He switched to the satellite view and closed in again, seeing the coordinates sat in the middle of a dark green swathe. Trees. Hundreds upon hundreds of trees, thick together, light barely penetrating and just a few tracks of earth as paths criss-crossed the forest.
Winter switched out again, trying to get his head round where these woods were. North was East Kilbride. Further north still was Glasgow. West was Kilmarnock.
He stared at the map, studied it, followed the roads west, east and north. Finally, he saw it. Or maybe he saw what he wanted to see. About ten miles due north of the thick, dark green area of woods that the coordinates had brought up on his screen, near as dammit straight north as the crow might fly, was Cambuslang.
Home of McCallum’s Café. Home of Atheneum estate agents.
JP. Julie Petrie.
And the initials he’d long since guessed at. WMB. William Michael Broome.
CHAPTER 46
Winter’s first decision was going to be his biggest. Who to tell.
If he went to Archie Cameron then it would be out of his control. Archie would get excited and probably demand they ran the story as it was, in case anyone else got there first. It was half a story, though, and Winter wanted all of it.
He had to go to the police, but did he go with head or with heart? It had to be either Addison or Rachel. He knew where his loyalty lay but he might be doing her more of a favour by going to Addy instead.
She’d want it but she wouldn’t. If he bypassed her and went to Addison, he’d save her from herself and from all the accusations that would come from other cops and other media. As long as she saw it that way.
And, of course, it might be nothing. A prank or a set-up, someone’s idea of a joke. It didn’t feel like it though. It felt very much like something.
He chose Addison and whatever consequences came his way because of it.
A quick phone call set up a meeting in their usual haunt, the Station Bar on Port Dundas Road not far from Stewart Street station. Addison had asked what it was about but Winter didn’t want to talk about it on the phone. That and the prospect of Guinness was enough to get his pal interested.
Their relationship had changed, on the surface at least, since Winter had become a journalist. Addison was a bit more guarded, seeing them on opposite sides, and shied away from work talk when they got together. Neither of them was above using their relationship when it suited, though, and this was one of those times.
Addison had got to the TSB first and was queuing up two pints of the black stuff, the creamy heads settling as Winter walked into the bar.
‘All right, wee man?’
‘Yeah, I think so. How’s things?’
‘Things are interesting. A royal pain in the arse but interesting. What’s happening at home? Rachel still getting bothered by the wee bawbags online?’
‘Danny’s on the case, thinks he’s getting somewhere so let’s hope so. Let’s find somewhere quieter to do this.’
Addison raised his eyebrows. ‘Like that, is it? Sounds promising. Okay, we’ll go through the back.’
The picked up their pints and made their way through to the raised level at the rear of the bar. It might have qualified as a mezzanine but that seemed altogether too wanky a term in a pub like the TSB. There were two guys in their twenties already ensconced there but Addison sized them up and knew they’d budge. They took him for a cop right away and exchanged glances before getting up and moving through to the main bar.
‘Never fails,’ Addison lamented. ‘Too many people with guilty consciences.’
‘Maybe they just think you’re an arse.’
‘Could be. Anyway, cheers, wee man.’
They raised their glasses towards each other, then supped. Addison’s mouthful was considerably longer and larger.
‘I could really do with more than one of these. Luring me down here with your gateway drugs and promises of information. What you got, Tony?’
‘Well, first of all I’ve got a reminder that I’m not one of your informants. This is a two-way process. I’m going to want a story back in return.’
‘Aye, aye, wee man. Whatever.’
‘No. Not whatever. Don’t piss me about, Addy. This is serious. For both of us. All of us.’
Addison’s brows furrowed, confused by Winter’s insistence.
‘Okay. You’ll get your story if there is one. But you know that. Come on, I get that this is important. So, tell me.’
Winter nodded, satisfied, and reached into the bag he had over his shoulder. He took out two plastic bags with sheaves of paper inside each, placing one on the table and opening the other.
‘That is the original, you probably want to get it checked for prints. And this’ – he handed it over – ‘is a copy. I got the original through the post this morning, addressed directly to me at the Standard.’
Addison studied it. Looking from the printed page to Winter and back.
‘Give me a clue?’
‘You read the piece I ran on Julie Petrie, the woman who disappeared from Cambuslang. Presumed dead.’
‘Presumed murdered. Of course I read it. And it was with a photograph I’d never seen before. Want to tell me where you got that?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Well, maybe I think it is. Anyway, JP is Julie Petrie?’
‘I think so, yes.’
Addison took another gulp at his Guinness. ‘Okay, you’ve got my attention. And going by what I know you’ve been up to, I’m assuming WMB will be our friend William Michael Broome. And these’ – he traced a finger across the number sequence – ‘are coordinates. So many degrees north by so many west. Do you know where it is?’
Winter nodded. ‘Let me show you.’
He took out his phone, opened the Google Earth app and punched in the numbers. The blue globe spun on its axis until it settled on the lonely rock near the top of the world then spiralled in, rushing towards the west of Scotland.
Addison watched the earth spin until it stopped above the dark, dense green of the forest. A low whistle signalling his interest. ‘Good place to bury a body.’
‘That’s what I thought. It’s eleven miles almost due south of Cambuslang, directly west of a hamlet called Caldermill.’
‘Due south?’
‘If you’d been looking for somewhere secluded and drew a straight line from Cambuslang, this is the place you’d come to.’
‘Well, well. And, let me have one final guess for the grand prize. The photograph you used for your piece on the woman, Broome took it. It was from his little collection.’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck.’
Addison drank and thought. ‘Why didn’t you take this to Rachel? Broome is her case.’
‘Well, for one thing, that’s not what we do. She does her thing, I do mine. Also, I don’t want to make any more trouble for her than she’s got. I figured that if I took it to you, you’d bring her in on it.’
‘I will.’
‘Okay, good. So, what are you going to do?’
He finished his pint, letting the last few drops trickle down his throat.
‘I’m going to get some shovels.’
A small convoy left Glasgow early the next morning bound for the woods west of Caldermill. It wasn’t yet daylight and the drive took them just a bit over forty minutes. Winter and Narey had been picked up separately and travelled down in different cars, each trapped in their own chilled silences.
The cars, four of them plus a van pulling a low-loader, parked as near to the woods as they could. Three constables manhandled a jackhammer into the trees while others brought shovels and pickaxes. The last of them steered the ground-penetrating radar equipment as best they could.
All the while, a small team of forensics waited in the relative heat of their car for a call to action that might never come. They all knew it might be a hoax. It would come down on Addison’s head if it was. He was the one giving credence to the journalist’s tip-off, the one buying som
e numbers printed on a piece of paper like they were a bag of magic beans.
Winter was there, given permission to photograph but under strict conditions. Nothing evidential, nothing that showed the precise location and absolutely none of his pish taking photos of officers. He’d agreed to it all.
It took him back, though. No more than two years to when he took the police shilling and photographed for forensic science rather than the Standard. He felt the same sense of anticipation he always had waiting for the curtain to go up on the main show. The difference this time was that there might not be a show and although Addison would get the blame, the fault would be his.
The radar machine looked like a lawnmower with a screen fitted at the push bar. It had its own inbuilt GPS and they were going to use that to match to the coordinates sent to Winter. The advice was that they could expect the numbers to be five or ten feet out in any direction if they’d been taken from Google Earth. If the person that mapped it had just stuck a pin into the woods then it could be anywhere among the trees. If it was there at all.
Winter and Narey had kept their distance from each other after arriving, a forced attempt at professional detachment, but as the radar went to work, inching over the frozen ground, they too inched closer together.
At last they were just a few feet apart, breaths misting in front of them as they stared at the machine doing its thing.
‘Do you think this is genuine?’
‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough. It felt real when I opened it up. Either way, it couldn’t be ignored.’
‘Who do you think sent it?’
‘I’m trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth by bothering myself with that too much. Obvious answer is the killer, who else would know? And the obvious answer is that it’s Broome. As to why? Fuck knows.’
‘Hmm, maybe. I’m not a big fan of the obvious, as you know. Thanks for talking to Addison.’
‘You being sarcastic?’
‘No, I’m not. If this turns out to be someone’s idea of a joke then it would look doubly stupid if it had been me who’d acted on something you’d come up with. If it’s real . . . then it’s what we need and it doesn’t matter a damn who got it first.’
‘I managed to do something right?’
‘Probably more by luck than judgement.’
‘Cheers.’
‘You’re welcome. It’s times like this I wish I smoked. Be something to do while watching this machine work.’
The guy operating the radar wasn’t helping them at all. His face was impassive, deep in concentration, giving nothing away either way. They still watched him though, desperate for the first sign that this was real.
He’d moved on, a few yards away from the spot suggested by the coordinates, widening the search bit by bit. Everyone on the site watched him work and waited, shivering in the chill of fresh daylight.
Winter photographed him. Reluctantly, he did so from behind so as not to show his face. It meant missing out on seeing his expression and not being able to record the quiet determination that was so riveting. He caught the work though, the solemn diligence of it, the breath of life frosting before the operator’s mouth as he searched for death in the frozen ground.
The man stopped in his tracks and heads rose around the site. He backed up a few paces and retraced the route he’d just taken. Breaths were held, pulses quickened in anticipation. He held up one arm to signal for attention, as if unaware they’d been watching his every move.
Addison was at his side in moments. The rest of them couldn’t hear the discussion but they saw the operator’s head nod in answer to Addison’s questions. There was something.
The DCI waved the constables towards him, giving them instructions that saw all but one of them ready the digging equipment. The other went to fetch the forensics.
‘About three feet down,’ Addison told Narey. ‘He’s pretty sure but caveat is that it could be an animal, could be something else entirely. But he’s confident.’
‘Well, let’s find out.’
They broke the frozen topsoil with the jackhammer, taking the first couple of feet of soil out quickly with shovels. All the while, one of the SOCOs, Paul Burke, did the job that Winter still thought of as being his. A bit of him ached to be recording it, standing over the emerging grave and capturing the uncovering of truth, grain by grain. Instead, he had to stay back and content himself with nothing more than stock shots of men bending their backs as they dug deeper.
The donkey work done, forensics took over, carefully scraping away dirt for fear of damaging evidence. The process slowed and time seemed to slow with it. Everyone on site edged closer and closer, eager for a look, eager to see the white of bones.
The final stretch was done by brush, flicking away soil, inch by agonising inch. Those watching could see they had something but the wait was stretching everyone’s patience. Finally, one of the forensics popped his head above ground and waved Burke closer. Winter’s jealousy knew no bounds at the approach of the money shot.
Once Burke had photographed the find from all available angles, the remaining mourners were allowed to congregate on the graveside. They formed a solemn circle, heads bowed, staring down at dust and ashes. And bones.
The hole was no more than four feet long and two feet wide. However, it was plenty big enough to hold the concertinaed skeleton that had been eked out of the earth. Winter, his finger itching to pull the trigger on the camera he’d been forced to set aside, could make out the long femurs and the shorter fibulas tucked below. The rib cage was shattered, probably crushed by the weight of earth. But the skull had been broken by something much less natural. An ugly, jagged crack ran across the top and there was an enlarged hole around one eye.
‘She’d been in something close to the foetal position, either for protection or forced into it to make her fit the grave,’ the SOCO announced. ‘I’d say she was five feet six tall. She has a fractured skull, fractured eye socket and a broken arm. And there’s this . . .’
Gloved fingers held up a tarnished silver bracelet in an evidence bag. ‘It was round her wrist. The lettering isn’t easy to make it out but there’s a name engraved on it.’
He passed the bagged bracelet to Addison, who held it up to the light. All he needed to say was one word.
‘Julie.’
CHAPTER 47
It was one of those stories sold and told by the headline.
JULIE PETRIE’S BODY FOUND IN SHALLOW GRAVE
The strapline added some explanation for those who didn’t recognise the name.
MISSING WIFE’S CORPSE DISCOVERED AFTER 9 YEARS
There wasn’t, and couldn’t be, any mention of Broome. There was no evidence of his involvement, at least none that could find its way into a newspaper just yet. As much as Winter would have loved to have included the link to Julie being in Broome’s collection, that was off limits. For now.
The story didn’t need it though. It was a slam dunk of a front-page splash.
Even those who might not have remembered or known about the Petrie case couldn’t miss the draw in a murdered woman’s body being dug up from a grave in the woods. It screamed out to the ghouls and the rubberneckers, calling to their need for gossip and gore. He’d done his best not to make it lurid or any more sensationalist than he had to but inevitably a few choice adjectives had been added by the subs to spice it up, dripping from the page like blood.
The wood became sinister, the grave became hastily-dug, Julie became tragic and her killer became brutal. The few killers who weren’t brutal in the tabloid world were either merciless or evil.
His photographs were used large and there were more inside where the story careered over a further two pages, all bolstered by a bold and underlined EXCLUSIVE. The facts were few so the description and the back story were given full rein.
He’d spoken to Julie’s parents and her brother, and of course to the grieving husband. While Tom and Kathleen Fotheringham and their son were stuck somewhere betw
een relief and horror, Iain Petrie could barely contain his glee that he’d soon be off the hook. It was more in the telling than the words but even on the page, he came off as more interested in himself than his murdered wife.
‘I was shocked when the police told me they’d found a body and it had been confirmed as Julie’s. I always prayed this day would come but it is still a huge personal blow.
‘I knew Julie had been murdered, knew she wouldn’t just have disappeared and left me without saying anything. I’d told the police it would be like this but nobody believed me.
‘I hope that the police will now be able to finally find the person who killed Julie so that I can have some peace of mind and bring an end to some of the scandalous and frankly evil rumours that have circulated since Julie disappeared. The last nine years have been a nightmare for me, I’ve been put through hell, and I hope this marks the beginning of the end.’
The take-up on the story was immediate and widespread. The other newspapers scrambled to get it into their online editions, using stock photographs of Julie and stealing what they could from Winter’s copy until their reporters were able to get quotes of their own. Julie Petrie’s face looked out from every newspaper and every television screen, and it was all over the social media that had been in its infancy when she’d disappeared.
But the Standard flew the one photograph that no one else had. Julie, the rather sad brunette, walking towards the camera, head slightly down, her expression thoughtful.
Using it once must have enraged Broome. Using it a second time, particularly in relation to her body being dug up, might just push him dangerously close to the edge. It was a risk Winter was willing to take.
When Archie Cameron asked him if he wanted to put the interview with Broome’s mother on hold, Winter hesitated. Part of him wanted to drive the boot home, kick the fucker when he was down and apply as much pressure as possible.
The danger, however, was that the interview with Elspeth Broome would get lost in the fallout from the finding of the body. There were only so many column inches to go around and Winter wanted maximum exposure. He also liked the idea of Broome reeling and fuming from the Petrie story, on his knees and struggling when, bam.
The Photographer Page 22