The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  Once inside the close, he went door to door, beginning at the bottom and working his way up. No one knew or remembered Jennifer. On the top floor was the flat Jennifer had given as hers. He knocked and heard someone approach the door, stopping to squint through the peephole. Winter did his best to look unthreatening. After some thought, the door opened on a chain.

  A man in his late thirties peeked out from behind it, his face hiding in the darkness of the hall. Winter could see he wore a few days’ growth on his chin and a white vest despite the freezing temperatures outside.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hey, how you doing?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘My name’s Tony Winter. I’m a journalist.’

  He saw the man’s eyes widen at the mention of journalist. Did he have something to hide? Most people did.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he assured the guy. ‘It’s not you I’m looking for Mr . . .’ he made a show of looking at the nameplate on the door. ‘Mr Ormond. I’m just trying to find someone who might have lived here.’

  ‘What’s this to do with?’

  ‘I’m looking for a woman named Jennifer Buchanan. Is the name familiar at all?’

  Ormond shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Fair enough. Mind taking a look at a photograph of her? Just in case you’ve maybe seen her about.’

  The eyes blinked at him from the gloom. ‘Suppose.’

  Winter handed over one of the prints of Jennifer that Lainey had identified. Standing slim and petite at a bus stop, dark auburn hair and a leather handbag strapped over her shoulder.

  Ormond took the photograph from him and took a half step back from the door to look at it. Seconds later, he handed it back.

  ‘Never seen her. Sorry.’

  Winter nodded. ‘No worries. It was worth a try. She gave this as her address but we think she just made it up. How long have you lived here?’

  The man hesitated. ‘Five or six years.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Yeah. Six at the most.’

  ‘Well, even if she had lived in these flats, it was before your time. Listen, thanks for your help. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘S’okay.’

  Winter spun on his heels and the man shut the door behind him, the chain chinking against the wood as it was taken off. He stood on the doorstep and counted to ten then turned back and knocked again.

  Moments later, the door opened again, Ormond standing there impatiently.

  ‘What now?’

  Winter stuck his foot into the gap so the door couldn’t be closed. Ormond was alarmed and confused.

  ‘What do you want? I told you I didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Well, yes, but you lied to me.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  Winter smiled. ‘Oh, but you did. First of all, you said you’d lived here for six years – I’ve already checked the electoral roll going back to 2008 and lo and fucking behold Thomas Ormond was living here then.’

  His face dropped. ‘I made a mistake. Couldn’t remember.’

  ‘Sure. Also, when I gave you the photo, you moved back into the hall where it was darker rather towards the door where there was more light. No one does that unless they don’t want to see what they’re looking at. Unless they maybe already know who the picture is going to be of.’

  The man shot wary looks across the landing, on the lookout for eavesdropping neighbours.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To ask you the same questions I did before but to get honest answers.’ He put his hand against the door frame. ‘And to come in.’

  Ormond was sullen but had nowhere else to go. ‘You can have five minutes but you’re wasting your time.’

  He turned and led Winter into a room right off the hall. There was a freezing wind blowing in from an open window onto Paisley Road West. Ormond shivered in his vest.

  ‘So, I’m going to ask you again, do you know Jennifer Buchanan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know the woman in the photo I showed you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar. I’m a bit of a poker player, Tommy. You have to get to know when someone’s telling the truth and when they’re not. You gave me a different tell when you answered those two questions.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Winter smiled. ‘That’s an unhelpful attitude. All I want is to know who the woman in the photo is. It’s important. Consider it your civic duty. I bet you can help if you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘It’s a fair question,’ he conceded. ‘Well, for one thing I have a lot of pals that are cops and one phone call would have your front door knocked down properly and when they find the cannabis plants in that room back there, you’d be in the shit up to your neck.’

  Ormond’s eyes nearly touched his ears they opened that wide.

  ‘What you talking about?’

  He sighed. ‘You’ve got a window open when it’s baltic out there. You’re wearing a vest despite the fucking cold. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘I just like fresh air.’

  Winter laughed. ‘Aye? And you keep those blocks of Ono on the shelf there because you like the fragrance of fresh linen? Bollocks. It’s an odour neutraliser, so that your neighbours don’t smell the weed you’re growing in the heat in that other room.’

  Ormond threw his head back in anguish. ‘Fucksake. Bastard.’

  ‘Aye and don’t you forget it. So, who is she?’

  ‘This is no fair. I’m just growing a bit of ganja. I don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Tommy, I don’t give a fuck about your ganja. But the cops will. And I don’t want to make you do this but I’m going to. Who is she?’

  He screwed his eyes up, maybe keeping tears back, swearing three times under his breath.

  ‘She’s my sister.’

  ‘Her name Ormond too?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

  ‘Come on, Tommy. You’re over halfway there. What’s your sister’s name?’

  ‘I can’t help you find her.’

  ‘What’s her name? Her surname is Ormond, right?’

  The man was beaten now, having ratted out his own flesh and blood. ‘No. She was married when she was young. Still took that arsehole’s name even though she got divorced. His surname was Murdoch. It’s Vonnie Murdoch you’re looking for. Veronica.’

  ‘I’m not out to hurt her, Tommy. I’m trying to help someone. Your sister too.’

  He laughed, something Winter wasn’t getting. ‘Aye? Well, good luck with that.’

  Winter persevered. ‘Do you remember someone else coming here looking for her? Nearly ten years ago. A woman named Lainey Henderson?’

  Ormond screwed his face up, tired of this. ‘Ah remember her. Don’t mind the name.’

  ‘Why did you lie to her?’

  ‘Why’d you think? It sounded like bad news and my sis had had enough of that. She was going through a bad time. Really struggling. I was just looking out for her.’

  ‘That’s fair. And you can look out for her again now by telling me where she is.’

  Tommy Ormond sighed and dragged his hand through his thinning hair, tears trickling down his cheek.

  ‘I can’t! Just leave me alone, please.’

  ‘I will. As soon as you tell me where I can find Vonnie.’

  ‘Cardonald Cemetery.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Vonnie killed herself.’

  The tears were flowing now and Winter felt like a bastard.

  ‘She took a hot bath and some pills. Was found four days later. You’re nine years too late, pal.’

  ‘Oh shit. I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t know. When did it happen?’

  ‘April 2008. She hadn’t been happy for a while. I knew that but didn’t know what it was. I should have helped her but . . .’

  Winter wasn’t going to make the man’s pain any greater by telling him why his sister ki
lled herself. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to have to live with that too.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I put you through this. Don’t worry about the weed. I won’t be telling anyone.’

  ‘Why are you looking for Vonnie? After all these years.’

  He had to think fast. ‘She was a witness to something. A murder.’

  ‘Vonnie was? How . . . I don’t get this. Why are you back now?’

  ‘There’s been an appeal. I’m looking for the original witnesses. I guess your sister never wanted to be found because she gave a false name. I’ll let them know she can’t be found. Sorry, Tommy. About all of this.’

  Ormond was lost in thought. ‘Someone tried to frighten her. Scare her off. I remember now. Must have been whoever she’d seen. Whatever she was a witness to.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I stayed over at her place a few times when she was really down. Slept on the couch. I got woken one night, well after midnight, when the phone went. I heard Vonnie saying yes, yes, she’d forget it. She was saying that it never happened. It shook me because I could tell how scared she was. I asked her about it but she wouldn’t say, told me it was nothing. I knew it wasn’t, though.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea who it was that called her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Someone trying to make her not testify.’ Winter got up to go, offering a handshake which Ormond shrunk away from.

  ‘Fair enough. Don’t blame you. Let me ask you one last thing, though. Where did Vonnie live? It wasn’t here, so where was it?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It could be important.’

  ‘Okay, okay. She lived in a flat on Cartvale Road in Battlefield.’

  ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Fucksake. Ground floor. Why?’

  ‘I just need to know. Look, I’m sorry about all this. And about your sister.’

  Winter stopped outside the close, aware of Tommy Ormond’s eyes on him from the flat above. He breathed deep before letting a lungful of sigh escape like smoke into the frosty night.

  Jennifer Buchanan, lost and found. Vonnie Murdoch, lost forever.

  He’d check out Ormond’s story, just in case, but he had no doubt there would be a death certificate to back it up. He knew the man wasn’t lying.

  He strode off in search of his car, tread heavier than before, not looking back, knowing there was no point. He’d already learned that when you search for someone, you have to be prepared for what you find. You can’t change it. At the end of the day, missing people only came in two sizes. Alive or dead.

  CHAPTER 53

  Getting parked at the Queen Elizabeth, known as the Death Star by locals owing to its fourteen floors and star shape, could be a nightmare. Narey had heard the scare stories about nurses turning up three hours early for their shift and sleeping in their cars to make sure they could park. After circling the multi-storey twice before she finally found a bay, she was prepared to believe them.

  Her head was spinning after Tony’s call about the woman they’d thought of as Jennifer. She’d not had the chance to tell Lainey yet and wasn’t looking forward to doing so. There was also Danny’s detective work to get her head round, him finding the bastards responsible for the fake Twitter page and the calls in the middle of the night. From what Danny told her, they might give enough to prosecute Broome, but she needed him to be done for much more than that.

  She weaved her way through crowds of patients, visitors and staff, and headed for Elspeth Broome’s ward. She didn’t recognise the young constable posted at the door but he clearly knew who she was, jumping from his chair and standing to attention like a rookie as she turned into the corridor.

  She nodded at him. ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. There was a nurse in to see her about ten minutes ago. And she managed some food an hour before that.’

  ‘Okay, good. Are you going to let me in or are you going to ask to see my ID?’

  He stammered, unsure of the right answer. She tried not to sigh too loudly.

  ‘What’s your name?

  ‘PC Hartley, ma’am.’

  ‘Okay, PC Hartley, you’re going to ask for ID, aren’t you? Because you wouldn’t just let anyone walk in there, even if you think you recognise them.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. May I . . .’

  She held her warrant card up for inspection and waited for him to nod nervously and let her past.

  The old woman was lying with her eyes closed and her frail arms crossed over her chest. One eye opened warily at the sound of the door closing. When she saw who her visitor was, her eyes scrunched in annoyance.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Broome?’

  The loose flesh around the woman’s mouth tightened into a scowl. A weak voice stole through barely parted lips. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Have you had more time to think about what I said the last time I was here? About telling me who did this to you?’

  Her head lifted an inch or so from the pillow. ‘Lots of time,’ she croaked. ‘Nothing else but time.’

  ‘And do you want to tell me who did it?’

  Elspeth’s eyes closed over again and she mouthed a silent no.

  Narey went closer, right up to the bedside, allowing her to keep her voice low but still be heard.

  ‘I don’t understand, Elspeth. You say you know who did this but you won’t tell me who it was. That really doesn’t make any sense. Who are you protecting?’

  The woman’s head swayed from side to side, little defiant movements that brooked no disagreement. Narey still tried to push past them.

  ‘I’m trying to help you, Elspeth. All I need is his name. I just need to hear you say it.’

  Voices slid under the door of the ward. Raised, arguing voices.

  Narey stepped reluctantly back from the bed, a final glance at the elderly patient before pushing through the doors into the corridor.

  William Broome was in the constable’s face, cheeks flushed, finger jabbing.

  ‘She’s my mother. I’ll see her if I want. You’ve no right to keep me out.’

  ‘My instructions are that you’re not allowed—’

  ‘It’s okay, constable,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’m here. Let Mr Broome past. He’s quite right. It’s his mother, after all.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Broome took a step back, clearly surprised but trying not to show it. Straightening his collar and taking a breath.

  ‘I want to see her on my own.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘She’s my—’

  ‘With me or not at all.’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’

  He brushed past her, Narey taking his heel, keen not to miss the reaction from the mother seeing the son.

  She’d heard the voices though, surely, a chance to ready herself, steady herself. They’d soon see.

  The old woman’s eyes fluttered and opened. Narey saw them widen. She thought she saw fear.

  Broome stepped across her path, blocking her view, closing in on the bed and kissing his mother, his body shielding her. His head near hers, his mouth by her ear.

  Narey pushed round to the other side of them just as Broome straightened up and took a small step back.

  ‘How are you, Mum? I got here as soon as I heard. They say you’re going to be okay.’

  Elspeth made a noise that Narey couldn’t interpret. Something between a groan and a whimper, maybe just a cry for help. Maybe a mother’s call to her son.

  ‘Who did this to you, Mum? Who did this?’

  ‘You . . .’ she choked and started again, scraping out words. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’ll be okay.’

  Broome’s head swung slowly round towards Narey.

  ‘Hear that, Inspector? She’s going to be okay. It’s a miracle, don’t you think?’

  The smugness of his words scratched at her like broken glass.

  ‘I’ve never believed in miracles, Mr Broome. I’ve always thought t
he hand of man was more likely to be to blame than the hand of God.’

  He grinned, making her skin crawl. ‘Miracles are good things, Inspector. No one is to blame for them.’

  ‘I don’t believe in accidents, either. Where have you been, Mr Broome? You said you got here as soon as you heard but your mother has been in hospital for days.’

  ‘I’ve been away. On business and out of phone mast range. Texts got through this morning and I came straight here.’

  ‘I’ll need to check that.’

  ‘I thought you would.’

  Narey turned to the old woman.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who did this to you, Elspeth? You will be safe.’

  Broome motioned to speak but Narey silenced him with a look. Let her speak.

  Elspeth aged ten years as Narey looked at her. She went from old to ancient as she shrunk back in her skin, peering between her eyelids as she switched her gaze between cop and child. Covered by a single white sheet, she looked more like a corpse than a recovering patient.

  There was a tremble to her lip, the effort of trying to speak and the worry of what might come out. Tears formed in her eyes, making them bleary and red.

  She stared at her son through slits, the two of them communicating in their own way, messages passing back and forth. Narey felt outside it, helpless and unable to translate.

  A bony finger beckoned Narey closer. Close enough she could hear the beat of her heart and the wheeze in her chest.

  ‘My son wouldn’t hurt me. He loves me. He’s his mammy’s boy.’

  Broome stood taller, the sneak of a smirk on his face.

  ‘Is there anything else, Inspector? My mother needs to rest.’

  ‘I’ll need the name and address of the place you say you stayed at. And the names of people who can say you were there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The way he said it, she knew she’d be wasting her time but would go through with it anyway. She had to go, had to get away from him, from her, from them. She pushed the door open, seeing the constable get to his feet.

  ‘PC Hartley. In here, please. I need you to supervise Mr Broome’s visit with his mother. Take notes of anything that’s said between them and call in a nurse to assist and supervise.’