by Claire Askew
Ishbel shivered. Caroline probably didn’t even know about Abigail, not yet. But the idea of phoning her, the idea of having to say the words to someone, Ishbel could barely even give the thought space in her head.
My support network, she thought. My support network is standing over by the coffee urn, not taking part.
But as if he’d heard her thought, Aidan picked that moment to slip back into the circle, and down into the seat between her and Rehan. The tea in his hand was already half gone. Ishbel put her hand onto his knee, expecting him to nudge it away again. When he didn’t, tears rose in her eyes. Was he not lost to her, after all? She couldn’t tell. If he was, she suspected it had happened long before the shooting, in some quiet moment when she wasn’t paying proper attention.
DI Birch had been speaking all this time: something about talking to the media that Ishbel had only half heard. Now one of the men inside the circle spoke up, interrupting her.
‘Of course you don’t want us to talk to the media,’ he said. Ishbel recognised the voice of someone who was trying to sound brave, trying to keep his voice from cracking. ‘You want a nice clean cover-up!’
Hurt registered on DI Birch’s face: just a flicker, before she swept it away.
‘Sir,’ she began, but she was cut off by DCI McLeod stepping into the circle, moving himself in front of her as if to shield her from physical attack.
‘Mr Kesson.’ Ishbel flinched at the name. She knew who these people were, of course she did – but it rattled her, hearing the surname of one of the other girls killed, a name she’d heard read out on the news on the hospital TV, alongside Abigail’s own. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector McLeod, and this is my investigation.’
To her surprise, Ishbel saw Amy, the young officer across the room, raise one eyebrow and make a face in DI Birch’s direction. The DI’s expression remained impassive.
‘No one,’ DCI McLeod was saying, ‘wants to create a cover-up, I assure you. In fact, it’s likely there will be a government inquiry in due course. Transparency is one of our greatest priorities here.’
Ishbel studied the man’s body language: his large frame blocking the space between Mr Kesson and DI Birch, a gesture that could have been protective, or could have been dominant, she couldn’t tell.
‘We just want to make sure,’ McLeod went on, ‘that no one gets exploited, or feels wronged. To the tabloid press, your vulnerability at this difficult time makes you easy targets.’ He cast a sweeping glance around the circle. ‘We, on the other hand, want to try to understand, and support you. So however tempting it may be to call up a journalist, we’d encourage you to call us if you need to talk through something.’
Behind him, DI Birch was nodding. DCI McLeod watched Mr Kesson until he seemed satisfied that the other man wouldn’t speak again. Then he turned to Birch, and made an over to you gesture that was nearly a bow.
‘Apologies, DI Birch,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’
He dyes his hair, Ishbel thought, as he turned his back to walk out of the circle. No one’s hair is really platinum. Then her thirty seconds were up, and once again, she remembered why she was there. Something at the centre of her bucked and yawned.
‘Okay,’ DI Birch said, trying to right herself again after the interruption. ‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. I won’t speak for much longer. In a few moments, I’ll pass you over to the fine people from Victim Support Scotland, who are also here with us tonight.’
The rest of the meeting seemed to blur into one long continuation of people standing up to speak, and Ishbel not quite managing to listen properly. Though she’d slept on and off for most of the day, she began to feel herself longing for the oblivion of silent, dreamless darkness once again. The knowledge of her daughter’s death was like a long, cold shadow, and just being awake under it was a physical strain like nothing else she had experienced. At one point, she realised her hand was still on Aidan’s knee. When she lifted it, the palm was slick with sweat and had left a damp print on his trouser-leg. As the meeting drew on, she was aware of him shifting, clearing his throat – he was struggling to focus, too.
She was surprised, then, when he hung back at the end of proceedings – not standing when Ishbel did, but staying in his seat, speaking quietly to Rehan. Ishbel swayed on her feet. She felt a spark of annoyance at the fact that Aidan had gone off somewhere that afternoon, and come in his own car; she’d have to drive home again on her own, with him following. But the anger went out as soon as it had flared. She half closed her eyes, longing for the spare-room bed, and the white box of sedatives – the precious gift from Greg.
Mr Kesson had edged across the circle. A few of the other men had gathered beside him: a show of solidarity over his tackling of DI Birch. How are men, Ishbel thought, so very capable of doing that? Of keeping calm and carrying on? But she knew the answer – she’d lived with Aidan’s own personal brand of masculinity for long enough. They did it because they had no choice. Strength was what was expected of them.
Now Aidan stood and went over to Mr Kesson, too. Not wanting to be sitting alone – vulnerable to strangers who might want to speak to her – Ishbel trailed in his wake.
‘Mr Kesson.’ Aidan held out his big hands, and took Mr Kesson’s smaller one between them to shake it. ‘Aidan Hodgekiss.’
‘Barry,’ Mr Kesson said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Likewise,’ Aidan said, and Ishbel saw him squeeze the man’s hand before letting go. He looked round at the other men gathered there, some of their wives hovering, as Ishbel was, like ghosts on the huddle’s edge. ‘And to all of you,’ he said.
‘What a terrible business this is,’ Barry Kesson said. ‘What a terrible, senseless thing.’
Ishbel’s eyes prickled.
‘We were just talking,’ the man went on, ‘about starting up some sort of . . . foundation, or charity of some kind. In the names of the – well, all our loved ones. Something good to put into the world. A sort of . . . attempt to set things right.’
Ishbel was looking at the back of Aidan’s neck. She watched his head cock slightly to the side – a sign that something had vexed him.
‘Set things right,’ he echoed.
‘Yes,’ Barry Kesson replied. The men around him made rumbles of agreement. ‘Well, you know.’
‘I like the idea of a foundation,’ Aidan said, after a pause. Under other circumstances, Ishbel would have been surprised – Aidan didn’t much go in for charitable giving. ‘And I’d be happy to hear more about it. But I don’t think anything that’s done by us can “set things right”. I think those efforts have to come from elsewhere.’
Barry Kesson narrowed his eyes. He was an older man, Ishbel noticed: she suspected his daughter Evie, about Abigail’s age, might have been what Pauline would call a wee surprise. The thought made her want to cry all the more. Her daddy’s wee surprise, lying in a steel drawer in a freezing morgue.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Mr Kesson said. ‘From the police?’
Aidan shrugged.
‘They’d need to be involved,’ he said, ‘yes. But what I’m talking about is the family of Ryan Summers being brought to justice.’
Ishbel’s eyes widened. Around them, the room fell silent. Aidan was the first person all night to speak the name of the man who’d taken their daughters and sisters from them. Beyond the pale hill of her husband’s shoulder, Ishbel saw the face of Amy, the young Summers FLO, go pale.
Barry Kesson took a step towards Aidan.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I don’t think this is the place for that sort of talk, when—’
But Aidan shrugged again.
‘It’s terrible, I know,’ he said, cutting off the older, smaller man. ‘I don’t want his name in my mouth any more than you want to hear it. But the fact is, none of us would be here if not for that boy. If not for the fact that no one was warned about him.’
Amy was speaking rapidly to DI Birch, leaning close to her, as though talking into the lap
el of the DI’s black suit jacket. The DI’s attention had sharpened. DCI McLeod seemed to have vanished.
‘I’d like to know,’ Aidan said, raising his voice slightly so the police personnel in the room would know they were being addressed, ‘when someone is going to bring in Ryan Summers’ mother on charges of accessory to murder. I don’t believe for one second that you can live in the same house as someone and not know that they’re planning to kill thirteen innocent people.’
Barry Kesson looked abject, discomfort shining out of him like a sickly green light. Ishbel cast around for Rehan, and saw he was at her elbow, standing in her blind spot. When they made eye contact, she found he was looking at her in the same way as she was looking for him: Do something, his eyes said. But around them, some of the men in the huddle were muttering in agreement.
‘Accessory to murder,’ one of the men echoed, ‘on thirteen counts.’ He looked back over his shoulder at no one in particular. ‘I’m sure someone in this room could tell us what sort of sentence that carries.’
Aidan was nodding vigorously. Ishbel cleared her throat in a feeble attempt to get his attention, but the sound came out so hoarse that even she barely heard it.
‘Do you think the police will act on this?’ Aidan was addressing the general company. Ishbel felt a tiny flashback, remembering his face at the hospital exit door: that cold anger. That anger had an audience now – the whole room was tuned into it, though some people were taking care not to look at him. ‘Does it look like they’re going to?’
Ishbel reached out from behind her husband and wrapped a hand around his upper arm. She felt exhausted.
‘Aidan,’ she said. ‘Aidan.’
The two syllables of his name were all she could manage.
Aidan turned, and that seemed to break the spell the room was under: around her, she felt a general letting-out of held breaths. Released from Aidan’s gaze, Barry Kesson turned away. Rehan stepped in next to Ishbel, and took hold of her husband’s other arm.
‘Aidan, mate,’ he said. Ishbel blinked at this familiarity, but Aidan seemed not to notice. ‘If you want to talk about what the police are doing, you’d best talk to a police officer, no?’ He smiled a nervous, stuck-on smile. ‘It just so happens that I am one of those. Let’s talk about this – at home, perhaps.’
For a moment, Ishbel, DI Birch, Amy and the gaggle of men watched to see what her husband would do. Silence yawned. But then Aidan’s face seemed to relax, just a little.
‘Sorry, Reh,’ he said. Ishbel blinked again – she hadn’t been invited to use this pet name, and she hadn’t heard a man call her husband ‘mate’ in a very long time. ‘That was heavy talk.’
Rehan glanced at the men still gathered around them, and Aidan turned back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. The men made supportive noises, some of them nodding or shrugging their collective It’s okay. Only Barry Kesson, who’d moved back to stand with his family, made no response. Rehan led Aidan away, and Ishbel, now so tired that her vision was fraying at the edges, trailed after them, helpless as a loose thread on a coat.
Is the truth about Three Rivers College being covered up while taxpayers foot the bill?
By GRANT LOCKLEY
PUBLISHED: 16:15 16 May | UPDATED: 17:03 16 May
It’s been two days since the brutal shooting of thirteen young women at Three Rivers College, Edinburgh, and details about what supposedly happened that day are, at last, being released.
According to official statements released by Police Scotland, the deranged gunman – 20-year-old Ryan Summers – used three Bruni Olympic .380 BBM revolvers to brutally slaughter his thirteen victims. He then shot himself at the scene, which seems to be standard practice for the cowardly individuals who commit such acts. For those of you who are unfamiliar with gun-talk, a Bruni Olympic revolver is a blank-firing starting pistol that was deemed illegal to use or possess in 2010.
Police Scotland claim that Ryan Summers used the skills he’d learned in his engineering lessons to modify the starting pistols, allowing them to fire deadly live ammunition. Can I be the only one raising an eyebrow at this? What exactly is it that they’re teaching the young people at Three Rivers College?
We’ve put together our own detailed ballistics report:
read more here
Police Scotland also say that the guns – which should have been turned in during the 2010 firearms amnesty – belonged to Summers’ father Jackie, who died two years ago from infective endocarditis, a type of heart disease.
To this columnist, that all seems a little tidy. The illegally owned guns belonged to Dad, who’s conveniently no longer with us? It all sounds a little like the police want to save themselves the bother of dealing with a firearms possession charge.
Then again, it’s possible that the gunman’s mother, Moira Summers, may still be charged in connection with the shooting. Mrs Summers has been in police custody since the terrible tragedy occurred, which seems right and proper to me, but she has not yet been officially arrested or charged with any offence – which very much does not. In a statement, Police Scotland said that Mrs Summers is ‘currently helping the police with our enquiries’, and refused to comment on whether or not she is considered a suspect.
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section. My guess is that the majority of right-thinking people believe that this woman ought to be locked up as an accomplice to mass murder. Can you live in the same house as someone who’s modifying handguns and plotting to kill at random, and not know that they are up to something? It’s even less plausible when you consider the close relationship between mother and son. If I were interrogating Mrs Summers, I’d be asking her to do a polygraph test, and asking her about maternal intuition. I refuse to believe she knew nothing.
Three Rivers: for a blow-by-blow account of the fateful day, click here
The public clearly have their own views. In the early hours of Wednesday morning it was reported that the Summers family home – a comfortable double-fronted, detached property in Edinburgh’s affluent New Town – had been vandalised by outraged locals. Uniformed police are now guarding the Summers’ home around the clock.
Yes, you read that right. Round-the-clock security has been provided for the home of a murderer: a house that, at present, stands totally empty. Apparently that’s all part of the service offered by our boys and girls in blue, with the taxpayer footing the bill.
Take our poll: does the mother of a murderer deserve protection from the police? Have your say here
The murderer’s father, Jackie Summers, a high school PE teacher and part-time athletics coach, died just over two years ago. It’s believed that his infective endocarditis was linked to a bout of rheumatic fever he suffered as a young man.
Ryan Summers’ mother, Moira, quit her nursing job shortly after her husband’s death. According to her stunned neighbours, her recent behaviour was stand-offish, as though she might be hiding a secret.
I spoke to Frank Cole, 84, a neighbour who lives just a few yards from the Summers family home.
‘After Jackie died, she [Moira] kept to herself a bit more,’ he said. ‘We used to chat quite a lot if I saw her in the street but I haven’t seen very much of her this past year. I think Jackie’s death was quite a shock for the family. I saw a lot less of the son [Ryan] after that, as well.’
Mrs Summers’ attorney was approached for comment, but made no response. Make of that what you will.
In pictures: our tribute to the Three Rivers College shooting victims
Elsewhere, Police Scotland seem to be struggling to respond to what is surely the most devastating crime the unified police force has dealt with to date. Criticisms of police actions on the day of the shooting have already begun to surface, with many asking why it took so long for first responders to secure the Tweed Campus site.
This columnist was able to access the scene of the shooting late on Tuesday. I can report that security around the sprawling campus site did seem lax
– should I, for example, have been able to walk through an unguarded door and access the college buildings without reporting my presence? I can also tell you that some police officers at the scene seemed pretty confused, even disorganised, and they didn’t take kindly to yours truly turning up to try and get at the truth.
Meanwhile, members of the local community continue to express their shock and grief in the wake of this tragedy. The names of the thirteen victims were released late on Tuesday night, triggering an outpouring of sympathy and support from across the globe. A candlelit vigil has been set up at the gates of the Tweed Campus, and an online crowdfunding campaign, set up to gather donations for the victims’ families, has already raised almost £250,000.
See more from Grant Lockley
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TOP COMMENTS
rEdWhiteblue1 The mother is in police custody? Good. She should stay behind bars forever for bringing this monster into the world. God bless the families of these precious girls, you are in our hearts.
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Kingdom77 when you say the house was vandalised i hope you mean burned to the ground . . . those girls can never go home so why should SHE!!!!!!!!!!
