Instead, Winter decided to camp out till he saw the woman, and photograph her. The irony in that act wasn’t lost on him but the deception was surely more tolerable than having strangers turn up on her doorstep and ask about something so traumatic.
So there he was, parked up on Wallace Street at eight in the morning, just twenty yards from the flat. The short window offered by the Scottish winter made his task more difficult. Like most people, Anna was likely to leave for work in the dark and return home after daylight had gone.
The street was beginning to come to life, making him more conspicuous, catching sideways glances from passers-by. He huddled as deep into his seat as he could, a hat pulled down low across his forehead, but it couldn’t hide his unease. It just felt wrong.
He sat there for half an hour, the entrance to number 12 opening twice but yielding only a teenage boy on his way to school then, five minutes later, an older man going to work. Every minute made his toes colder and his sense of foreboding deepen.
A flash sparked in the corner of his eye and he turned his head to see the door to number 12 briefly framed in light again. A woman was walking onto the street, wrapped up against the cold, a scarf and hat muffling clear sight of her face. He fired off shot after shot, catching her under the glow of the street lamps until she turned at the corner.
He didn’t know what he had, the naked eye being no match for his zoom lens, particularly in this light. Sure that she’d gone, he checked out the results, her face immediately being familiar.
Large, startling eyes, pencil-thin brows, a slim nose and full lips. Strands of blonde hair poked out from under her hat. He knew her.
He started up the engine and slowly drove off, parking just a couple of streets away so that he could go through the collection on his phone without being seen.
He flipped through them, memories filtering through, seeing the woman he now knew to be Anna Collins on Buchanan Street. Sunny day, sunglasses pushed through her blonde hair, wearing . . .
A white blouse. The photograph was in front of him now.
There were two others. One by St Enoch subway station the same day and another crossing at traffic lights on what might have been West Nile Street, when she was wearing a black leather jacket.
It was her, he was sure of it.
His dilemma then was what to do about it.
He wasn’t keen to approach her, at least not yet and certainly not without Lainey accompanying him. The confirmation that another of Broome’s photo subjects had reported a vicious, violent rape, added to the weight of the file he was putting together. Circumstantial in the eyes of a court but damning and disturbing in the view of any decent person.
What would he tell Anna, though, that could make her day any better? That he knew the identity of the man who’d raped her five years earlier but that he couldn’t prove it? That didn’t quite seem worth the trauma he’d inevitably visit upon her.
He parked it. Adding Anna to the file and moving on.
He knew that D, the former student in Lainey’s file, was Donna Irwin. She’d never graduated, dropping out of her course just a few months after being raped. She’d left the flat in Partick and now lived in Saltcoats in Ayrshire.
Home was a small, whitewashed bungalow on Melbourne Terrace, with views across the park to the sea and over to Arran. Parking on Winton Street to give himself a clear view across the park to her house, he settled in and waited. And waited. After an hour, he got out and walked to stretch his legs and minimise suspicion, always keeping the white bungalow in view.
He made a few slow circuits of the park, the wind howling at him off the sea, before giving in to the cold and getting back in the car, hoping not to have been too conspicuous. No one and nothing had stirred in the house and he was well aware he might be wasting his time.
After another hour, he moved the car onto Eglinton Street and walked again. He was walking by the shore, the wind battering at his back, when he saw the figure emerge from the bungalow and turn right. He picked up his pace to go after her until he saw she was turning into Wilton Street and he would walk right past her. The camera was in the car but would be ridiculously obvious in any case.
His collar was up, hat down, probably an unnecessary disguise given she didn’t know him or have reason to suspect him but it still felt like a defence, if only against his own awkwardness. She was fifty yards away now, about five feet seven, slim with short dark hair. He mentally flicked through the folders of files, looking for her.
As they got closer and closer, he discarded most of the possibilities, thinking of a brunette waiting at a bus stop on Hyndland Road. If not her then the young woman photographed through the window of Velvet Elvis when it was still open on Dumbarton Road.
She was just fifteen feet away, ten, and she didn’t look familiar. Closer, they’d get closer. Don’t stare. But how could he avoid it? She was aware of him looking, pointedly looking the other way, but her brows low and furrowed. He was scaring her.
He made a show of looking to his left, away from her, but as she passed, he turned back and saw her face close and clear. Donna Irwin, if that’s who she was, had never stood at that bus stop on Hyndland Road or at the window seat in Velvet Elvis. She hadn’t been any of the places or in any of the photographs. He’d never seen her before.
His final, frantic stare had freaked her out though. She threw him a frightened, wary look and crossed the street at a trot. She wasn’t in Broome’s photographs but she had been attacked, had been raped.
Winter took the turn back to where the car was parked, got in and got the hell out of there.
The third and final named victim in Lainey’s files was Khalida Dhariwal.
There were only seven Asian women among the huge collection of photographs and Winter had all of them at hand. If he saw her, he’d be able to refer to them immediately.
He’d tracked down her address through a local government contact and found she was living in Claremount Avenue in Giffnock, south west of the city. He prepared himself for another stakeout, far from relishing it after his brief but close encounter with Donna Irwin.
Claremount Avenue was leafy and fairly expensive. A quiet street of Victorian and Edwardian semi-detached houses and bungalows, it was solidly middle-class. The Dhariwal house had a two-car garage off to the side and a large beech tree sheltering it from the street.
Most of the houses had driveways, so very few cars were parked on the narrow street and those that were, were going to be noticed quickly. He parked, driver’s side to the kerb, as far from the house as possible while keeping it in view and waited it out.
He’d sat there for no more than half an hour, drawing quizzical looks from a couple of dog walkers, when he saw someone emerge from the house. It was a woman, tall and slim, with long, dark hair tied back behind her, dressed in all-black running gear. She emerged from the drive and began running straight towards him.
He had his camera ready but didn’t have time to get it into any kind of useful position that wasn’t going to be very obvious and likely to have her calling the cops. Instead, he pretended to be on his phone but was ready to photograph with it.
Long strides took her towards him quickly, her eyes focusing on the pavement ahead and he praying they’d stay that way. Oh shit. he knew her. She was one of his. One of Broome’s.
High cheekbones, arching eyebrows, dark-eyed, light-skinned. There were two photographs of her, both in the West End. One walking on Byres Road, her hand going through her hair. The other on Ashton Lane with a friend.
Winter was still staring when Khalida saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to catch him in the act. The look on her face left no doubt she was highly suspicious. She ran on, but in the wing mirror he saw her throw a look over her shoulder.
Time to move. He reached for the keys in the ignition and made to turn them. Just as he did so, he heard a knock on the glass by his ear. He knew even before he looked, but turned his head to see Khalida Dhariwal cr
ouched down and looking in at him.
Shit, shit, shit. Reluctantly, he lowered the window.
She stared him out for a few moments before speaking. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘No. I’m just waiting for a call.’ He held his phone up as if that explained it. ‘Didn’t want to have to take it while I was driving.’
‘Uh huh. I thought you were maybe lost. Or looking for someone. I’ve got my phone on me too. I could call the police if you’re needing help.’
It was direct and confrontational. She didn’t think for a moment that he was lost.
‘No, I’m okay thanks.’
‘Are you now?’ She laughed at him, knowing she was in complete control of the situation. ‘Well, why don’t you tell me just what you’re doing here watching me or else I will call the cops. I’m a lawyer and I happen to know quite a few of them.’
‘Look, there’s nothing to tell. I’m just—’
She held her phone up as a warning to cut the bullshit.
‘I’m a journalist.’
Her eyebrows raised sharply. ‘Possibly the only occupation more hated than mine. Why are you here and what the hell do you want?’
He really didn’t want to do this here and now but his head wasn’t working quickly enough to come up with something she wouldn’t see right through.
‘I’m following a story about a man named William Broome.’
He saw the reaction. She knew the name. Knew what he was.
‘And what would that have to do with me?’
He looked around. Breathed deep. ‘William Broome had a collection, a large collection, of photographs of women taken in public without their knowledge. I wasn’t certain until I came here today, but I’m now sure you were among the women he photographed.’
She blinked, her mouth bobbing open, and took half a step back as she lost balance, having to put her arm down to steady herself.
‘Can I see some identification? See that you are who you say you are.’
He pulled his press card from his jacket pocket and held it up for her to see.
She studied it and him in turn. ‘Okay, Tony Winter. There’s a café called Bramble on Fenwick Road. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.’
By the time Winter drove the half mile to Bramble and found somewhere to park, Khalida had beaten him to it. She sat with her back to the wall, a large glass of orange juice in front of her. The only other people in were a young couple having a late breakfast in the other corner. Winter ordered an orange juice for himself and joined her.
She got straight to the point. ‘These photographs, I assume you have copies with you. I’d like to see them.’
He produced his phone, the folder already at the two images from Broome’s collection.
She took his mobile and studied them. She breathed out hard.
‘Well, it’s me all right. I’ve never seen these before but they must be . . . eight or nine years old? I haven’t lived in the West End since then. How did you know where to find me, Mr Winter? I’m assuming, maybe hoping, these photographs didn’t have addresses on the back of them.’
‘I’ve never seen the originals, only digital copies, but I very much doubt there was an address on them. This is a difficult thing to explain. Sensitive.’
‘Well that worries me. But just tell me.’
‘As I think you know, William Broome faced trial for rape.’ He saw her eyes tighten. ‘The case collapsed, partly for technical reasons but mainly because the witness refused to testify at the last minute.’
‘Go on.’ Her voice was dryer, tenser, quieter.
‘There was a woman, a rape counsellor who had been following cases like Broome’s, rapes that followed a similar pattern. She made a point of collating them.’
‘And I was among them.’
‘Yes.’
Khalida held the glass of orange juice in front of her face, nibbling on her lower lip, head nodding. ‘Tell me about the case that collapsed.’
Winter did so. Trying to spare the gratuitous detail but not miss anything relevant. When he’d finished, she took a large gulp of the juice, buying herself some composure time.
‘There are differences. This poor woman wasn’t drugged and I’m sure I was. She was beaten into unconsciousness, the bastard that raped me used something like chloroform. I could smell it, smell something.’
She hesitated and refuelled with air. ‘But he called me a slag before I was unconscious. A number of times. I think I went out with that word being repeated at me. I was somewhere between passing out and out and I remember being hit in time with the word.’
Winter could only hold her gaze and nod.
‘How many of these photographs are there?’
‘Five hundred and twenty-four. Three hundred and fifteen individual women.’
She stared at him as the numbers sank in until she couldn’t cope with the enormity of it, letting her eyes slide over and both hands come up to cover her face. She blew out hard.
‘Okay. So, what the fuck are you doing about it? And why you and not the police?’
‘It’s complicated for now. We’re trying to find the women in the photographs. We’re trying to establish just what he’s done and to who. We’re trying to build a case to prove that he is a dangerous and extremely violent rapist and that he has been over a number of years and on a scale that is frightening.’
‘And what do you want from me?’
‘Whatever you feel you’re able to give.’
‘Mr Winter, I’ve been waiting for this for eight years. I’ll give everything I’ve got. It’s not going to be much but I’ll give it. My husband knows what happened to me. It was four years before we met but I told him everything. He had to know that if I sometimes acted in a certain way then there might be a reason for it. I have nothing to hide from him. My daughter is only two and, of course, knows nothing but nor will she. Not until I’m ready to explain it to her myself.
‘Can I identify the man that attacked and raped me? No, absolutely not. I did not see his face. Can and will I testify that I was attacked and raped and that I am the person in two of Broome’s photographs? Yes, absolutely I will.’
CHAPTER 45
Opening mail was rarely a pleasurable experience for a journalist. For a start, complaints outnumbered compliments by about twenty to one. Everyone was a critic and they could all do a better job. If only they could spell, have a rough grasp of where an apostrophe might go and have the first idea of what a story was.
Winter got tired of opening letters a long time ago. They were easily divided into two categories; those with typed addresses and those that were handwritten. The former were usually press releases, which was basically someone trying to buy advertising on the cheap. The vast majority of those went straight in the bin. The handwritten ones? Well that depended on the handwriting.
Neat often meant over sixty and therefore usually polite even when ripping your story to shreds. The interesting ones were in untidy scrawls with speculative spelling and tended to come from drunks or sociopaths or drunken sociopaths. The wilder ones liked to use red or green biro. Those were usually death threats or claims of alien abduction and there were far more of those than you’d think.
The envelope in Winter’s hand now didn’t quite fit any of those categories. It was typed but it still managed some of the scariness of the scrawlers. The font used was big and chunky, not the usual corporate style at all. His name, the paper’s title and the address were all in capitals too. It was a letter determined not to be missed.
He didn’t like it much when a letter came addressed directly to him. When he started, he expected them either to contain tips for stories or a pat on the back for some great photographs. He soon learned it just meant the abuse was personal.
Reluctantly, he slid it open and fetched out four sheets of A4 paper. The first three were blank, serving only as additional wrapping for the one inside. It was typed with the same chunky font as the envelope but i
n a much bigger size.
A series of letters and then numbers stretched across the page.
WMB JP 55.648608, -4.170116
Winter turned each sheet over in turn, checking the other side for something that explained it. He’d become used to his mail making little or no sense but this was a new take on it.
He laid the paper out in front of him on his desk, holding down the curling corners with a combination of books, a mug and his phone. The numbers meant nothing to him. He checked the envelope again. Definitely for him, his name being shouted out in those ugly block capitals, leaving no doubt.
An inner voice told him to take more care. Keep his fingers off the paper and the envelope as much as he could. Sure, it might just have been some nutter, there was certainly no shortage of those, but instinct told him otherwise.
He had ideas, some more fixed than others, but the numbers baffled him. If it was a code then he was the wrong person to crack it. Alanna could solve a sudoku puzzle quicker than he could.
Was it a sum? Did the dash mean take the second number from the first one? He tried but got nothing that made any more sense.
A combination to a safe? Computer programming code? Number plates, DNA strings, passages from the Bible?
In the end, he took the only logical twenty-first century route. He stuck it into Google.
The string WMB JP 55.648608, -4.170116 produced precisely zero results. It didn’t completely surprise him. He tried again, this time typing in just the numbers.
The top result was a rectangular image, beige in colour, featuring a few wiggly blue lines that looked like veins. In the middle of it was a green downward arrow. In the bottom, right-hand corner were the words ‘Map data 2017 Google’. He clicked on the arrow.
The numbers were coordinates. Latitude and longitude. The map it produced was nothing more than a bigger beige canvas with blue veins for rivers but no identifying place names. He reduced the scale, bringing words into view. Hareshaw. Rotten Burn. Hall Burn. West Hookhead Farm. Caldermill. He reduced it further till he saw names he vaguely recognised, Darvel and Strathaven. Smaller still and he saw it was South Lanarkshire.
The Photographer Page 21