The Photographer

by Craig Robertson

  ‘I said sit down, Mr Broome.’

  Constance urged Broome to do as she said but he continued to stand and rant. Narey gestured to the constable by the door and he manoeuvred Broome forcefully back into his chair, inevitably making the man even angrier.

  ‘Your client did not seem to read that statement fully, Mr Constance. I think it might be helpful to all of us if I read it aloud for the benefit of the tape.’

  She paused just long enough to ensure she was meeting no resistance.

  ‘Statement by Elspeth Broome of Carlaverock Road, Newlands, Glasgow. I was at home in bed on the morning of 28 November 2017 when my son William Broome entered the house. He has his own apartment but I still consider my house to be his home. He has his own key and is free to come and go as he pleases.

  ‘I heard the door slam shut and William’s voice, shouting. He was clearly unhappy but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I could hear him rushing up the stairs and I was wondering what the problem was. He’d been under a significant amount of stress so I expected it was connected to that.

  ‘He burst into my room, pushing the door back against the wall. It frightened me.

  ‘He was shouting. Shouting about the article in the newspaper. Saying that I’d embarrassed him, that I’d made him out to be a mummy’s boy. That was the phrase he kept repeating. I told him that I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. He was his mummy’s boy and he should be proud of that because I was proud of it.

  ‘That was when he first hit me. He punched me in the face. William had never struck me before. In the past, he has been angry but never violent.

  ‘He was immediately regretful and apologised but was saying that it was my own fault for making him do it. He said I’d forced him to punch me by saying the things I did.

  ‘I should have kept quiet. I shouldn’t have antagonised him further but everything I said was wrong. I said I forgave him. I said I forgave him because he was my son, my baby boy. He screamed at me, I wasn’t even sure what he was saying he was so enraged. He swept things off my dresser, I could hear them smashing. I kept saying it was okay, it was all okay, but that just made him worse.

  ‘He ran at me and started punching me. Lots of punches one after the other. Then it was one punch at a time. Calling me “slag” then punching. Repeating that over and over. After a while it stopped and I realised he wasn’t there. I hoped he’d gone but in a few minutes, he returned. I couldn’t see too well but enough to know he had a knife in his hand.

  ‘He stood over me and said I had to tell him it was all my own fault. That I’d made him hit me. That he’d had to do it. I should have said that but I said he didn’t need to feel bad. That I forgave him.

  ‘He stabbed me. He stabbed me several times. He stabbed me until I passed out.

  ‘When I regained consciousness, our cleaner, Elizabeth Johnstone, was in my room. She called the police and an ambulance. I did not see my son William again until he visited me in hospital three days later. He made no reference to assaulting me and seemed to be pretending it hadn’t happened.

  ‘I confirm that this is a true and accurate statement of the attack upon my person by my son William Broome and that I have made it of my own free will.’

  Broome’s body language was shouting loud and clear. He was slumped in his chair, shoulders turned inwards, arms crossed over his chest. His mouth hung open and slack.

  It was time to finish him off.

  ‘Mr Broome, you will be arrested for the attempted murder of your mother. You—’

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill her! I didn’t! I just . . . just . . . she . . .’

  ‘Mr Broome, as your lawyer will doubtless tell you, your intentions are not the issue here. Mr Constance?’

  The lawyer didn’t get the chance to reply. Broome was on his feet again, eyes wide and wild, his mouth jabbering more with intent than with intelligible words, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  He had to slow himself, spit out each word to make them heard.

  ‘I did not try to kill her. She’s my mother. I wouldn’t. I just had to stop her talking. I had to.’

  ‘So, you punched her and stabbed her.’

  ‘She made me. She wouldn’t shut up.’

  ‘So, you had to stab her.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Constance looked as if he’d been sick in his own mouth.

  ‘I’d like the opportunity to speak to my client alone, please, Inspector.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  The pair returned with Broome’s composure seemingly recovered. His expression was tight, eyes harder, anger controlled.

  It was surface deep though, Narey knew that, and was confident she could puncture it when needed.

  ‘My client would like to make a statement,’ Constance announced.

  ‘Well, we’d be delighted to hear it.’ She was aware she sounded like she was enjoying it too much but didn’t give a damn. ‘I remind you that you are under caution.’

  Broome swallowed, fixed his eyes straight ahead. ‘I struck my mother. An act which I regret very much. I did so under great stress and provocation. I lost control and accept that I stabbed her but have no recollection of doing so. I believe I was temporarily incapable of understanding or being aware of my actions.’

  She resisted a sigh. ‘Mr Broome, you are admitting to the attempted murder of your mother, is that correct?’

  Constance jumped in. ‘It was an act of assault to severe injury. With diminished responsibility.’

  ‘It was attempted murder. And he was fully aware of what he was doing.’

  ‘We’d challenge that.’

  ‘You’ll need to.’

  She could see Constance was itching to come back but he had precious few cards to play. He was trying to carve out a deal with a plastic spoon. She had to make him dig into concrete with it.

  ‘As you and your client are aware, this is not the only matter of interest to us.’

  She saw their postures groan and loved it.

  ‘Mr Broome, I want to talk to you about the collection of photographs found in your flat.’

  ‘Those have been ruled inadmissible and have been returned to my client. You know that.’

  Narey let that hang there for a bit. Let them think they had a little something.

  ‘They’ve been ruled out in the case of Leah Watt, yes. I want to talk to you about Julie Petrie.’

  Constance didn’t know. Fuck. He didn’t know that was coming. He sure as hell knew who Julie Petrie was but didn’t know of the connection. She saw the look of surprise on his face. Surprise and shock and irritation.

  He was certain to ask for another break to speak to his client again but she wasn’t going to give him time to regroup. She was on the charge.

  ‘Mr Broome, there were three photographs of Julie Petrie in your collection. Can you confirm that for me, please?’

  ‘I did not kill that woman.’

  ‘I’m asking you if she featured among your photographs. Did she?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Was she among your photographs?’

  Broome and Constance shouted over each other.

  ‘Inspector, my client has never acknowledged that those photographs were—’

  ‘She was among them but I did not fucking kill her. I did not fucking kill her.’

  Narey heard it. The desperate ring of truth. Sure, it was muffled among the anger and rage and hate but she was sure she’d heard it. She’d pretend otherwise though.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t. I did not kill the Petrie woman. I did not.’

  ‘You’ve lied every step of the way. You don’t know any other way to be. You’re a liar, Mr Broome.’

  His hands were knotting. Frustration. Veins rising in his neck.

  ‘You have to believe me.’

  She laughed. ‘Why the hell should I? You lied about attacking your mother. You lied about raping Leah Watt. Why should I believe you
now?’

  Constance saw the trap but saw it a beat too late. ‘Inspector . . .’

  ‘Because I didn’t do this!’

  ‘You did the others but expect me to accept you didn’t do this?’

  ‘Yes! I didn’t kill that woman. I swear it. I won’t be fitted up for something I didn’t do.’

  She laughed in his face. ‘Fitted up? You’ve been watching too much television. Your mother is going to court and she’s going to testify that you beat her to within an inch of her life. You’ve just admitted raping Leah Watt. Do you really think a jury is going to take your word that you didn’t murder Julie Petrie?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. Her husband did! Iain Petrie. He murdered her and buried her in those woods.’

  Narey felt a familiar tightening in her gut. She had to force herself to take her time, slow play it.

  ‘Yes, of course he did. That’s a bit convenient for you, isn’t it?’

  Broome’s face flushed, blood rushing, boiling, to the surface.

  ‘I can prove it.’

  Here it is.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I photographed him doing it.’

  CHAPTER 59

  ‘I photographed Julie Petrie.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She had an interesting look. I was attracted to her. There’s no law against that.’

  ‘There’s a law against stalking.’

  ‘That law defines stalking as causing harassment to another person. Julie Petrie didn’t know I photographed her, therefore she could not be harassed. She was not placed in a position of fear, upset or annoyance.’

  Narey had long since cultivated a professional detachment. It was a way of protecting herself and the people she interviewed. It meant leaving her personal prejudices at the door along with anger and emotion. This man tested that detachment more than most.

  ‘How often did you photograph Julie Petrie?’

  Broome shrugged as if it wasn’t important or that he couldn’t care enough to remember.

  ‘Four or five maybe.’

  ‘How did you first see her? Was it just by chance?’

  ‘It was a Saturday and I was walking down Buchanan Street and she was walking up. She caught my eye. The way attractive women do. I noticed her and liked what I saw.’

  ‘So, you photographed her?’

  ‘Not immediately, no. I turned and followed her into the Buchanan Galleries. Went up the escalator after her. It was like a game, to see where she went, who she was. A legal game.’

  He waited for a response to that but didn’t get one.

  ‘I managed to walk ahead of her. She was browsing in windows so I could walk past but be sure of where she was going. I sat on a bench and had my phone out as she approached. It would have appeared as if I was checking email or whatever. But I photographed her. She had no idea I’d done it. No harassment. She was in a public place with no expectation of privacy. I was entitled to photograph her.’

  ‘And how did you manage to find her to photograph her again?’

  He preened, pleased with himself and how clever he was. She wanted to ram his teeth down his throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kerri Wells sit up and wondered if the DC might actually punch him. She also wondered if she’d try to stop her.

  ‘It’s quite easy. People are creatures of habit. Same places, same times. In her case, the same bus in from Cambuslang. She came into Glasgow every Saturday. I liked her. She was one of my favourite models.’

  ‘Model? Models choose to be photographed. They get paid for it. Julie Petrie was not a model. None of these women were.’

  Broome smiled patronisingly. She clearly didn’t get it.

  ‘They’re models to me. Living, breathing models. Women of the city. They are Glasgow. I’m an observer, a chronicler of the city. Like Oscar Marzaroli.’

  ‘Bullshit! Marzaroli was an artist. You’re a fucking rapist.’ Wells had exploded.

  ‘It’s not so different. Marzaroli photographed the slums and the people that lived in them but he didn’t ask them to pose. He just photographed them. Same as me.’

  ‘Yeah, like Fred West is the same as Mary Poppins.’

  Narey saw his reaction to Wells and knew it for what it was. Hate and anger and barely suppressed violence. She couldn’t allow it to get in the way.

  ‘It’s completely different,’ she told him. ‘And you know it. Tell us what happened next with Julie Petrie.’

  Broome switched back to her, tearing his glare from Wells. ‘I got to know her.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘No. I got to know where she went, what she did, where she lived.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Like I said, it was a game. It was what I did with my models. I needed to know more about them to get the full picture. To make my photographs complete.’

  She had to bite hard to resist calling him on it until she got what she needed.

  ‘And sometimes you followed them to find out where they lived?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And did you do that with Julie Petrie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The shameless, unapologetic gall of it was making her skin crawl. Wells was itching too.

  ‘You went to her house in Cambuslang?’

  ‘I just said so.’

  Broome’s resurgent confidence was bothering her now. She glanced at Constance and he wore a look that said, ‘what kept you?’

  ‘We want to deal, Inspector. You wouldn’t expect us to give you something for nothing, now, would you?’

  ‘He’s not in a position to deal,’ Wells butted in. ‘He’s admitted to attempted murder and to rape. He’s only in a position to bend over and go to jail.’

  ‘No.’ Constance’s tone was condescending. ‘My client has admitted to assault to severe injury on Mrs Broome. He’d be prepared to admit the same with Leah Watt.’

  ‘Why would we be interested in accepting that?’ Wells persisted, her voice louder, her eyes straying to Narey.

  ‘Because my client can close a murder case for you. Because he can help you bring closure to a horrendous crime and ensure justice prevails.’

  ‘Justice?’ Wells was apoplectic. ‘You’re a fucking parasite. What the hell do you care about justice?’

  Constance stared at her coldly. ‘Detective Inspector Narey may take a different view from you, DC Wells. A more pragmatic view.’

  All eyes were on her now. Broome. Constance. Wells. All wanting something different from her. What did she want?

  ‘If Mr Broome has proof of the murder of Julie Petrie then I’d want to see it. It would need to be conclusive. Nothing less would do. I’m not in a position to cut a deal, you know that’s down to the PF, but I’d be sure to let him know Broome has been extremely helpful. As long as that’s the case.’

  ‘That’s reasonable,’ said Constance.

  ‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ said Wells.

  ‘Oh, it’s conclusive,’ said Broome.

  CHAPTER 60

  He took them back to Carlaverock Road.

  Back to his childhood home, back to where he’d battered and stabbed his mother.

  Narey and a far-from-happy Kerri Wells, Constance, two constables and a camera-wielding SOCO made the trip with him.

  Curtains twitched at the sight of police cars returning to the street, a far from familiar sight in this leafy part of the south side. Narey, keen to avoid a circus, hustled everyone inside as quickly as possible.

  They followed Broome upstairs, but instead of turning right into the bedroom where they’d been on their previous visit to the house, they went left. The instant impression was that the room felt like a shrine, like it had been maintained the way it was when the thirty-something teenager left it.

  A life-size, fibreglass Star Wars stormtrooper stood guard in one corner, a large plasma TV screen in another and an Xbox in between. The bed was draped in black silk sheets and covers as if it had slid out of an eighties
porn movie.

  Broome opened a built-in wardrobe, talking on the record as he rummaged inside.

  ‘I’d followed Julie Petrie to her home three times. Not that I knew her name until I saw her photograph in the papers. She was my favourite back then. She had a classic quality to her that I liked. But there was a sadness to her too. I knew she wasn’t happy with her husband. You could just tell.’

  Narey and Wells shared glances. The constables furrowed brows at the man’s lack of awareness and at his strangeness. None of them said anything.

  ‘Once you know where someone lives then it becomes easy to know everything about them. I followed her from there to the school she worked in. After that, I knew when she’d be finishing every day from Monday to Friday. One Tuesday in December 2009, I waited outside the school for her and followed her home. Because I could. Because she was mine.’

  Broome stepped out of the closet with a box that had once contained a laptop, sitting on the bed and putting it at his side.

  ‘She was taking her normal route when suddenly she signalled and pulled over. As I went past, I saw she was on the phone and knew she’d stopped because someone had called her. I drove on a bit then I pulled in too and waited. Two minutes later, she drove off again and I followed. She didn’t go home.’

  He opened the old laptop box, sliding a hand inside to produce a black leather diary with a lock on it. Every pair of eyes in the room drifted to it.

  ‘She drove onto a country road and pulled in to a layby. I was a fair way back but saw there was another car already there, a black Mondeo. I recognised it. She got out and got into the passenger seat of the Mondeo. I could maybe have given it up at that point and gone home but I was curious. It felt weird.’

  Broome got up and went to the rear of the bed, crouching to reach behind one of its wooden legs. They heard the quiet rasp of tape being peeled and when he stood, he had a small silver key in his hand.

  ‘They drove south on quiet roads. It was easy to stay well back and follow because there was nowhere else for them to go and no one to get in between us. A bit after Strathaven, near a wee place called Caldermill, they turned right. I saw them make the turn and had to stop or else I’d have been too close. There was a big wood and the single-track road was skirting it.’