Discover the Photo Story of “Murder Likes”
Join Joana and Brian as they solve the Shutterbug Mystery “MURDER LIKES” across some of Scotland’s most scenic locations. Below, you can view photos of the actual sites featured in their investigation.
Two days after our misty morning encounter with the police officer, we were huddled in our Portsoy B&B room like a pair of pensioners during an energy crisis. Brian had wrapped himself in not one but three blankets. The floral wallpaper competed aggressively with the equally floral bedspread. We might have been warm if flowers on furniture actually generated heat.
"The heating runs for a full hour each morning and evening." I could still hear the pride in our host's voice at check-in. She made it seem like we were getting a luxury spa treatment.
Brian clutched his fourth cup of tea, hoping to warm at least his fingers. "That was Scottish hospitality-speak for: 'I'd rather see you turn into human icicles than pay an extra quid on my heating bill.' I’ve had warmer baths in the North Sea."
"Did you know him? Ben Gillespie?"
"Saw him around sometimes. He came up here with his drone often enough." Malcom spat on the ground. "One of those rat packs with selfie sticks and drones. But at least he walked to the spot. Some of these drone nutters don't even leave the car park. Just launch their contraptions from right there and later claim they've 'seen' Glenfinnan." He spat again for emphasis.
"What bothers you the most about them?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"The lack of originality," he said immediately. "They all take the same photo of the same train from the same spot with the same steam, and think they've captured something special. Most don't even bother to move left or right a bit. It's got to be the exact spot they've seen on that Likecosm platform."
Dunnottar Castle was part ruin, part fortress, its walls rising from a rocky base. The sea surrounded it on three sides. A single steep path led up to the gate. The cliffs dropped almost straight down, and the waves crashed against the rocks below. It was a dramatic place. It’s no surprise that it’s one of the most photographed castles in Scotland, and especially popular among influencers. Maisie was one of them.
I could picture the kind of photo Maisie Steele wanted: waves behind her, early morning light, maybe a flowing dress or, as the press articles said, a pair of fairy wings.
"This is where Maisie Steele died," I said.
As soon as our landlady left, Brian rushed to the bathroom. Minutes later, steam rolled out from under the door while his off-key version of "Scotland the Brave" echoed through the cottage, punctuated by occasional sighs of bliss.
I opened the front window to let in some fresh air and caught my first proper view of Cruden Bay. The village sits next to a long stretch of sandy beach that curves between rocky cliffs. Slains Castle stands on the far headland. Even in the sunshine, the castle looks spooky. It's a ruin now. The owner removed the roof to avoid paying taxes decades ago, and over time, it has fallen apart. Still, it's a landmark for the area. I’ve taken photos of it before, but I never stayed past sunset. There’s something unsettling about the place, and I didn’t want to be there after dark. It’s beautiful but haunting. It makes sense that Bram Stoker found inspiration here. He wrote “Count Dracula” while staying in Cruden Bay.
I followed him, but at a slower pace. “What are we even queuing for?”
“No idea, but,” he gave me the same look my dad used to give when I forgot to wash my hands before dinner. “Jo, if there’s a queue, you join it. That’s the unwritten rule. A long queue usually means free stuff, like a drink, a souvenir, or something to eat.”
“Brian! We’re supposed to meet Haggis-Fiona! We don’t have time for this!” I tried to pull him away, but he was set on waiting to see what freebies appeared.
I gave up and wandered over to Braemar Castle instead. It looked unusual, with white walls, pointed turrets, and a star-shaped curtain wall.
An information board explained it’d been home to the Farquharson clan chief for centuries before it fell into disrepair. It wasn’t the National Trust or a wealthy American who saved it. Local people did the work. The rescue team came from just down the road, in anoraks and wellies. They took over the castle for the price of just one peppercorn a year. Since then, a group of volunteers has been cleaning, painting, fixing old cracks, and working on the gardens.
I started to think I knew why Brian had joined the queue.
Four hours, two comfort breaks, and one slightly tense encounter with a flock of sheep later, we finally reached Plockton. The moment I saw it, I understood why it appears on so many Scottish calendars. The village curved gently around a sheltered bay on Loch Carron, with white cottages reflected in the calm water. Behind them, craggy munros rise up. And just as Brian had read, palm trees lined part of the waterfront, giving the whole place an unexpected tropical touch that somehow didn't feel out of place.
"It's even prettier than the photos," Brian said, his carsickness apparently forgotten as he pulled out his camera.
I parked near the village centre and got out of the car. I needed to stretch my legs after the long drive and thought I should get some information. "I'm going to pop into the village shop and see what I can find out about Moira Sinclair," I told Brian. "Want to come in?"
"I'll wait out here," he replied, already framing a shot of palm trees with the mountains behind them. "Need to take some actual, unedited photos of this place. For comparison with the killer's preferred style."
The single-track road was so close to the coastline that my car was probably afraid of falling into the sea. After three hours of Brian’s sighs and complaints, I was beginning to wish it would. Not the whole car, mind, just his side. The NC500 route might be Scotland's answer to Route 66, but unlike its American cousin, it consists mostly of narrow lanes with passing places and sheer drops that make even confident drivers grip the wheel a bit tighter. We’d been driving for what felt like forever, heading to the northernmost tip of mainland Britain. Brian was nearly out of vegan snacks and, even worse for him, out of mobile phone reception, so his patience was running thin.
"Are we there yet?" Brian asked for what must have been the twelfth time since lunch. I always thought that was a question for four-year-olds, but then again, with Brian, there’s not much difference. He slumped in the passenger seat, staring hopelessly at his phone. "No signal. Again. We're literally driving to the edge of nowhere, Jo."
I kept my eyes fixed on the narrow road. "That's rather the point. Our killer has a taste for scenic backdrops. Plus, this meeting might finally give us some real leads."
"Your bravery in the face of potential murder is inspiring," I said dryly, adjusting my camera settings to capture the lighthouse without a drone. "What happened to 'I'll never fly a drone again!’”
"I never said that," Brian protested, attaching the propellers. "What I said was, I wouldn't fly in known killer hotspots. And nobody cares about Boddam. No offence to Boddam," he added, glancing around as if the local tourism board might be lurking behind the information sign.
"And you know this how?" I asked.
"Checked the geotag data," he was clearly proud of himself. "None of the accounts on our list picked Boddam as their ‘I’m-going-to-go-viral’ spot. Our killer wants a stage, not some quiet place. They want to make a statement where people will notice."
Brian stared at me. "Did you just fake static? On a mobile phone? What is this, a 1990s TV show?"
"It worked, didn’t it?" I put my phone away. "We told Murray like we said we would, and we still have time to meet Reggie before the police show up."
We drove across Orkney’s main island along the coastal road. The landscape felt open right away, with low green fields and water on almost every side. The land seemed cut into quiet bays and inlets where seals rested on rocks. The road threads between stone farmhouses and drystone walls, under wide skies and weather that seems to change every few minutes. Every so often, a line of standing stones or a Neolithic tomb in the distance reminds us that people have lived here for thousands of years. The land felt incredibly ancient, as if we were moving through history.
Crovie didn’t follow the usual rules for villages in the most Scottish way possible. There was just one row of cottages squeezed up against a cliff, huddled together like sheep in a storm, with only a narrow footpath between their front doors and the North Sea. The road stopped at the village entrance, so wheelbarrows were more common than cars here.
"How do they even get their groceries in?" Brian wondered aloud, staring down at the village from our vantage point. "And what about furniture? Imagine trying to move a sofa along that path in a wheelbarrow."
"Determination and stubbornness," I was adjusting my camera settings. "The two qualities Scotland was built on."
We navigated the labyrinth of wynds and closes that make up Edinburgh's Old Town. I had never seen Victoria Street so crowded before. Visitors moved in a steady stream past the colourful shopfronts. Even though last night's rain left the cobblestones wet and shiny, the street maintained its charm, with flower boxes in the windows and bright bunting overhead. I stopped for a moment outside a bookshop next to a cheese monger, looking at the signed thriller novels in the window and picturing my own book there one day. Tourists passed me, clutching their newly purchased tartan tea towels and miniature whisky bottles, trying to get the perfect selfie on the famous curved street.
Brian glanced at the tourists, then back at me. "You'd never know, would you? That someone was actually murdered here."
I nodded and looked at the stone steps leading down from Victoria Terrace above to the street level. "That's where they found her. Sana Patel, 26, a fashion influencer with about 40,000 followers. She was lying right there on the steps, her drone next to her."
I took a shaky breath. "Murray, I just met her. At my book signing. Tantallon Castle is on my guidebook cover. I wrote that the best place to photograph it is from Seacliff Harbour."
There was a heavy silence on the line.
"I know," he finally said. "We found a copy of your book in her backpack, which was still on the cliffs. The page for Tantallon was bookmarked."
As we drove along the coastal road from Edinburgh to Crail, I noticed our electric car seemed to hum differently. Could an EV really sound disapproving? I glanced at the dashboard, half-expecting to see a warning light. Nothing. Just that persistent, slightly off-key hum that seemed to tell me: I don’t like this journey, turn back now.
I ignored my judgmental car, already mentally rehearsing what I would say to Kieran McPhee. Should I be direct? 'Hello, we think you might be a serial killer.' Probably not. Maybe something more professional, like 'We're researching traditional versus modern landscape photography.' That sounded better, but still a bit odd.
Ian's cottage in Ballachulish sat at the end of a road lined with pine trees, with a small loch visible in the distance. My little car rattled as we swerved around potholes deep enough to deserve their own loch names. From the outside, it looked like a classic Scottish home: stone walls, a slate roof, and smoke rising from the chimney. But once Ian opened the door, it was clear the inside was something else entirely.
"Welcome to my humble abode." Ian clapped his hands once, and the lights came on, bringing the place to life.
Brian let out a stunned breath. "Bloody hell. It's like NASA and a Highland gift shop had a baby."
Through the thick fog, I could just make out The Needle's silhouette. On my last visit, the tall rock formation had been crowded with tourists posing for photos. Today, it was just me and the silent stone. It looked so unwelcoming, almost as if it wanted to be left alone.
Geologists say the Quiraing never stops moving. While the rest of the Trotternish ridge has settled, this part keeps inching toward the sea every year. Huge basalt caps slide over slippery Jurassic sediment, and each rainfall makes the slow struggle between rock and gravity even more intense. This movement, just a few centimetres each year, means the single-track road across this landscape is always in need of repairs.
Usually, the Quiraing is one of my favourite places on Skye. When I stand on top of these otherworldly cliffs and look down at the open green slopes and distant lochs, I remember why I chose to be a travel photographer. But today, I couldn't get rid of the feeling that the shifting ground beneath me was slowly moving toward the edge, ready to take me with it.