by Claire Askew
‘I miss the old days,’ McLeod was saying. ‘Once upon a time I’d’ve arrested him first and just figured out why later.’
Birch shuddered at the thought. She could imagine Lockley’s legions of commenters, the stink they could kick up – would kick up – at the slightest provocation. She decided to change the subject.
‘To move away from Lockley for a minute,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I have more bad news to deliver.’
She waited, stalling for time. McLeod blinked a slow, how bad can it be blink. Oh God, she thought.
‘Rehan Ibrahiim tells me that there’s reason to suspect Aidan Hodgekiss is involved with the Moira Summers death threats.’ She said it as fast as she could, as though swallowing foul-tasting medicine.
McLeod said nothing, but she watched as several emotions appeared to pass across his face, one after the other.
‘He’s saying it’s a hunch at the moment,’ Birch added, ‘but it would explain a lot.’
McLeod put his half-empty coffee cup down on the worktop. There was more than a little force in the gesture, and the thin dark liquid leapt out in a small wave, soaking Birch’s neat line of crumbs.
‘Fucksake,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Birch found she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘I know, sir.’
‘Well,’ McLeod said, ‘the Hodgekiss family certainly have the motive.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Birch.’
She realised she was nodding mechanically, and made herself stop.
‘I think it’s just Aidan Hodgekiss we’re looking at,’ she said. She felt an odd urge to protect his wife, having read Lockley’s recent revelations. ‘And it could be nothing, of course. Rehan could have got entirely the wrong end of the stick.’
McLeod had put one hand over his eyes.
‘I don’t need to tell you,’ he said, ‘what an absolute unmitigated disaster it would be if we had to arrest the father of one of these victims . . . for anything. The press, Birch. You can imagine.’
She felt her lip curl, in spite of herself.
‘It would be somewhat more of a disaster if Aidan Hodgekiss succeeded in hurting Moira Summers,’ she said, then instantly regretted it. She braced for the impact of McLeod’s comeback, but it didn’t come. He was thinking, she could tell – he was playing out all the various shit scenarios that now had the potential to come about. He was worrying about his job; Birch could see it in his face, clear as day.
‘Sir,’ she said, aiming for a warmer tone than before. ‘There’s really nothing to be done for now until we have the evidence to either confirm Rehan’s hunch, or put Hodgekiss in the clear. But I promise you, I am on it. It’s a priority, as of now.’
Just saying it – just adding yet another priority to her to-do list, made her feel tired, right down to her bones. McLeod didn’t reply immediately: she could see the stormclouds were still gathering in his mind’s eye.
‘I’ll keep you updated,’ she added.
‘Do, please,’ he said.
Birch opened her mouth to speak again, but her phone rang. She let loose a silent prayer of thanks for the opportunity to escape from McLeod and his brooding. She knew it was Amy before she’d even pulled the phone from her pocket; she’d asked her to report back on the previous day’s meeting with Moira.
‘How’s it going, Amy?’
On the other end, coarse breathing, and the clip of high heels: it sounded like Amy was running.
‘Oh God, Helen,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve got a situation here.’
Birch’s face immediately rearranged itself into a smile, which she fired haphazardly at McLeod.
‘Right,’ she said, a sick feeling rising in her. ‘Let me just nip back to the office so I can check that for you.’ Still smiling, she backed out of the coffee room, and – once the door had swung shut on McLeod – swivelled round and began walking.
‘Okay, what’s happened?’ Birch’s free hand flew to her other jacket pocket. Her immediate reaction to most things these days was How fast can I get there? and right now she wanted the faint, reassuring clink of the Mondeo’s keys. But the pocket was empty. Shit. The keys must be on her desk somewhere. ‘Has Moira hurt herself?’
She heard the slam of a door, and when Amy spoke again it was from inside the sealed quiet of a car.
‘No – physically, she’s fine. She’s in rude health, in fact. But she’s threatening to do something really stupid, and I don’t think I can stop her.’
Birch’s mind raced. She made it to the wall at the end of the corridor and rattled the lift’s ‘call’ button.
‘What, Amy? What is it?’
The sound on the other end of the call changed: Amy had put her on speakerphone.
‘She phoned me first thing this morning,’ she said, her voice now tinny and thick. ‘She’s been online. And guess what? She’s got mail.’
Birch groaned. She didn’t know what was coming next, but she knew it couldn’t possibly be good.
‘It’s Grant Lockley,’ Amy went on, ‘saying that he thinks Ryan Summers is still alive. He’s found some conspiracy theorist group that claims they know the truth about what happened with the shooting. And he says that—’
‘Let me guess,’ said Birch. ‘He says that we’re all covering it up.’
Amy sounded frantic, her breath loud.
‘Yeah,’ she said.
The lift pinged, and the doors shuddered open.
‘I’m getting in a lift,’ Birch said, ‘so I might lose you, but – I should have seen this coming, what with Lockley’s latest hot take on the ballistics. I should have known he wasn’t just after us.’
‘He’s told Moira that the shooting was a false flag,’ Amy said. ‘Do you know what that means?’
The lift doors closed. Birch passed her free hand over her eyes. The palm was damp.
‘A false flag,’ she said, ‘is a term these conspiracy nutters came up with to describe an event they think was faked. Like, the CIA shot Kennedy. 9/11 was an inside job. That sort of thing. They call those false flags.’
‘Oh.’
The lift trundled downwards.
‘Wait,’ Birch said. ‘My brain just caught up with my ears. Did you just say Lockley told Moira the shooting was a false flag?’
There was a pause. The lift clunked to a halt and the doors opened.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Amy said. ‘They’ve spoken on the phone. Moira was apparently leaving messages on his voicemail all of yesterday . . .’
Recorded evidence, Birch thought. Fucking great.
‘. . . and they spoke last night. He’s telling her that Ryan might still be alive.’
Birch stepped out onto the ground floor. Along the hall, Anjan was sitting on a plastic chair, a briefcase across his knees. He spotted her, and raised one palm in greeting.
‘I see,’ she said. She needed to zero back in on Amy. ‘You’re right: we’ve got a situation here.’
‘That’s not the situation, Helen. There’s more.’
Birch closed her eyes, in the hope that when she opened them again she’d find it was all a dream, as though this were some sort of terrible, runaway fairytale. Instead, when she re-opened her eyes she saw Anjan had stood up, and was walking towards her.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘They’re going to meet.’ Amy’s tone had gone from frantic to defeated, like she’d realised there was no solution Birch could give her. ‘Moira’s going to meet Lockley. In a cafe. In public.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ Birch said.
Anjan stopped, still a few feet away. His hello-face disappeared, like a candle being blown out. Amy was still talking.
‘I’ve tried to talk her out of it,’ Amy said. ‘Over the phone, I mean. Steve and I are about to drive over there, but she says there’s nothing I can say that will stop her. She was giving me I’m a private citizen of a free country, and all that. It’s like Lockley’s inside her head.’
Birch held up the index finger of her
free hand, gesturing to Anjan that he should wait – she might need him, she realised.
‘I mean,’ Amy was saying, her voice dialling back up towards panic again, ‘how do we know that these conspiracy theorists aren’t the same people as the death-threat suspects? They could have made up this whole internet forum, made up this whole thing, to lure Moira out of the house . . . right?’
Anjan wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was listening. Birch shot for a glare, but wasn’t sure she’d managed it.
‘That’s possible,’ Birch said. She thought of Aidan Hodgekiss, and for the first time, hoped it was him behind the death threats. He at least – Birch was sure – would never actually act on them. ‘But it doesn’t really matter either way, Amy. We just need to stop this meeting from happening if we possibly can, okay? How soon can you be there?’
In the background, there was the swish of a seatbelt.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Amy said. ‘We’ve stopped for petrol at the garage in Canonmills. But she’s talking about going today. She’s got it all arranged.’
‘Okay,’ Birch said. ‘Get back to Moira’s and keep her there. I’ve got Anjan standing right in front of me, as luck would have it.’
Anjan’s worried look flickered, and he flashed Birch a quick, winning smile. You think you’re a good lawyer, she thought. Okay then, get me out of this little mess.
‘Tell Moira,’ she went on, ‘that I want her to speak with Anjan before she goes ahead with this. Hopefully that’ll slow her down. And then, hopefully, Anjan has the powers of persuasion to put a stop to it altogether.’
Amy was quiet for a long time. Birch heard the car engine start up.
‘If you say so, guv,’ Amy said. ‘But she’s pretty adamant. We might need a plan B.’
Birch waved Anjan towards her office.
‘I’m on it,’ she said. ‘Just keep Moira indoors.’
She hung up. Anjan opened the office door, and held it open for her to walk through.
‘I’ve been called for a meeting with your boss,’ he said, once they were both inside. ‘I hate it when that happens.’
Birch cast her eyes across the clutter of her desk, searching for her car keys.
‘I can’t joke around with you today,’ she said. ‘Close the door.’
He did, but he was still smiling.
‘I didn’t just say that stuff to get you out from under McLeod,’ she said. ‘There really is a problem.’
That smile made the inside of Birch’s head itch.
‘I know, Helen,’ he said. ‘You’re not that good an actress.’
She had to look away. She spotted the keys glinting in the midst of a stack of folders, and sent the top folder flying as she darted for them.
‘So.’ Anjan set his briefcase on the floor and reached down to hand her the spilled papers. ‘What’s happening with Moira? How can I be of service?’
Birch flushed. He was getting to her, and she wasn’t quite sure why. The thought crossed her mind that people who charged as much per hour as he did shouldn’t be allowed to say things like ‘How can I be of service?’ She watched him beginning to clear paperwork off a chair, and threw up her hands. The car keys jingled.
‘Don’t start making yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘I have to move. I’ll explain on the way down to the car.’
Birch sat in the Mondeo, halfway up Moira’s street. It was an unremarkable street, built in the fifties: all window-boxes and pebbledash. Between the houses, Birch could see into back gardens full of plastic kiddie slides and sheets inflating on their whirligigs. The Summers house was at the end, where things got a little more expensive: theirs was double-fronted, though only detached from next door by a vennel with a panelled fence. Birch had managed to arrive and park without fanfare, though from here she could see the pack of paparazzi scuffing around, vaping, leaning against the bonnets of Moira’s neighbours’ cars. Had the gaggle shrunk a little in number? Perhaps. There hadn’t been anything to photograph for a full week except a Tesco groceries delivery Amy had organised, and Amy herself, coming and going – but regular FLO visits were to be expected. Birch could see from here that the scene guard on the front step looked bored. Amy’s car was half parked, half dumped outside the house, two tyres propped up on the kerb. She tutted.
‘What would you do?’ Anjan had said. They’d got as far as the car park. Birch had given a garbled account of the unfolding situation on the way down in the lift. Anjan’s cologne smelled of something familiar, and in trying to place the scent, she’d struggled to get her words in the right order.
‘I mean it.’ He was giving her that look he had, the one that made her feel like he could see right into the workings of her head. ‘If you’d just lost a loved one, and then someone phoned you up and said, I think that person is still alive and this has all been some sort of hoax, what would you do?’
She’d said nothing. He was describing a scenario she’d imagined herself, many times, especially in the wake of her mother’s death. But that was different – wasn’t it? Imagining it was different. Everyone daydreamed that sort of thing. It didn’t actually happen.
‘But Ryan Summers is dead,’ Birch said. ‘I’ve seen the autopsy report. He shot himself in the head.’
‘That’s academic,’ Anjan said. He seemed to be always on the verge of smiling, even when discussing something extremely grave. She could see how it must unnerve people in court. ‘You know that, and I know that, and I’m sure somewhere deep down, Moira Summers knows that, too. She saw his body, in fact, which is more than you or I have done. But it’s not about what you know. It’s about what you do when presented with this scenario. Do you ignore the person who seems to be offering you a way to walk back your own grief? Can you? Or do you simply have to go and find out more, in spite of your own better judgement? Because what if that person – magically – is right? Could you really go on with your life without ever making sure? I think you know the answer, Helen. I certainly know what I’d do.’
‘But – the death threats. It’s not safe for her to be running off to meet Lockley, or anyone.’
‘So escort her.’ Anjan had pointed to the radio clipped on Birch’s lapel. ‘Get on that thing and say you want a police escort, for – what? An hour? It won’t take long. I doubt this man actually has anything of substance to say.’
Birch had pressed her hands over her eyes.
‘That’s my whole point.’ She was aware that her voice, filtered through her fingers, had come out petulant, child-like. She threw her hands down again, which didn’t help the effect. ‘I can’t justify putting any more manpower into what I know is a wild-goose chase. I need you to help me stop her from going.’
Anjan had drawn himself up a little taller.
‘Is my client a suspect in your investigation?’ he asked.
Birch had closed her eyes.
‘No.’
‘Do you suspect that she may be going to commit a criminal offence?’
Great, Birch thought. It’s come to this.
‘No, but—’
‘Do you have any grounds to take my client into police custody?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘Well. In that case, you cannot stop her from doing anything.’ He’d mimicked Birch’s tone almost perfectly, and for just a second, her palm itched with the desire to slap him. ‘She’s a free agent, and if she wants to go and have coffee with a madman, then she’s completely within her rights to do so.’
Birch dithered. Not only was he clearly not going to help her, he was also entirely right.
‘But . . .’ She decided to try a final time, but her voice came out small, chastened. ‘The press are going to have a field day. McLeod’ll sack me if I let her go. You know we’re walking on eggshells with this investigation.’
‘Helen,’ he said, letting loose the smile he’d been threatening her with all along. ‘I’m a solicitor. I don’t deal with PR problems.’
With that, he’d turned and
begun walking back towards the building, leaving her beside the car, its keys hanging uselessly in her hand.
‘Where are you going?’ she called after him.
‘I’m late for a meeting with your boss, remember?’ He’d half turned back, stopping mid-step, and seeming to float there. ‘Good luck with Moira. If she looks like she’s about to commit a crime, you may call me.’
Birch swore, and then hoped he hadn’t heard.
Now, a fine mist of rain began to fall across the Mondeo’s windscreen. Birch thought of all the washing she’d seen in all the back gardens on this street, thought of washing out on lines all over the city, and the people rushing out right now to bring it in. Star anise. The answer came to her, unbidden: that was the smell, in Anjan’s cologne. Star anise. Charlie had been obsessed with anything that smelled or tasted like aniseed – as a wee boy, and even more as an adult. She’d visited him in his uni halls at Warrender Park Road, and found a bowl of star anise in the middle of the kitchen table, set there fussily, like pot pourri. He’d made curries so full of anise that they were barely edible. He drank absinthe when he could afford it, and Pernod when he couldn’t. He’d’ve loved that cologne of Anjan’s. It probably cost hundreds of pounds a bottle.
Birch shook herself. Stop thinking about Anjan, she commanded her brain. And definitely stop thinking about Charlie.
She picked up her phone, scrolled to Amy’s number, and dialled.
‘Amy? I’m outside,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a think, and here’s what we’re going to do.’
29 May, 12.35 p.m.
Moira unfolded herself from the car into a cloud of police radio static. Four large men in dark-coloured plain clothes loomed around her like trees. Beyond them, a few feet away, DI Birch hovered under the tree-line, chewing her bottom lip. The last time Moira had seen the DI was the day she’d been allowed to go home. Birch had opened the door of that car with the tinted windows, had held it open while Moira got in, and had batted a hand off the roof once, twice, the way policemen do in movies. Moira had noted at the time how tired Birch looked, and she looked fifty times worse now. Moira wondered if DI Birch was having the same thought about her.
