Petrie stared like he didn’t understand the question. Brows furrowed, mouth twitching.
‘Maybe. I mean she didn’t say it quite like that. Not that I remember. But someone interested, being a pest, yes.’
‘You remember who?’
‘A name? I don’t think she knew. I just knew it was unwanted. She was married. She wasn’t like that. Of course it was unwanted.’
‘So, she talked about someone that bothered her?’
‘Yes. I think so, yes. It was a long time ago now and she didn’t make that big a deal of it. I think she wasn’t sure herself if it was a problem or not. You think . . . you think you know who it was? The person that took these photos you’re talking about?’
‘Maybe. Mr Petrie, did you tell the police about your wife mentioning someone was bothering her?’
‘No. I’d forgotten about it till now. Till you said.’
Winter doubted he’d ever forget something like that. If Rachel said someone was pestering her, he’d have had it ingrained in his memory. Maybe Petrie didn’t care as much as he said he did.
‘Can you remember the day your wife disappeared?’
‘Of course.’
‘Like, the details. Where you were when you realised. What you did. How you felt. It’s colour like that will make the piece work and get public sympathy.’
Petrie looked interested at the word sympathy. Winter felt he was an arrogant sod who believed people should love him, not hate him for something he didn’t do.
‘I came home from the office, a bit late, around seven, and she wasn’t in. That was unusual, especially without her saying, but I wasn’t too worried right away. I called her phone but it just rang out. An hour later, I called again, left a message, asking where the hell she was. When it got to eleven, I was frantic. It just wasn’t like her. I called her best friend, who didn’t know anything. Then I called the police.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That they couldn’t do anything. That it was too soon. She’d probably be at a friend’s and I should call again in the morning if she hadn’t shown up. I didn’t sleep at all. Kept calling her phone but never got an answer.
‘I called the cops back next morning and they still said I had to wait. She was an adult, entitled to come and go as she pleased. But I knew it wasn’t like her. She’d never done anything like that. They eventually came out, searched the house, looked at her clothes, took away a photo of her and me together. It became this big investigation. Everything just got crazy. They all turned on me.’
The self-pity was nauseating. He’d forgotten who the real victim was.
‘They said all kinds of things. Said I’d buried her body. Kept pushing at me. Trying to get me to admit something I hadn’t done. They didn’t care about the pain I was in. Didn’t care I was suffering.
‘Everybody here,’ he glanced accusingly round the café, ‘thinks I did it. And I didn’t.’
He was spoiling Winter’s black pudding roll.
‘You said the night Julie went missing that you called her best friend. That was Leanne Wilson, right?’
Petrie looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s right.’
‘There was speculation that you and Leanne were involved. Is that true?’
The man flushed angrily. ‘I thought you were going to write a piece that would show people I was innocent?’
Winter shrugged slightly. ‘I just need to get the full picture.’
‘Well I just want to talk about what happened to Julie. Who is this guy you think took her photos?’
‘Have you ever heard the name William Broome?’
There was no reaction. ‘I don’t think so, no. Who is he?’
‘He’s the man that might mean people stop thinking you’re just a heartless bastard.’
CHAPTER 39
Archie Cameron loved Winter’s feature on Julie.
The husband’s anguish, the mystery, the fruitless search for the body, the hint at new information that could reignite the investigation. He also loved the bits that Iain Petrie wouldn’t be so keen on. The remarried husband, the vague hints at infidelity, the unlikability of the man.
Petrie’s annoyance would be nothing compared to Broome’s though.
The quotes from Petrie about someone pestering his wife, some mystery man she was worried about, the man in Glasgow who was bothering her and followed her. Those would have Broome raging.
As would the headline.
MYSTERY MAN LINKED TO JULIE PETRIE MURDER
As would the subheading.
Husband says wife was being stalked
And the photograph. The never-seen-before photograph taken just before she went missing, presumed murdered. The photograph of Julie Petrie standing at a bus stop on Hope Street. The photograph that Broome took and that the court said should be returned to him, all and any copies, and that was his own copyright. The photograph which was plastered over half a page. The photograph which would, hopefully, and in all likelihood, have him spitting blood.
It was his. They had no right to use it. And it left him with a clear choice.
He could get his lawyer to sue them for breach of copyright, sue the police too for it being leaked out, and in doing so link himself to the disappearance and murder of Julie Petrie. Or he could do nothing but rage and drive himself crazy.
Winter’s money was on him going for option two.
CHAPTER 40
Danny’s initial reaction at realising Rachel had been photographed on the street had been to deal with it himself. To double his efforts on the Twitter trolls and find a way to choke them till they told him what he wanted to know. If he could sort it while keeping it from Tony and Rachel, he would. Neither of them needed this.
He knew it couldn’t, wouldn’t work out that way though. They’d see it or be told, the very nature of social media dictated it.
He had no choice but to tell them before they found out from somewhere else.
‘Okay, this isn’t good,’ he warned them both before bringing up the Twitter page. ‘Just how bad it is, I’m not sure yet. But I intend to find out.’
‘Christ, Dan. Whatever it is just show us. We’re grown-ups.’
‘Okay, love. As you say.’
As Twitter came on screen, Winter swore. ‘Not these wankers again. What shit are they writing now?’
‘No, it’s worse than that.’
He brought up the photos of Narey and let them sink in one by one.
‘That was taken yesterday,’ she blurted out. ‘I was wearing those clothes yesterday. And that was the day before. That was on George Square. And the other was on the south side. And . . . oh my God.’
‘Alanna.’ Winter only managed one word.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Danny agreed with all that was unsaid. ‘But none of it’s good. If it’s any consolation, looking at all the pictures, it’s not Alanna that’s being photographed, it’s Rachel.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a consolation or not,’ Winter fired back. ‘But I know I want to kill someone.’
‘You need to calm down. And I know that’s easy for me to say because I’ve had time. But if anyone’s doing any killing it will be me. A life sentence at my age isn’t going to mean very long.’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Rachel shouted. ‘No one is going to be killing anyone. I’m treating this professionally, not personally. I’ll get CCTV on the areas these were taken. I know the times, within a few minutes, and I want to see what the cameras have. If he’s there, he’s going to be seen. I need evidence.’
‘We don’t know it’s him,’ Danny reminded her.
‘It’s him,’ she murmured. ‘One way or the other, it’s him. But how the hell can someone take photos of me without me knowing? I’m supposed to be aware of this!’
‘You’re not unaware of it,’ Danny told her, ‘but you’re not looking for it either.’
‘I bloody will be now!’
‘You’re not always going to see them,’ Winter snapped. �
��It’s easier, much easier, than you think. I’ve already been looking into it. Trying to work out how it’s done.’
‘To other people maybe,’ she insisted. ‘But I’m a cop. It’s my job to notice things.’
‘There are loads of articles showing how to take pics covertly,’ he told her, taking his phone from his back pocket. ‘Let me google it and show you.’
‘I don’t care what Google says. I know what my training tells me.’
In response, Winter turned his phone round and showed her the screen. Instead of a search engine page and results, there was a photo of Narey, clearly taken there and then.
She let out a low, slow sigh. ‘You fucker. You’re trying to prove a point? Now?’
‘Yes. And I’m not apologising for it. That’s how easy it is. I silenced the shutter and disabled the flash so there was no sight or sound to give it away. And you didn’t see me doing it. All anyone needs is a phone and to pretend they’re using it for something else.’
‘You’re not making me feel any better.’
‘Good, because I’m not trying to. There are apps to make it even easier. Spy camera apps that show a fake background so that no one behind can see the phone’s camera screen. If you want to you can easily rig up a USB camera through something like a laptop bag so that it looks like a button on a shirt. You can even hide an iPad in a book with a slot for the camera. If I have headphones on my iPhone, I can use the volume controls as the shutter release. No one’s going to notice or care. It’s that easy.
‘And that’s just assuming it’s someone that’s close enough you can see them. There’s a Nikon Coolpix P900 with an optical zoom that’s so powerful you can see the moon moving. And the moon is over two hundred thousand miles away. And you can buy that camera for under four hundred pounds.’
‘So you’re not trying to make me feel better, you’re trying to scare me?’
‘Maybe. Because I’m scared. Rach, I’m terrified. Someone is taking photographs of you. And of Alanna. And we’ve obviously got a good idea who that might be. It scares me and I want it to scare you too.’
‘Well, you should be happy then, because I am. But I’m half as scared as I am angry. And I’ll tell you this, I’m not sitting around waiting for something to happen to me. If the fucker who took these wants me then he’s not going to have to look too hard. I don’t care if it’s Broome or someone Broome has fired up, I’m not prey. Lainey Henderson told me that prey always ends up getting killed. Well, that won’t be me.’
CHAPTER 41
Elspeth Broome lived in a semi-detached on Carlaverock Road in Newlands, a grey sandstone set well back from the road and just yards from the park. Winter was sure that a preliminary phone conversation would result in a call to the son and the plug would be pulled on any interview. So, he went in cold.
She pulled back the door with a smile on her face, happy to see the world. Winter wondered how long that would last. She was in her early seventies, hair still long but tied back in a silver-grey ponytail. Her round glasses were perched on the end of her nose and she was wrapped up in a cardigan so thick it could have doubled as a sleeping bag.
‘Mrs Broome?’
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
‘My name’s Tony Winter. I’m a reporter with the Scottish Standard.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to bring bad news. I know you’ve probably had enough of that.’
‘And good news,’ she countered defiantly. ‘My William was found completely innocent of that terrible lie.’
Well, that’s not entirely true. Winter thought it but didn’t voice it.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. Your son was found innocent but there are still things being talked about and well, you know how it is, no matter how unfair, mud sticks. I wanted to give you a chance to talk about William, say how proud you are of him, that sort of thing. Let people know the kind of person he really is rather than what they’ve read in the papers.’
She looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should talk to William.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Winter agreed. ‘Although, and you’ll know better than me, William doesn’t seem the kind to boast about how well’s he’s done. I’ve seen it before, people too modest for their own good. It’s better to hear it from someone else. I think it takes a mum to really know a son.’
‘You’re right. If a mother doesn’t know her boy then who does? Well, if you’re sure it will help him. I guess you better come in.’
‘I’m sure.’ If there was a hell, he was going to it.
The house smelled a bit musty but the real assault was on his eyes, courtesy of a violently floral carpet that he had to stop staring at. Mrs Broome led him into a room off the right of the hall and urged him to take a seat. He lowered himself into an armchair and sank a foot lower than he expected.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she offered.
He didn’t drink either but some time alone in the room might be useful.
‘Tea, please.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Um. Just milk?’
She looked confused at his uncertainty but nodded and left him. When he heard her footsteps recede, he got up and looked around. Every available space was occupied with an ornament, most of them very odd-looking to his eye. Strange animal figures, pieces of shell, little boys carrying fishing rods, a number of novelty teapots and what seemed to be a collection of insects in amber. There were a few sporting trophies too, little ones that might have been given out for attendance rather than winning.
On the mantelpiece above the Victorian fireplace there were six framed photographs. Winter moved closer and saw, as he’d expected, that all were of William Broome as a boy. They chronicled his growing years, from around five until his early twenties.
First-day-at-school William was a mop of brown hair and freckles, smile shy and lopsided. Butter wouldn’t have stood a chance of melting.
Gap-toothed William was next, comically grinning wide to show off his missing incisors. His school tie was neatly fixed, his hair side-parted. There was something forced about the smile, or maybe Winter was just looking for it. He was only a kid.
The shyness was back big time in William at ten or so. He leaned against a wall, somewhere sunny in summer. No smile for the camera, barely a reluctant removal of the frown. The eyes were sad or uncertain, Winter couldn’t read them. Not happy though.
He’d filled out in the next one, freckles fading and chin broadening. He was looking at the camera as if questioning if he really had to do this. Too big a boy to smile for his mummy. If Winter had to pick a word it would have been stubborn. Maybe defiant.
Eighteen or so. Freckles replaced by acne but no less assured for that. William saw the world as his, that much was clear. Confident, smug even. He could have it all. He was a hard kid to like.
The last one was the photograph that got to Winter. The expression was a pose, eyes hard and cold, mouth turned down to the hint of a sneer. Daring you to look back. You talking to me? The words that came to mind this time were different. Sociopath. Dangerous. Entitled.
‘Sorry it took so long. They say a watched kettle never boils and it seems they’re right.’
Mrs Broome lurched back into view, a laden tray in her hands, stopping warily as she saw Winter studying the photographs. Her eyes switched between them and him, her feet lodged in uncertainty.
‘Always great to have family photos, isn’t it’ Winter enthused. ‘You must be really proud.’
The old lady’s feet found gear again and she placed the tray on a low table in the centre of the room. ‘Oh, I am. My William didn’t always like getting his photo taken. I never understood why because he’s such a handsome lad. Could have been a film star. Like Cary Grant, I always say.’
Winter coughed some form of agreement and brought the cup of tea to his lips, managing to put it back down without drinking any.
‘Is it difficult not having him living at home any mor
e? You must miss him.’
She looked confused. ‘Well I don’t really think of him as not living here. Yes, he has his house but this is his home. Have you got children, Mr Winter?’
‘A girl. She’s nine months.’
‘Aw, that’s lovely. Well, you’ll understand when she’s older. Your house is always their house. It’s a bit different for girls though. They get married and go with their husbands. Boys are always their mammy’s though. Nothing ever changes that. You’ll be the same with your own mother, I bet.’
‘My mother died when I was young.’
‘Oh my. I’m so sorry. So sorry. That’s terrible and here’s me putting my foot in it.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Oh no, but I feel terrible. Every boy should have his mammy. I’m sure she loved you very much. She still will in heaven, trust me. She’ll still be looking down on you and looking after you.’
Winter worried that she was going to try to hug him. He had to get this back on track.
‘Can we talk about William?’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ She affected a soothing, caring voice that grated with him.
‘I’m fine. It was a long time ago. What was William like as a child? Did he have many friends?’
‘Well,’ she considered it. ‘He was very popular but he didn’t always need to play with other children. He was content to be his own company or to be with me. He’d read a lot or draw. He wasn’t a rough boy like so many of them are.’
‘It’s good that a boy spends time with his mother. And with his dad, too?’
‘We don’t talk about William’s father. There’s no need.’
There was nowhere to go with that. The door was shut firmly in his face.
‘What kind of things was he interested in when he was younger? I see some trophies on the mantelpiece.’
‘Oh yes,’ she beamed. ‘He liked football and he was very good but the other boys were so rough. I was really quite glad when he decided to stop. He liked comics. American superheroes, you know? And computers. He was always so good with the computer.’
The Photographer Page 19
