He slid the silver key into the lock and sprung it. The diary opened and his fingers stole between its leaves.
‘I let them go well ahead. By the time I got round to the far side of the wood, the Mondeo was parked up near a wind farm. I passed the car and kept driving for a few hundred yards then found somewhere to stop. I cut back across the fields as quickly but as quietly as I could. At first, I thought I’d lost them but I followed a trail and then heard a noise, something metallic. Then it happened again and then again. They were in the woods and getting deeper.’
He held four photo prints in his hands, their backs to an expectant crowd.
‘I sneaked up on them. Except it was only him that was there. He’d no idea I was there. No idea I was watching and photographing him.’
He turned the prints like a magician doing a card trick.
Iain Petrie, spade in hand, standing over a hole in the ground. Petrie bundling a body into it. Petrie shovelling dirt into the hole. Petrie staring down at the grave that held his wife.
‘The hole had already been dug. There was no way he’d had time to do it from parking the car until I got there. All he’d had time to do was bash her brains in with the spade. He’d had it all planned.’
‘You could have called the police, even anonymously.’
‘I thought about it. I was mad at him. Really, really angry. I’d liked her. She’d been my favourite and he’d taken her away. But I wasn’t going to take the risk of phoning the police. I had too much to lose. I thought about sending the photographs to the police or a newspaper but I didn’t. I didn’t really care what he’d done, only that she’d been mine and he’d stopped that.’
‘So, you took one of your prints of her and cut the face from it?’
He seemed surprised, but nodded. ‘She wasn’t mine any more.’
‘She was never yours,’ Wells had had enough. ‘You don’t own people. Especially not people you don’t know. Is that why you thought you could rape them? Because you thought they were yours?’
He just looked at her, uncaring and unapologetic.
His lawyer stepped in to prevent any more admissions on Broome’s part.
‘Inspector, you can have the photographs and my client’s sworn testimony along with our goodwill and civic duty.’
She knew the last remark was intended to wind Wells up even further.
‘You have your deal, Mr Constance. Don’t push your luck.’
Wells burst into a fit of barely disguised expletives, forcing Narey to take her by the elbow and guide her into a corner of the room.
‘Kerri, I’m doing this. It’s a murder case and this puts the guilty party away. It has to be done.’
‘So, murder trumps rape?’
‘You know that’s not what I’m saying. He’ll get done for the attempted murder of his mother and he’ll do more on top for assaulting Leah.’
‘But not for raping her.’
‘I’m doing what I have to do, Kerri. Trust me, if I could put him away for raping Leah then I would.’
‘He’ll get eighteen months maximum and will serve less than half of that. And you know it. I can’t be a part of this.’
Wells all but spat at her feet. She turned and slammed the door closed behind her as she stormed out.
CHAPTER 61
Broome put his signature to his statement, somehow managing to be both resentful yet smug.
His lawyer oversaw his admission to the charges, taking a final look over the papers, mentally dotting i’s and crossing t’s. He placed his pen on the last page and glanced up, expressionless.
‘I believe that concludes our business for today, Inspector Narey.’
She waited until both men had half-risen from their chairs.
‘Not quite, Mr Constance.’
They caught her tone and she enjoyed seeing their expressions change. As they settled reluctantly back into their seats, she made a point of shuffling the papers in front of her. Sure that she had their attention, she began to speak.
‘I have here a statement from Tony Winter, a journalist with the Scottish Standard newspaper.’ She left just enough of a pause for them to swim in, maybe to drown.
‘In the interests of transparency, I should also state that Mr Winter is my husband. However, his statement is made in a purely professional capacity.’
‘What is this, Inspector?’ Constance was shaken. ‘Bring Your Husband to Work Day?’
She ignored him.
‘My name is Tony Winter and I’ve been undertaking investigative work on behalf of my newspaper, tracing women in a collection of photographs that came into my possession. Photographs that were owned by, and taken by, William Broome.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Constance blustered. ‘Those photographs . . .’
She pressed on regardless, holding up sheets of paper inside a clear plastic bag. ‘I have statements from four women whose images featured amongst that collection. These women are Anna Collins, Khalida Dhariwal, Suzie O’Brien and Helen Scanlon. Each testify that they were raped by William Broome.’
Narey let that hang there, holding the papers high, making Broome and Constance stare at them, making them ask to see them.
‘If I may, Inspector.’
Broome’s eyes were crazed, forehead veins popping. ‘Those slags. Those fucking slags.’
Constance warned him off. ‘Not a word, please, Mr Broome. Not a word.’
With blackened brows, he studied the four statements, mouth pursed tight. He didn’t lift his head until he’d read all four. He exhaled hard as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
‘None of these women have made an identification of my client. None of them say they have seen the face of their attacker.’
Narey shut him down. ‘That’s because their attacker wore a balaclava. The rapist who attacked all four of them, and others, was a coward and covered his face during these atrocities. There was a pattern to his attacks, consistent in these cases and in the attack on Leah Watt which your client has already confessed to. These women will attest to that and to the height and build of the rapist, and to the words he used and how and when he used them. You will be aware of the Moorov Doctrine, Mr Constance. Evidence of cases so similar in nature that they can be used as actual corroboration and often used in rapes and sexual assaults where there is only the victim’s word, but many victims. Where the MO is so similar and unique that they corroborate the fact that the same person may have carried them out. That’s what these women will do. They will also testify that their photographs are among Mr Broome’s conceited and odious collection.’
Constance reddened. Maybe embarrassment, maybe anger.
‘Those photographs were ruled inadmissible and you were ordered to return them to my client. If these women were traced using the—’
‘The victims were not traced by the police. We did not use those photographs in any way nor were we complicit in them being in the possession of Mr Winter or the Standard. However, you can rest assured we will be petitioning the court to have them returned back into evidence and I have no doubt that will happen.
‘No, Mr Constance, the victims made their statements after the result of a journalistic investigation which was aided by information contained in a file compiled about a serial rapist. You are that serial rapist, Mr Broome.’
Constance cut off any response from his client. ‘Don’t say anything. Let me handle this. Inspector, the provenance of these statements will come under the strongest scrutiny, believe me. But regardless of how they were obtained, they still amount to circumstantial evidence with no identification of my client.’
Narey smiled at him, a simple act that caused Constance’s heart to tighten.
‘Helen Scanlon fought back against her attacker. She scratched at him. When she was examined by the police, there was skin under her fingernails.’
The colour drained from the lawyer’s face. Broome looked ready to explode.
‘The police found no DNA ma
tch to those skin cells at the time because you had never been arrested. But that has now changed. The chance of the DNA being a match to anyone other than Helen’s rapist is sky-high. A billion to one maybe. It will match your DNA, Mr Broome. We all know that.’
Broome tore at his hair, fingers digging at his scalp as the heel of his hands rubbed against his face.
‘It’s up to you,’ she told him. ‘Confess, don’t confess, I’m not sure I mind much either way. You will be convicted whatever you do. Your lawyer knows that, even if you don’t. Personally, I’d enjoy seeing this played out in court, the world seeing you for what you are, seeing what a despicable, cowardly excuse for a human being you are. The downside to that would be these women would have to testify and, although every one of them is prepared to do so, I’d rather spare them that. You pleading guilty would achieve that and would be reflected in your sentence.’
Constance confirmed what she’d said with a curt nod to his client.
Broome screwed his eyes shut tight and stretched his mouth wide into a silent scream. It went on for an age before his body slumped.
‘You fucking slag. Happy now, are you? Real pleased with yourself, I bet. Fine, okay, have it your way. I’ll tell you everything. You fucking slag.’
And he did.
CHAPTER 62
He started with the how rather than the why.
He followed his women, got to know their routines, what they did, where they lived. If it turned out that they were married or had boyfriends then he’d usually back off. Partly because they’d disappointed him by taking partners but more because of the risk. Those separated from the herd were the most pleasing to him and the most vulnerable prey.
Anna Collins, Khalida Dhariwal, Suzie O’Brien and Helen Scanlon all lived in ground floor properties. So too had Leah Watt, Lainey Henderson and Vonnie Murdoch. Broome conceded that was his method and often the deciding factor as to whether he took his obsessions further.
‘They didn’t care enough about their security. They should have. But because they didn’t, I knew I could go in and see them when I wanted.
‘Getting in was usually pretty straightforward. Windows left unlocked, doors that could be forced or Yale locks that were easy to slip open with pieces of plastic you can buy online. If I had to, I could break a window and be in in seconds. Bungalows, ground-floor flats, they were easy. They’d have been as well leaving the front door open.’
He was both boasting and being cold-bloodedly practical. Narey had to push on past it.
‘Why did you start talking photographs?’
She had to ask it four times before he began to answer her. He deflected and diverted, he roared and declared it none of her business, that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand. She played dumb, asking him to explain in a way she might get. He finally relented and summed it up in three words.
‘To keep them.’
He wasn’t trying to shock her, not attempting to dramatise it. It was a simple statement of fact. And that was the most shocking thing about it.
‘You need to tell me more than that.’
He smirked and groaned, making it obvious he’d been right about her not understanding.
‘I’d see women that I liked. It could have been their face or the way they walked, it might have been their hair or their figure or the way they looked at me. If they had something about them that grabbed my attention then I’d want them. I’d want to keep them. If I photographed them, I’d be able to take them home with me, look at them when I wanted. They’d be mine.’
‘They are people. Not objects. They’re not things to be owned or kept.’
Broome knew she wouldn’t understand. His face said so.
‘Everything is a thing. Everyone is a thing. You, me, her, him. All things. This idea that people are different from dogs or cars or clothes is ridiculous. They can all be owned, all collected or thrown away. In this world, you’re either an owner or you’re owned. I prefer to be an owner. They were owned because that’s the way they were. Public property. I photographed them and claimed them, I took them home with me and made them mine.’
‘And you hunted them down and raped them.’
He shrugged. ‘Some of them. The ones that wanted it. Asked for it.’
‘None of them asked for it. That’s why you had to force yourself on them, beat them. Did you really believe they wanted you?’
He didn’t look at her, seemingly couldn’t. ‘They would have done if they’d got to know me. But they were too good for that. Just slags. The world is full of them. Strutting around, showing what they’ve got, hanging it out there to tease you but then not giving you the time of day. They asked for everything they got.’
‘So, you couldn’t handle the rejection? Your fragile little-boy ego just couldn’t take it?’
‘No!’ The shout didn’t make it sound any more convincing. ‘I did it because I wanted to. I was in control, not them. The decisions were mine.’
She settled for just looking at him for a while. His words not worth her wasting any in return.
‘Are there others?’
‘What?’
‘Have you raped and beaten women other than Anna Collins, Khalida Dhariwal, Susie O’Brien, Helen Scanlon, Leah Watt and Vonnie Murdoch? It’s a very simple question.’
She saw all sorts on his face. Defiance. Fear. Pleading.
‘No.’
‘No other women?’
‘No!’
‘You’re a liar. I know of other women. And I have no doubt there’s others that I don’t know of. Yet.’
‘Well, you’ll have to find them then.’
‘Oh, I will. I’ll get your photographs back, every single one of them. And I’ll have all the time and resources I need to track down every woman that is in them. If you’ve hurt any of them, I’ll find out. Believe that. Do everyone a favour and tell me now.’
Broome looked from Constance to her and back again. The lawyer gave him nothing, this was his choice to make. She felt him swing towards her then away, any conscience that he had battling with ego and cowardice and practicalities.
‘Like I said, you’ll have to find them. Is that it?’
No. No it fucking isn’t.
‘No, there’s something else I want you to know. The file that was used to trace your victims, the file that will put you in prison for many, many years, was compiled by a lady named Lainey Henderson. Is that name familiar to you?’
Broome shook his head sullenly.
‘I thought not. In 2004, Ms Henderson lived in a ground-floor flat in Craigpark Drive in Dennistoun. Does that address sound familiar?’
Broome said nothing.
‘Someone broke into Ms Henderson’s flat, beat her up and raped her. Do you remember that?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Lainey Henderson remembers it. She’s remembered it every day since. She was not going to let it go and she was going to stop it happening to anyone else. She didn’t quite manage that, but she’s stopped it now.’
CHAPTER 63
Narey left the interview room, a sigh escaping through parted lips and a wave of exhaustion beginning to wash over her. It was only tickling at her toes but she knew it would drown her before the day was out.
Sitting opposite and looking up expectantly were Winter and Wells. She eased their anxieties with a single nod. It was over.
Winter stood and slipped an arm around her waist, hugging her to him for as long as their surroundings allowed.
‘I’ll see you at home,’ he told her as he let her go. ‘I’m off to see our daughter. Danny’s got her at the park.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Kiss her for me. I’ll do it myself soon.’
As he left, Kerri Wells got to her feet, awkward and nervous in a way Narey had never seen before, gnawing at her own lip.
‘He’s confessed?’
‘Yes. To four rapes. Are you planning to shout at me again, Kerri? I’m hoping not.’
‘Boss, I need to .
. . I didn’t know what you were doing. I’m sorry. Really sorry. I just lost it. I couldn’t believe you’d let him off with pleading on the attack on his mother and Leah Watt’s rape. I should have known better.’
Narey led her further down the corridor by the shoulder, finding the first empty room and guiding her inside, closing the door behind them.
‘Yes, Kerri. You should have known better. I understand why you lost your temper in there but that doesn’t excuse it. You need to get a better handle on it. Don’t lose the passion, that’s part of what makes you the cop you are, but control it better. Okay?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Listen, the attack on his mother might have got knocked down to assault anyway. And as for Leah, I was happy not having to put her through the trauma of going to court to testify again. She’d also done something that wouldn’t exactly have made her the perfect witness. They were easy trades when I knew what cards I still had to play.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘How would you have reacted when I did the deal with Broome and his lawyer if you’d known?’
Wells grimaced. ‘Not the way that I did. Not the way you wanted me to. Okay, I get that. But it left me angry enough that I was insubordinate. A borderline disciplinary matter.’
‘I moved the border, so don’t worry about that. Maybe I should have told you and saved your blood pressure from taking the hit. But, as you said, I got the reaction I expected and Broome and Constance saw it.’
‘It was worth it. You were right.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’
‘Sorry. Again. Can I go now?’
‘No, hang on. You know, the victims in Lainey Henderson’s file probably wouldn’t have been traced without the help she got over the years from a female PC. She took some risks, whoever she was, but it paid off. I wish I had the chance to thank her.’
‘Right. Well, sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about, boss.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Same thing goes for whoever sent Broome’s photographs to Tony. Very risky, but Broome would probably have walked without it.’
The Photographer Page 29
