by Claire Askew
Could be that US govt brought pressure to bear on Britain and actually this is a US false flag just done on British soil
We know there have been other US false flags abroad just look at Ukraine
However as you say there may also be a surveillance agenda you are better placed probably to speak about the agenda of British govt
Keep asking questions
[Reply]
Moira had the feeling of being unstitched, of splitting into two distinct halves. One half of her thought, No, these people are wrong. Ryan is dead. I saw him. That half of her remembered watching, as if in slow motion, as the morgue APT lifted the cover off what had been her son’s face.
‘Why does he . . . look like that?’ she’d asked. The young policeman – Gibbie, they’d called him – put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
‘Comminuted skull fracture,’ the APT had said. ‘The bullet entered just above his right eye, and . . .’ Pausing, the man had looked at Moira and mistaken her distress for misunderstanding. ‘He shot himself in the temple, like this,’ he said, and pressed two fingers to the side of his head. ‘Like you see them do in the movies.’
That half of Moira had broken down and was led away, bent over almost double, sobbing and retching, by Gibbie.
But now there was another Moira: another voice in her head which sounded like her own, but which was arguing with that memory, was shouting over it, yelling and kicking. But what if he’s not dead? the voice insisted. Here’s someone saying he’s not dead. What if he’s not? What if he’s not? What if he’s not?
Moira read the post again.
Ryan Summers probably a paid actor or member of the military trained for this purpose
My guess is as with the many US hoax shootings he is alive and well and picking up a new id and big paycheck right now
She didn’t know how such things might work, or if they even really happened: the two halves of her fought as she wondered at the scenario’s absurdity. But she knew that if someone had approached Ryan and asked him if he wanted to be involved in a covert government operation – apparently what this commenter was describing – he’d certainly have thrilled at the possibility. As a child, while other boys charged around the primary school playground being firefighters, policemen or cowboys, Ryan had usually gone off on his own. Had gone off to watch from a corner, to collect small items and stuff them in his pockets, or to scribble nonsensical lines and symbols in the back of his exercise book.
‘I’m being a spy,’ he’d say to her, when she asked him about it. ‘Go away, Mummy. I’m being in disguise.’
Was he in disguise now? Did she dare believe what these people – these internet strangers – were saying?
She read on.
ElectRICK View profile 554 posts
Posted at 00:47:21
Hey truthers,
I would like to talk about the guns, because I call bullshit. We’re expected to believe that this kid went in with three modified starting pistols and eighteen rounds and managed to kill thirteen people and himself? He supposedly fired all eighteen rounds and we know that some of the so-called victims got shot twice. Do the maths, something’s up.
If Summers really did only have 18 rounds at his disposal, and if he really did kill all thirteen girls AND hit some of them more than once, then he is a super-skilled marksman. You’re telling me there were no stray bullets, no ricochets, EVERY SINGLE BULLET hit a person? That guy’s a serious marksman, and I’m not just talking down the shooting range on Saturdays. He’s a trained killer, and he’s been training for this live shooter false flag drill for years.
Let’s hear your thoughts truthers. I’m pretty sure no one can tell me I’m wrong.
Moira’s head buzzed. She felt drunk, or faint, or some combination of the two. She cast her mind back to all the times that her son had been out of the house and she hadn’t really known where. She’d always tried to give him a little free rein, especially in recent years, telling herself, after all, he’s a man now. Those unknown hours – was her son in some government facility somewhere, being trained?
This is science fiction, one half of her said.
But what if he’s alive? said the other.
She clicked back to Grant Lockley’s email.
I might be able to supply further information to you, he’d written. But as you can imagine this is all very sensitive. If you’d like to speak more about this then I’d recommend that we meet in person.
At the bottom of the email was a mobile phone number, and it was signed, With deepest sympathy, Grant.
Moira read the online comment thread again, and then again. She read the email again. She closed her browser window, then re-opened it. She sat, looking at the black words on the white screen until her vision blurred. Outside, one of the journalists landed the punchline of a joke, and a chorus of braying laughter went up beyond the shattered window’s chipboard. Moira’s thoughts drifted back – the way they always did now, like metal filings drawn to a magnet – to her final conversation with Ryan, over the kitchen table the night before the shooting. She wanted to time-travel back to that moment so badly that her whole ribcage ached with the wanting. If she could have him back again, in front of her, and speak to him, just for a minute . . .
Again Moira read the email, and again. Her two arguing halves had gone quiet – in her head there were only this man’s words, expanding like the smoky fall-out from an explosion.
What if? one of the two halves whispered. Moira reached for the phone.
Breaking! Three Rivers SHOOTING victim to be CHARGED WITH drug offences, as police insist they have nothing to hide
By GRANT LOCKLEY
PUBLISHED: 08:45 29 May
Three Rivers shooting victim Jack Egan is to be charged by police after confessing to dealing drugs at the college’s Tweed Campus. Egan, who is 21 years old, made his confession in an explosive two-part interview with this columnist, the full text of which you can read here. In it, he said he used the money from his exploits – securing Class B drugs and peddling them to his classmates – to support his mum, who is reliant on disability benefits.
Three Rivers gunshot victim Jack Egan tells all: read the exclusive interview in full here!
Egan’s girlfriend, Abigail Hodgekiss, was also caught up in the criminal activities, which, Egan claims, ‘everyone at college knew about.’ Hodgekiss was one of the thirteen young women murdered by gunman Ryan Summers when he rampaged through the Tweed Campus on the morning of 14 May. Yesterday, Abigail’s loved ones, including Jack Egan, gathered at an undisclosed location in the city of Edinburgh for her cremation.
But this morning police have taken Jack into custody, and it’s likely he’ll face charges relating to the possession and supply of illegal drugs. His legal representative was approached yesterday, but declined to comment. (As always, you can keep up with developments on this story by following me on Twitter @thegrantlockley.)
In pictures: with affair rumours swirling, Abigail Hodgekiss’s parents leave for her cremation in separate cars – read more here!
In related news, there is increased speculation over Police Scotland’s ongoing investigation into the Three Rivers shooting. One online group – known as Truth Unifies – have been carrying out their own investigations into the murder spree and, like many of us, are questioning the official version of events. They are particularly interested in the ballistics report released by Police Scotland, claiming that it paints an inaccurate picture.
We’ve put together our own detailed ballistics report: read more here
Ryan Summers, says one Truth Unifies member, was, ‘a serious marksman, and I’m not just talking down the shooting range on Saturdays’. According to Truth Unifies ballistics experts, modifying a gun is no mean feat – yet, according to police, Summers successfully modified three. ‘He’s a trained killer,’ our source goes on, ‘and [it’s likely] he’s been training for this . . . for years.’ Truth Unifies is a conspiracy theorist website, of
course, but what we’ve been told about ballistics thus far does seem fishy, and points once again to my theory that the police are telling us only a fraction of what they really know about this case.
Meanwhile, Police Scotland continues to provide costly round-the-clock protection for Ryan Summers’ mother, Moira. ‘We currently have reason to monitor a handful of threats made toward Mrs Summers,’ an official statement said. ‘While credible threats are being circulated, we have a duty of care towards the victim.’ The police were invited to comment more specifically, but declined. Personally, I continue to raise a sceptical eyebrow at this paranoid, protective treatment of Mrs Summers. One cannot help but ask, once again – does she deserve it?
See more from Grant Lockley
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TOP COMMENTS
kirsten_i Personally I don’t think it’s right that this poor boy should be arrested – he is 21 for goodness’ sake!!!! Who did not do silly things at that age? Read his interview yesterday and he seems to have been through so much! Give him a chance?
^ 797 people liked this
miKomiKo the police owe us the truth!!!a govt inquiry into this shooting is coming & senior officers should all be sacked!!!
^ 561 people liked this
stonej86 I had a look at Truth Unifies and a lot of the people there seem to be unhinged conspiracy theorists. However, they are right that it takes a lot of skill to modify a weapon. We haven’t had much in the way of information released about this, probably to prevent copycat killings. But here’s my speculative take. I believe Summers most likely replaced the barrel, or part of the barrel, in order to remove the ‘pinch’ that prevents a blank-firing pistol from firing a live round. This would be the best way to do things in order to avoid ammunition jamming inside the gun, and subsequent shots causing the gun to then explode. Either that, or he made custom ammunition in some way. It’s very hard to modify a blanks gun but it isn’t impossible. People have done it and maybe Ryan Summers is one of them. I speak as a former target shooter who sadly had to give up most of my collection to amnesty.
^ 423 people liked this
1357924 how is cannabis even an illegal drug? Jack Egan ‘dealing’ something millions of people use every day wake up!
^ 310 people liked this
29 May, 9.15 a.m.
‘I am so fucking sick of this Lockley character.’
Birch winced. She’d arrived at work nearly two hours ago, had a meeting with Rehan, been briefed on the events at Abigail Hodgekiss’s cremation, and chipped away at the avalanche of emails in her inbox (anything unrelated to Three Rivers, she was ignoring). McLeod had been in the building only ten minutes, and already word was spreading through the team that he was in a foul mood, to be avoided at all costs. She hadn’t been quick enough off the mark, and he’d cornered her.
‘We must have grounds to arrest him, surely.’
McLeod looked as put-together as he ever did – all the way up to his perfectly Windsored tie – but his eyes were bulging. Birch scooted crumbs along the coffee-room worktop with the blade of her finger, to avoid looking at him.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Personally, I’ve long suspected him of obtaining data illegally. He fits the same profile as other journalists who’ve gone down for it, especially his hiring of PIs.’
‘You’re talking about hacking.’
‘Yes – emails, I reckon, and other things, too. There’ve been times where he’s said things and I’ve speculated that the only way he could have known them was by hacking into the Police National Computer.’
McLeod threw her a go on I’m interested look, and she added, ‘But of course, I’ve been dealing with him for a long time. Some of what I’m talking about is years ago.’
‘Your brother’s case.’
‘Yes.’ Birch winced. Please, let’s not talk about that this morning, she thought. McLeod didn’t pick up the signal.
‘How are you handling that, Helen?’
She stared down at the crumbs on the sticky work surface, now corralled into a ragged line. McLeod cocked one ear almost to his shoulder, trying to hook her gaze.
‘I know enough about you and Lockley,’ he said, ‘to know that anything to do with him must feel . . . personal.’
It’s not personal at all, Birch thought. That was Lockley. That was why he’d got so good at this shit. He bloody believes his ‘I’m just doing my job’ mantra. But there was no way to explain this to McLeod. There was no way to explain the very specific way in which anything to do with Lockley just sort of hurt.
‘It’s fine, sir.’ Birch drew herself up into a straight line, and looked her boss in the eye. ‘I’m not going to let my personal history with this man get in the way of my work, I absolutely promise you.’
McLeod studied her for a moment, in silence. She forced herself to hold still in the blue tractor-beam of his glare.
‘Okay,’ he said, eventually. ‘So you think Lockley got this stuff on the Hodgekisses from poking his nose where it shouldn’t have been?’
Birch finally flinched her eyes away.
‘Unlikely,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it looks like the poison he’s spewing at the moment really has come from this Jack Egan character.’
‘The boy who lived.’
‘The very same,’ Birch said. ‘Lived to tell the tale.’
McLeod huffed through his nose.
‘And what a tawdry little tale it was. What exactly did the little scrote think was going to happen when he announced to the fucking world at large that he’d been dealing drugs? Did he not know he was on the record? I mean, really, Birch.’
Birch shrugged.
‘I think it’s a case of pretty, but not very bright. That, and he maybe thought that the outpouring of sympathy over having been shot might offer some protection from the long arm of the law.’
McLeod’s jaw was working. Birch tried to ignore it.
‘I feel sorry for the boy, to be honest,’ she said. ‘Miniature drug empire aside – he is only twenty-one, just lost his girlfriend . . .’
McLeod snorted. ‘You mean his drug mule.’
Birch paused, to think.
‘I suppose,’ she said, speaking slowly. ‘But if you read the interview with Lockley, the kid talks about her as if she’s the great love of his life. Were it not for the circumstances you could almost find him adorable. Or maybe that’s just the way he’s been advised to play it, but he seems too daft to be acting. I’m afraid I think Jack Egan has been a victim of his own naivety.’
‘Well, poor bastard,’ McLeod said, his voice thick with sarcasm. ‘At least we’ll likely get to lock him up. What about this Lockley character? Every time I open a paper I see some fucking awful byline of his. He’s laid out the bait and now every journo in town is crawling all over the Hodgekiss house, and this is a family we were already worried might sue us. He’s injected this Egan kid into an investigation that was already too fucking hot to handle – I know I don’t need to tell you, Birch. He’s phoning every single one of the victims’ families at all hours of the day and giving all our FLOs the most tremendous fucking headache. And you yourself said he’s threatened to keep going after us once he’s finished with his little human interest stories about the families. And they’re all at it – every unscrupulous bastard in the business is standing on the doorstep of a Three Rivers family member right now. They’re out there, getting their tell-alls off the college kitchen staff or the lucky kids who bunked off that day and cheated death, or blah blah blah. Clickbait vultures, and Lockley’s their patron fucking saint. He’s got to be stopped.’
McLeod flailed an arm out, punching the thin plasterboard of the wall beside him.
‘How the fuck do we stop him, Birch?’
Birch had been only half listening. The coffee room they were in was high up on the building’s corner, and had a little slice of window that looked out toward the grounds of Fettes School. Birch had been watching the speck of a man driving a ride-o
n mower up and down the huge lawns, weaving under the cover of beech trees that had to be a hundred years old. Their leaves were still a pale, new green, and hazy at this distance. If she leaned left a little, Birch knew she could also look down at the Astroturfed playing fields of Broughton High School. The school’s high fence and wind-swayed floodlights looked vaguely penal in comparison to Fettes’ sweeping driveway and leaded turrets. She knew from reading the Hodgekiss file that Abigail Hodgekiss had attended a football club that met on those playing fields.
McLeod’s question shook her.
‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, having spent a moment too long under his piercing blue glare. ‘I thought that was a rhetorical question.’
McLeod gave her a look that – in spite of his sharp suit and the tie-knot so large it was almost distasteful – was pure schoolmarm.
‘It very much was not,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if perhaps . . . I mean, you’ve known Lockley since he first signed up for his NUJ card, so if you might have any intel we could use on him. You know. From the bad old days of your brother, and all that.’
Birch closed her eyes for a moment. She thought back to the day when her mother had received the official police phone call to say that Charlie’s case was henceforth considered cold. Her mother had folded down into a sort of N-shape, and had sat like that on the floor for several hours while Birch clucked and fussed around her.
‘Charlie’s put you through so much,’ Birch remembered saying. ‘If it turns out he’s still alive, I’ll kill him myself.’
Her mother had raised her head from her bent knees then, and looked up at her. Birch remembered her gaunt, white face – how thin she looked, after months of not eating properly, not sleeping properly.
‘He’s still alive, Helen,’ she’d said, with an icy certainty that had made her daughter’s heart clutch. Birch had put in her application to police recruitment the following week. If he’s still alive, she’d thought, I’ll find him. Now, she realised, she’d given up thinking that years ago.
