by Claire Askew
‘I saw the protesters, Mr Lockley,’ she said. She nodded at Amy. ‘I followed this lady through the crowd. I saw that whole little spectacle.’
In spite of herself, Birch blushed.
‘Then surely,’ Lockley said, ‘you’ll agree with me that the public needs to see what just happened!’
Birch looked again at Amy, who mouthed Sorry back. Around them, the crowd had begun to disperse properly. Across the square, Birch spotted McLeod emerging onto the sunny cathedral steps, blinking as though he’d been asleep. Shit, she thought. He’s going to have my head.
‘Be that as it may,’ Ishbel was saying. ‘I’d rather we spoke first before that video was put into the public domain.’
She seemed to think for a moment, and then added, ‘After all, if I’m going to tell my story, I don’t want everyone paying attention to some other item from your column.’
Slowly, Lockley began to nod. She’d spoken his language.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is fair enough. Though I can assure you that your personal testimony – that might be what we call it, if you’re in agreement – will dwarf anything else in the news, once we release it.’
Birch couldn’t see his face, but she imagined pound signs popping up in his eyes.
Ishbel stepped towards Lockley and put out her hand.
‘You say you’re a man of integrity,’ she said. ‘So shake my hand. Give me your word that I won’t see that video on the internet today.’
Lockley paused for just a fraction of a second before grasping Ishbel’s hand. Birch looked at Amy, but Amy was watching them, bemused.
‘Thank you,’ Ishbel said. ‘I’ll be in touch later today.’ She brandished a piece of card between finger and thumb. ‘I have your number.’
‘Fantastic,’ Lockley fawned. ‘That’s just great. Phone me any time, I’ll be waiting to hear from you. And I can meet you anywhere you like. Anywhere you feel comfortable to talk.’
For the first time, Ishbel smiled at him – but the smile was cold.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said.
At the cathedral steps, the rest of the press gaggle had gathered to hear the First Minister give a short, scheduled press conference. Lockley glanced over at their little company, and then looked back at Birch and Amy.
‘Duty calls,’ he said. He looked back at Ishbel. ‘I mean it. Call me any time.’
He sprang away and began weaving through the remaining clumps of people, short-cutting across the square and back to the cathedral doors.
For a moment, the three women did not move, and did not speak. Ishbel eyed Birch with an expression that wasn’t easy to read. Finally, Birch broke the silence.
‘Mrs Hodgekiss, I’m so sorry for—’
Ishbel held up a hand.
‘Helen,’ she said. ‘It’s Helen, isn’t it? You have absolutely nothing to apologise for. If you hadn’t had that man arrested, right now I would be asking you why the hell not.’
Birch tilted her head. Ishbel Hodgekiss was dressed a little strangely: her black formal suit was crumpled, and hung lopsided. Under the jacket, she was wearing an orange polyester top that appeared to be a couple of sizes too small. Her hair stuck up in odd clumps, and around her neck she seemed to be wearing a man’s tie, loosely snaked. Yet in her bearing she seemed lucid enough: there was no quiver in her voice, and though her eyes were red and puffy, she seemed emotionless – businesslike.
‘He seemed to be suggesting that the man who murdered my daughter was some sort of hero,’ Ishbel was saying. ‘To be honest, it’s a good job you got hold of him before I did.’
‘I’m afraid it’s unlikely he’ll be charged with anything,’ Birch said. ‘I didn’t give him enough time to cause a breach of the peace, though it was touch and go there for a minute. He didn’t use hate speech or threaten anyone. I’m afraid he was right about grounds for arrest. I . . . wasn’t thinking straight. It’s going to be my head when I get back to the office.’
Ishbel frowned. Amy, who was standing closer to her, leaned into her line of sight.
‘Mrs Hodgekiss,’ Amy said, ‘please. Don’t sell your story to Grant Lockley. I know he might have made you think that it’s a good idea, but it really isn’t. Whatever you say to him he’ll twist for his own ends. Moira—’
Amy stopped, realising too late who she was talking to. But Ishbel looked sharply at her.
‘Moira,’ she echoed. ‘You mean Moira Summers? What were you about to say?’
Amy seemed to shrink before Birch’s eyes.
‘I’m . . . I was Mrs Summers’ family liaison officer,’ she said. ‘Lockley convinced her to meet with him, a bit like he’s trying to do with you. Against all our advice, she went.’
Ishbel looked thoughtful for a moment. Amy glanced again at Birch, a desperate look in her eyes. Birch shook her head: You’re in too deep now.
‘It was a disaster,’ Amy said. ‘She realised she’d walked into a trap. The first thing that came out of her mouth, he twisted it. He made it sound like she was a conspiracy theorist, who wanted to believe her son was trained to . . . do what he did. Trained by the government. He made her sound completely unhinged.’
Ishbel nodded. ‘I’ve looked at a couple of his columns. I just don’t get why people believe these things.’
Amy shrugged.
‘We’ve discovered that a lot of people want to believe the worst of Moira Summers,’ Birch said. ‘But in truth, she’s just a parent in mourning . . . like a lot of people here today.’
Quiet fell again. Something flickered across Ishbel’s face that might have been anger, and Birch cursed inwardly: That was stupid, Helen. Across the square, the First Minister was speaking to the cameras, McLeod edging around behind her as though trying to make sure he was in shot. Lockley was looking down at his phone. Birch felt a quick gust of fear, remembering the video of her and Amy.
‘Why did you do that?’ she said, turning to Ishbel. When the other woman looked blank, Birch went on, ‘Why did you ask Lockley not to post that video?’
‘For the reason I gave him,’ Ishbel replied. ‘I don’t want people to be distracted from what I have to say to him.’
Amy and Birch looked at one another, but Ishbel added, ‘I’m just not going to say what he thinks I’m going to say.’
The First Minister had finished her remarks – the assembled journalists began baying out questions.
‘Also,’ Ishbel said, ‘it gives me some handy leverage with you, DI Birch. I need help with something. You’re not going to like it, but now . . . well, you owe me a favour, don’t you?’
8 June, 6.00 p.m.
Moira had been watching coverage of the memorial all day. She’d watched the breakfast news presenters speculate about what the First Minister might say. She’d watched the live feed of the vigil outside the parliament, and then the service itself. She’d looked on the internet, and found shaky mobile phone videos filmed by people in the crowd at Parliament Square. There had been one – short, and shot from far away – of a man with a placard that said her son was a hero. She’d watched as the placard was pulled from his grip, and he was led away by police. She felt sick.
By now, she knew everything that had happened at the memorial. She knew what Twitter was chattering about, what had piqued the interest of the crowd. Less was being said about the placard man than about Aidan Hodgekiss, and his decision to appear at the vigil with his very young-looking mistress. At the service itself, he’d sat next to his wife – the camera had lingered on them a few times – and she’d looked vulnerable, curled in on herself, and her outfit was bizarre. Moira felt sorry for her, but then thought, No: you don’t get to feel sorry for people any more. People don’t want your feelings.
But she had feelings. Though she tried to push it away, she felt an anger that twisted and grew as the day lengthened. Where was her son’s memorial? Would his death ever be marked by anything other than venom and vengefulness? What would happen when she died? Who then would remember him
as the little boy who loved seeing how things worked, the little boy in the white hula-hoop in the back garden? Who would remember that he made glittery Mother’s Day cards at school and brought them home to hide under her pillow? Who would remember that he was afraid of the dark, or that his favourite colour was green? When she was gone from the earth, no one would remember him as anything other than the freak boy who snapped and killed a bunch of people. His name would only ever be mentioned alongside other young men of his kind: Elliot Rodger. Adam Lanza. Ryan Summers.
The pack of journalists had hung around outside the house all day, their hopeful looks turning mournful as it became clear that she was not planning to walk out in mourning dress to gatecrash the memorial. The light had turned a little pinkish: a column of midges hung in the sunlight over Moira’s front lawn. The gaggle had dwindled – she could see its dark, shifting shape through the flimsy living-room curtains, and that shape was smaller now than it had been that morning. It was 6 p.m. Out of habit, Moira flicked on the TV to watch the news, and saw that one station at least had sent a correspondent to speak live from outside her garden gate. They had nothing to say, of course: Though we hoped Moira Summers might show up today and make a scene, she never left this house. Shame.
Once again Moira sat and watched the footage she’d been seeing all day. The wide, white pavement in front of the parliament building thronged with people. Close-ups of tear-stained faces and hands holding fluttering white candles. A snippet of the First Minister’s speech at the vigil, and then that ten-second clip of Aidan Hodgekiss turning from the podium and taking the hand of a pretty young blonde woman. The collective sigh of interest that went up from the crowd. Then, footage of the vigil moving up the Royal Mile: a few placards, people holding A4 print-outs of the victims’ photographs. The First Minister looking sombre, but still waving to the people crowding the pavements as she passed. Finally, inside the cathedral: Valerie Gill crying at the lectern. Close-ups of pillar candles with artistic lens-flare effects added. At last, the footage ran out, and the newsreader reappeared on the screen.
‘With me in the studio now . . .’ he said, and Moira flicked the TV off. She had no desire to hear pundits’ analysis of the memorial. Though there seemed to have been an unspoken agreement not to mention Ryan over the course of the day’s events, those events were over now, and it would be open season on him – and, by extension, Moira herself – once again.
Moira sat on the sofa, staring at the blank TV screen for what felt like a long time. The room began to dim. Beyond the curtains, the last of the journalists made their farewells to each other and sloped away. For the first time in about a week, she felt a thread of worry run through her. She had no scene guard any more, and in a few hours, it would be dark.
There was a knock at the front door, and she jumped. Her heart began to race: Who could this possibly be? She pulled her hands into fists and sat, frozen, listening. Then, from behind the door, a muffled voice.
‘Mrs Summers?’ Another knock.
Moira exhaled. Of course: DI Birch. She’d forgotten all about her. She stood, shivering off the apparition of some axe-murderer on the doorstep – because of course an axe-murderer would knock, Moira, you idiot – and moved towards the door. In the hallway, she quickly checked her hair in the mirror, and then felt absurd.
‘DI Birch,’ she said, opening the door and trying for a smile. But the smile soon faded on her lips.
‘Oh,’ she said.
There was a silence that felt fragile and sparkling, like one of those mercury glass Christmas ornaments, so easily crushed in the hand. Standing behind DI Birch on the garden path, only about three steps away from Moira, was Ishbel Hodgekiss. The woman whose daughter Ryan had killed first.
‘Mrs Summers,’ DI Birch said again. Moira made herself pull her eyes from Ishbel. The DI looked miserable: tired, and something else. Was she frightened?
‘Could we possibly come in?’ Birch asked. She glanced around her, and Moira remembered the journalists. Clearly, they’d gone home too early. Whatever this was, any photo taken right now would make one hell of a front-page story.
‘Yes,’ Moira said, though a quiver in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. ‘Of course.’
‘I assume I don’t need to tell you who this is,’ DI Birch said to Moira, once they had gathered in the relative safety of her living room. Moira had backed away towards the kitchen door, making as much space for Ishbel Hodgekiss as she possibly could. This woman couldn’t possibly want to be near her, Moira, could she? What on earth was she doing here? Moira realised that now she was frightened: the space she’d created was an attempt at protection.
‘No,’ Moira said. She tried to think of what to say next. The obvious thing – the word that, for almost a month, she’d wanted to shout and keep shouting again and again and again until she was hoarse – seemed totally inadequate, now. But Moira forced herself to look Ishbel Hodgekiss in the eye and whisper it, just once.
‘Sorry.’ She dissolved into tears.
Ishbel watched her.
‘Did you know?’ she said.
A look of panic crossed DI Birch’s face. ‘Mrs Hodgekiss,’ she said, ‘we’re not here to—’
‘Did you,’ Ishbel said, louder this time, ‘have any idea? Any suspicion?’
Moira folded over, as though a great wave of something had risen up at her back and crashed over her.
Between sobs, she hauled in a breath.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
DI Birch’s eyes widened, but then she turned to Ishbel and said, ‘There are ways to do this.’
Ishbel Hodgekiss ignored her.
‘Right,’ she said, in a voice that sounded hollow. She looked at Moira – waited for her to straighten up a little and meet her eye.
‘Go upstairs, please.’
‘What?’ Birch took a step towards Ishbel.
‘DI Birch,’ Ishbel replied. ‘We discussed this. I promised to do no harm to this woman, and I will keep that promise. But I don’t think I can be in the same room with her right now.’ She turned to Moira. ‘And although she might not understand why, I think Mrs Summers will be willing to do what I ask, in light of – everything. Isn’t that right, Moira?’
Moira straightened up, and sniffed in a long breath of air. After a moment she wiped a hand over her face, and then said, ‘Yes.’
‘You too, DI Birch,’ Ishbel said. ‘I’d like you to go upstairs for a moment too, please. When I call Moira down you can come down with her.’
Birch’s brow creased.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but this is not what we discussed. You said you were coming here to—’
‘DI Birch.’ Moira stepped over to Birch and put a hand on her arm. ‘If this poor lady needs a moment alone, I don’t think that’s asking too much.’ She heard her own voice crack and buckle, but she forced herself to keep it together. ‘I can only imagine how hard it must be, to be here. To be in this room . . . with me.’
Ishbel’s face twisted, and then smoothed again. Moira noticed now that she was wearing the same strange outfit from the memorial, though the tie was gone from her neck. Like Birch, she looked tired.
Without saying anything more, Ishbel stood to one side, and allowed Moira and Birch to file past her out of the room, into the hall, and then up the stairs. Moira heard her close the living-room door behind them.
On the landing, Moira began to walk towards her own bedroom. It was the largest in the house, and was not directly above where Ishbel was standing. But DI Birch paused behind her, her head turned by something.
‘Was this Ryan’s room?’ she asked. Moira turned back, and watched DI Birch step over the threshold and disappear. She didn’t need to answer: the state of the room made it obvious.
‘Jesus.’ Birch was standing in the middle of the carpet, turning slowly around and around, taking in the destruction. ‘I am so sorry – the SOCOs did a number on you.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Amy and Callum really should have got on
with getting this sorted out.’
Moira stepped into the room.
‘They tried,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t ready. It would have meant . . . getting rid of things. Of Ryan’s. I’ve only just got to the point where I can look at them, really. I haven’t picked anything up yet. I can’t imagine sorting through them, disposing of them.’
Without warning, DI Birch sank into the computer chair, as though she had suddenly reached the limits of all her energy, and could no longer hold herself up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘about this. It was a huge mistake to bring Mrs Hodgekiss here, and I knew it from the start. But she was insistent. She said she wanted to talk to you. And I knew you’d said you wanted to talk to some of the . . . the families. So I thought, Well, okay. And . . . she kind of had me over a barrel.’
Moira picked her way through the room, skirting around Birch, to the divan. She sat down. The urge to lie down, in the way that had now become normal to her, was almost overwhelming, but she stayed upright.
‘I don’t know what this is,’ Birch said. ‘I don’t know what she’s doing down there. She might be setting the house on fire for all I know. Sorry – I shouldn’t have said that.’
Moira was quiet for a moment.
‘I don’t really care if she is,’ she said. ‘It might be the best end to this place. You know I’ve only been outside once, in nearly a month? And that was for that disastrous meeting with Lockley. I’ve had Amy sorting out my food deliveries; I’ve been sitting watching awful news footage day in and day out. This house is a prison. I might actually be glad if it burned down.’
They sat in silence for a while. Downstairs, they could hear Ishbel’s voice, too muffled for them to pick out words, but she was definitely talking to someone. Or to herself.
‘Oh God,’ Birch said. ‘I’ve done a lot of things badly wrong lately. I’ve totally let this investigation get to me.’
Moira said nothing. The rise and fall of Ishbel’s voice on the ground floor stopped. There was quiet.
‘So,’ Birch said, seeming to straighten up a little, ‘I heard what you said downstairs, when she asked you if you knew. I think I know what she was asking. Amy said she had an inkling that you knew something, too.’
