mean, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Did Julie ever talk about being followed, maybe about being worried someone was showing too much interest?’