by Claire Askew
‘Little Ryan wasn’t loved enough as a kid, maybe. Little Ryan was allowed to listen to violent rap music. Little Ryan’s dad died and he never got over it . . .’
The memory of his voice bothered at her, like a fly at a window. No. She didn’t know why he’d done it – no one did, yet. She looked down at the photo again.
‘We’ll probably never know, will we?’ she said, to Summers and his scowl. A thought occurred to her. ‘Maybe you didn’t even know.’
This was nuts. Come on, Helen. She tossed her head back and flipped the file open again, to where she’d left her finger marking theobviouschild’s page. At the bottom, John’s briefing notes:
JS notes: Hard evidence wise, there is still very little we can use to decisively pin it to Summers. But of course there are striking similarities. theobviouschild mentions three guns. He mentions counting rounds, which suggests a shortage of ammunition and a need to make each round count (as Ryan Summers did). He refers to rounds rather than bullets – this specificity could be connected to the use of modified pieces and ammunition. He refers to having ‘made’ the guns. And of course he claims to be a college student.
We’re in the process of finding out where theobviouschild is recorded as having posted from, but a lot of users on sites like these use a proxy server, which masks their IP address. We’re also analysing theobviouschild’s writing style, turn of phrase and keywords to see if we can find him elsewhere on the internet under another alias. More soon.
Below this paragraph, John had handwritten on the print-out: As yet unconfirmed! Should NOT be released to press! The word ‘NOT’ was underlined three times.
Birch carefully rifled the folder, to try and keep its stacked paper square. She appreciated John’s note. Much of that evening’s briefing had been devoted to discussing the apparently mounting problem of press intrusion and what to do about it. Although Birch had radar for Lockley in particular, he was only one of many. Three Rivers was selling papers, generating clicks. Birch’s FLOs were reporting, almost to a man, that their assigned family’s houses were besieged. Birch had watched the footage of Moira Summers being hustled into her New Town semi earlier that day: some channels had sent helicopters, for goodness’ sake. Her initial hope that the first week would be the worst, and then interest would die down, was starting to feel like a false one.
The last part of the briefing had been rather strained.
‘Okay, folks.’ Birch’s throat had begun to get sore: there were a lot of people in the room and she’d had to really project. ‘We need to talk about disclosure, and who’s talking to who beyond these four walls.’
No one had wanted to meet her eye.
‘Listen,’ she said, feeling the mood of the room change. ‘I’m not about to suggest we have a mole, or anything of that ilk. In fact, transparency is vital, and we’ve already talked about the importance of record-keeping in this investigation.’
A few nods from around the room, and a kind of soft, collective groan. Birch knew that as a result of her record-keeping directives, everyone’s desk had a sliding volcano of paperwork on it.
‘I actually want to talk about clarity,’ she went on. ‘We’ve just talked at length about the press, and how difficult we’re all finding them . . . right? You’re all being exceptionally patient and putting up with a hell of a lot.’
She took a deep breath. Scanning the room, she caught Rema’s eye, Amy’s eye, and then Marcello’s – which made her flinch her gaze away.
‘We just need to make sure that when we speak to members of the press, whether on the record or not, we are totally crystal clear about what we say.’
She’d rummaged on the table in front of her, and dug out a half-folded newspaper. She held it up and pointed to a story below the crease.
‘Here, for example, someone spoke to . . .’ Birch paused to glance at the byline. ‘Cameron Inglis, apparently . . . Someone he’s identifying as a police spokesperson told him that there were fourteen victims at Three Rivers.’
The room had shifted again: a shuffling of feet.
‘Now, there isn’t going to be a witch hunt.’ Birch’s voice crackled in and out like an old radio. She really needed to stop talking soon. ‘We just have to make sure that we’re all saying the same thing. Now, personally? Yes, I believe there were fourteen victims at Three Rivers. Fourteen people died. Ryan Summers was as much a victim of his own actions as any of the others. However, the official line is, we do not use the word “victim” to describe Summers – okay? If they ask how many casualties, we say thirteen students, and Ryan Summers. If they ask how many victims, we say thirteen, and Ryan Summers. We do not simply say fourteen. I think it’s important that we’re seen making the distinction . . . from a PR point of view.’
She’d felt her own skin creep, then – most of that speech was an echo of one McLeod had given her, earlier that day, in his office.
Now, Birch tried to stretch. One leg had begun to fade into pins and needles. The Summers profile had several more green and yellow Post-its that she hadn’t yet looked at. She could see that the next file on the top of the stack was marked Moira Summers: death threats analysis in Marcello’s elegant handwriting. At least fifteen bright green Post-its stuck out of that file, too, each one at neat right angles to the sheaf. She glanced at the clock: 7.15 p.m. She put the Ryan Summers file down, and rubbed her eyes with two closed fists, the way that sleepy children do. Then with both arms and the leg that wasn’t yet numb, she levered herself up out of her sitting position, and stretched. She opened the office door. This, she’d realised, with a sinking heart, was going to require coffee.
Emergency response
The first 999 call from the scene was placed at around 8.40 a.m. [10] by 23-year-old Access to Nursing student Ella Ostrowska, one of the students pushed into the kitchen and to safety by Kerry McNaughton [16]. Ostrowska told the emergency operator, ‘A boy just shot a girl at my college’ [10][27]. In the background of the 999 call recording, two gunshots can be heard: it is believed that these are the shots that killed Liz Gill and then Kerry McNaughton [10][15][27][32].
The second 999 call from the scene was placed at 8.44 a.m. [10] by adult literacy tutor Isobel MacNab, who said she had seen ‘a student with a gun’ and heard noises that she thought were gunshots [24][27]. As Summers began to move about on the building’s first floor, numerous other 999 calls were placed as students and staff began to realise what was happening [27]. By this time, several students had also made posts about the incident on Twitter and Facebook [18][19][22].
It is believed that the final shot was fired at or just before 9 a.m. [10]. The first police response unit arrived at the campus at 8.56 a.m., with the first ambulance arriving on the scene at 9.08 a.m. [26]. The police were criticised by some students [13], local families and news outlets [3][26][28] for failing to respond efficiently to the incident. Although emergency response teams arrived on the scene within thirty minutes of the first shot being fired, it took over forty-five minutes for an armed response team to make its way to the campus [3][26][32].
Police reported that Summers was found wearing black jeans with a homemade belt that provided a concealed holster for his three guns [12][25]. In his jeans pocket investigators also found a spring-loaded stainless-steel butterfly knife, which was not used at the scene [25][28]. Summers fired only eighteen rounds of ammunition in total, and only two of his victims were hit multiple times [21]. Twelve of Summers’ victims died from gunshot wounds; one, Leanne Lawrie, died from a head injury [20][21]. A police statement released the day after the incident noted it was ‘extremely unlucky’ that so many fatalities had resulted from such a small number of shots fired [12].
Two weeks later
To: Rehan Ibrahiim
From: Grant Lockley
Subject: Request for quote: Hodgekiss story
Date: 27/05 19:55
Rehan,
Thought I’d do the decent thing and reach out to you first rather than trying to cont
act the Hodgekisses directly. Attached is the draft text of a story I’m running tomorrow to coincide with Abigail’s funeral. I wondered if you could pass it on to them and ask if they would like to give a quote (either of them, but perhaps Ishbel would be particularly interested).
Best,
Grant
View attachment:
[Suggested headline – GL]:
Three Rivers victim Abigail Hodgekiss is laid to
rest today as family skeletons come out of the closet
[insert byline, publication date/time –
not to be released until 28 May]
Today family and friends of Abigail Hodgekiss, the beautiful 19-year-old drama student who was first to be mown down in the terrible shooting at Three Rivers College, will gather for her funeral.
Abigail was fatally shot when her psychotic classmate Ryan Andrew Summers charged into the canteen area at the Tweed Campus of Three Rivers College, Edinburgh, on 14 May, armed with three handguns he’d modified himself. He opened fire as students waited for their 9 a.m. classes.
Abigail’s remains will be cremated following a small service for close family and friends, to take place at an undisclosed location in the city later today. Her family have said that her ashes will be scattered in ‘a place close to Abigail’s heart’ at a later date.
Readers’ tributes to Abigail Hodgekiss and the victims
of the Three Rivers shooting: read more here
[insert link – GL]
Though this is undoubtedly a sad day, members of the public are still searching for answers. Many want to know why these young women were so brutally murdered, and what the police – whose investigation seems to have gone quiet – plan to do to restore a general feeling of confidence and safety in the wake of this deplorable crime. We’re now two weeks on from this terrible crime that really did shake our entire community to its core. It’s about time we were given some answers.
One reason for Abigail’s death could perhaps be traced back to Abigail herself, in light of shocking new evidence that the 19-year-old was involved with using and distributing Class B drugs.
In an exclusive interview for this publication, Abigail’s boyfriend Jack Egan – himself wounded during the Three Rivers shooting – revealed that the pair had been peddling cannabis and pills to fellow students at the college.
‘I’d been doing it on and off since high school,’ says Jack. ‘Then I met Abi on the first day of college and we started dating. I asked her if she wanted to come in with me and help grow the business.’
Three Rivers gunshot victim Jack Egan tells all:
read the exclusive interview in full here!
[insert link – GL]
‘Abi wasn’t keen at first,’ he goes on to say. ‘But she could see I was making a bit of money from it. And it turned out we were a good team, a good business team. She’d have done anything for me and I could depend on her.’
In the heartfelt interview, Jack also says he misses Abigail every day. ‘She was so innocent and sweet,’ he says. ‘A real sweetheart. I could tell that she liked me from the first day we met, and I was drawn to her. Some people didn’t like us being together, but we were in love, we just fell head over heels for each other. I wake up every day thinking it’s all been a bad dream, and then I remember she’s dead, my Abi. I miss her so much.’
When asked why he thought Ryan Summers committed this terrible act, Jack speculates, ‘He might have been jealous of the two of us, of what we had. That’s why he shot both of us. I think he wanted to kill me too, but he failed. He was jealous of people being happy and successful, like me and Abi were. He was always this weird creepy guy that no one talked to.’ Was Summers involved in drugs, too? Could his rampage – as many of our followers have speculated – been drug-fuelled? Jack says no. ‘He hated it. It was just another thing that pointed to the fact that he didn’t belong. Abi and I used to joke that it might do him good, but I can’t imagine anyone less likely to get high. I think he was too much of a control freak.’
[GL – space for Hodgekiss family reaction quote and words about it]
In pictures: thousands of well-wishers leave tributes
outside the homes of Three Rivers shooting victims
[insert link – GL]
Why would a bright, pretty 19-year-old like Abigail Hodgekiss – a girl with her whole life ahead of her – get into drugs? Jack Egan revealed his theory in the second part of his exclusive tell-all interview, which will be available to read in full in Saturday’s paper.
‘Abi found out that her dad was having an affair a few years back,’ Jack said. ‘She’d promised him she’d keep it a secret, but she told me it was eating her up inside.’
These revelations are bound to rock the Hodgekiss family. Questions have already been raised about the state of Ishbel Hodgekiss’s mental and physical health, as she has now been photographed several times looking pale and thin and behaving erratically.
Become an online supporter and read Part Two of Jack Egan’s explosive tell-all interview before it hits newsstands!
[insert link – GL]
[GL – space for Hodgekiss family reaction quote and words about it
OR: The Hodgekiss family were approached for
comment but have yet to respond.]
27 May, 9.33 p.m.
When it got to nine o’clock, Birch had just walked out. She’d become so tired that she couldn’t walk in a straight line, couldn’t do two things at once, couldn’t stop yawning. Her desk was disappearing under a pile of paper, but she’d got to the point where all she could do was sift – as if she believed that by arranging and then rearranging everything she might find some magical combination in which all these folders and papers and crime scene photos made logical sense. But nothing made logical sense any more. She was hungry all the time. Her head felt like it was full of cotton wool.
She couldn’t remember much about the drive home, but she came to after parking the car in its usual space, and opening the driver’s-side door. China Express’s smell of starch and hot grease poured into the car like warm water. She forgot all about the box of SOCO paperwork she’d stuffed into the back seat on her way out, having had the vague idea that, in her sleep-deprived state, she might somehow get more work done at home. Instead, Birch grabbed her handbag off the passenger seat, locked up the Mondeo, and followed her nose into the tiny vestibule of the China Express. She ordered tofu and cashews in black bean sauce, with veggie spring rolls and egg fried rice. The elderly woman behind the counter looked at her with sympathy, and Birch realised she’d been avoiding mirrors.
‘Long day, hen?’
Under her hairnet, the woman’s elaborate silk-white hair quivered in its bun.
‘A long fortnight,’ Birch replied. Her mouth was watering so much that she wondered if the woman thought she was rabid.
‘Some good food will fix you,’ the woman was saying. ‘You came to the right place.’
Birch sat down on one of the two plastic chairs that had been squeezed into the little space. On the other, someone had left a discarded newspaper, half folded, the red top and 200-point headline face up. MURDER MUM MOIRA WALKS FREE, it read. Birch rolled her eyes and flipped the paper over. On the other side, that photo of Ryan Summers’ face. If someone had asked her before the shooting to imagine a stereotypical teenage boy, Summers’ was almost exactly the face she’d have pictured.
Somewhere in the depths of her handbag, her phone rang. Rehan, the display told her. And, in brackets, Hodgekiss FLO.
‘Birch,’ she said into the phone, too tired for any further greeting.
There was a pause, for just a fraction of a second, on the other end.
‘Good evening, er, marm,’ Rehan said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you? It’s Rehan. Ibrahiim.’
In the kitchens beyond the vestibule, there was a clatter and a shout. I’m right in the middle of dinner, Birch thought.
‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘I’m just on my way home
. Can I remind you that you should call me Helen?’
Down the phone, she felt him relax, just a little.
‘Sorry – Helen.’ His voice was stagey, like he was trying on the informality for size.
Birch felt like her stomach had detached itself and was roaming around inside her, beginning to eat other internal organs. She stretched up like a meerkat and peered over the counter.
‘I was phoning,’ Rehan was saying, ‘to update you on something over here in Trinity.’
‘Trinity?’
‘The Hodgekiss house. Aidan and Ishbel? Parents of Abigail?’
‘Oh.’ Birch felt a sting of anger. She knew the Hodgekisses’ names, and whose parents they were. She was just tired. ‘Yes, I know. When you said Trinity I thought you meant the station there. The police station. Except there isn’t one. And now I’m waffling. Do go on.’
There was another pause on the line. Great, she thought. He believes I’m a lunatic.
‘Something’s happened,’ he said, slowly. ‘I thought I ought to let you know.’
What, let me know what? There was a thread of worry in his voice, she could hear it now, and it was catching. All thoughts of her takeaway evaporated.
‘So,’ he was saying. ‘You already know that tomorrow is Abigail’s cremation. But . . . something’s going to happen tomorrow morning that I think is going to cause a real problem.’
Birch’s mind was racing. Spit it out, she thought.
‘What’s going to happen?’ It was snappy, but he was going too slowly.