by Claire Askew
‘The reason I went into police-work,’ she said, ‘was my little brother. His name was Charlie. You might not remember it, but thirteen years ago he was at the centre of a big missing-person case.’
Amy’s eyes widened.
‘Charlie Birch,’ she said. ‘That was your brother?’
Birch winced. It was usually better when people hadn’t heard of Charlie, hadn’t read the articles, hadn’t formed an opinion.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For better or worse, Charlie Birch was my wee kid brother.’
‘Wow, Charlie Birch . . . the teenage gangster,’ Amy said. And then, ‘I’m sorry.’
Birch shrugged. ‘One of Lockley’s finest headlines, that,’ she said. ‘Never proven, of course, but that didn’t stop him from printing it. When someone goes missing I guess it’s Christmas – you can say what you want, if they’re not around to defend themselves. I’ve just about got it in perspective, now. But at the time I was determined something more could be done – to find Charlie, I mean, or most likely find his body. Confirm or deny those rumours once and for all. That’s why I joined the force. I thought I could succeed where everyone before me had failed. I thought I could find him.’ She laughed, short and bitterly, into her wine glass. ‘Goes to show what thinking does for you.’
Amy was frowning.
‘So, Lockley . . .?’
Birch nodded.
‘Lockley was brand new, then,’ she said. ‘He can’t even have been twenty. He was interning at one of the major rags – they weren’t paying him, and he wanted to get a place at the big boys’ table, so he latched on to Charlie. Or rather, he latched on to us, the family. Decided he’d dig up the scoop that would make his name. So all those articles you remember, with family skeletons being kicked out of closets? Perps of old being paid to say they’d seen Charlie involved in every shady job since god knows when? Those hit-pieces were all written by Lockley. Those photos of the haggard-looking woman that ran beside them? That was my mother.’
Amy’s eyes were wide now, her hand over her mouth.
‘He hounded us for bloody months,’ Birch said. ‘Showed up at the house. Went through the bins. Phoned us up at all hours of the day. He got in touch with people I’d forgotten we knew, offered them their fifteen minutes of fame, then misquoted them left, right and centre. Mum moved house, and he hired a PI to find out where it was. We were his apprenticeship. My family is why he’s now a much-loved daily columnist . . . although much-loved by whom, I have no idea.’
‘I guess he doesn’t have a life,’ Amy said, and Birch remembered their conversation on the phone.
‘Yeah . . .’ Birch heard her own voice come out dreamy, far-off sounding. ‘You got me wondering about that. He’s a real piece of work, but to what extent is that just a public face? A brand, you know? He might – I don’t know – volunteer at a soup kitchen in his spare time, or . . . something.’
Amy grinned. ‘You believe that?’
‘Not so much,’ Birch admitted.
‘Me neither.’
Okay, enough about Lockley, Birch thought. She took another long mouthful of wine.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘if that was all a bit TMI.’
Amy was blinking a little sleepily.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘You know, I always wondered – at the time, I mean – how much of that stuff was really true.’
Birch bit her lip. ‘Honestly? We’d have to ask Charlie to find out. And the case has been cold these twelve years. More, even. Not just cold, closed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Amy said again. ‘How’s your mum doing these days?’
Birch closed her eyes, just briefly. That photograph of her mother was there, clear as day in her mind’s eye, as soon as she thought of it.
‘She died last year. Bowel cancer. It was very quick, which I suppose might have been a blessing. During the whole thing with Charlie, she stopped eating right, had all sorts of digestive problems from the anxiety. She never did get back to health with that, I don’t think. There’s no proven link, but I’m sure the cancer was connected to . . . well, all of that. That anxiety that never really went away.’
‘Jesus,’ Amy said. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Birch said. ‘She went to her grave still convinced that Charlie was alive. That he’s out there somewhere. Which I guess was good, in a way; she never grieved for him, never had to. But it drove a bit of a wedge between her and me. I’m a realist. After a while, I accepted that if he ever did turn up, it’d be in a box. And she always wanted to know what progress I’d made, what leads I was following. I kept having to tell her there weren’t any, it was over.’
‘Oh God, that’s heartbreaking.’
Birch shrugged.
‘Yeah, but it became just like anyone else’s family politics after a while. Daughter fails to live up to mother’s expectations. It happens all the time, we weren’t special.’
Amy was frowning again.
‘Still,’ she said, ‘you deserve a medal for not . . . I don’t know, doing something to Lockley.’
Birch laughed. Everything was blurry at the edges, and she felt a strange kind of elation, having shared her story with Amy. Elation, but with a bitter tang to it, too. She felt like she might start to cry, if she didn’t navigate through the next few moments carefully.
‘You never know,’ she said, cranking out a smile. ‘At this rate, I won’t have to do anything. It looks like McLeod is on the verge of doing it for me.’
Three weeks and four days later
First Minister among high-profile attendees at today’s long-awaited Three Rivers public memorial
By GRANT LOCKLEY
PUBLISHED: 08:02 8 June
The thirteen girls who were brutally killed in the mass shooting at Three Rivers College last month will be remembered at a public memorial service, to be held in Edinburgh’s St Giles Cathedral later today. The memorial service will be televised live by STV, and numerous high-profile guests are expected to attend, including the First Minister – who, as we know, never wastes any photo opportunity – the Deputy First Minister, and MSPs from all of the major political parties.
In pictures: our tribute to the Three Rivers College shooting victims
The memorial service will pay tribute to the thirteen young women who lost their lives when their classmate – deranged 20-year-old Engineering student Ryan Summers – burst into the canteen area of the college’s Tweed Campus armed with three modified handguns on the morning of 14 May. Tragically, all of the victims were under 30 years old. Among them were Abigail Hodgekiss who, it has been revealed, was involved in a drug-dealing operation at the college; and Liz Gill, the brave 17-year-old who died while trying to disarm Summers. It was announced last week that Gill will be awarded a posthumous medal for her actions – which feels like a silver lining, however slim, among the dark clouds surrounding the Three Rivers investigation.
Brave Three Rivers teen Liz Gill to be awarded George Cross: read more here
Today’s memorial service will begin with a public vigil outside the Scottish Parliament buildings. It is expected that staff and students from Three Rivers College will then lead a procession up the Royal Mile to St Giles Cathedral, where the official service is due to begin at 11 a.m. Thousands of people will gather to attend the vigil and church service: STV have erected large screens in West Parliament Square so that those who cannot fit into the cathedral can watch from outside its doors. Millions more will be able to watch via terrestrial TV and online, as the service is live-streamed across the world.
Local communities pay tribute to Three Rivers victims as families bury their loved ones: read more here
The content of the church service hasn’t been confirmed, but it is expected that the First Minister will pay tribute to the shooting victims, and that their families will be given the chance to speak to the assembled congregation and viewers at home. Police Scotland have scrambled to support the event, perhaps in a bid to quash the grow
ing public discontent over their handling of the Three Rivers investigation. That’s right, folks: they still haven’t revealed what really went on that day, and there is more and more speculation that things were mishandled at the scene of the shooting. Did this cost vital seconds in which lives could have been saved? The fact that they don’t want to tell us speaks volumes.
The police are also supplying hundreds of personnel to staff the vigil, the procession and the outdoor part of the service. Some senior officers at work on the Three Rivers investigation will be in attendance, though others are refusing to confirm whether or not they will be there. Looks like certain people would prefer to avoid the media spotlight. Good thing I’m planning to be there, camera phone in hand.
Grant Lockley live at the Three Rivers memorial: sign up here to follow our reporting throughout the day
Yes, this columnist will be reporting live from today’s memorial events: you can sign up at the link above in order to get a full picture of what’s happening on the ground, as it happens. You can also follow the hashtag #TRCmemorial to see official tweets, as well as social media reactions from around the world. As always, you’ll find my personal take on Twitter @thegrantlockley. See you there?
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TOP COMMENTS
JohnEnglish Thinking of those girls today. Planning to light a candle and observe a minute’s silence at 11am because they deserve their own remembrance day.
^ 894 people liked this
moongurl7 Do we kno if Ryan Summer’s mother is going to be there? Hope for her own sake she stays @ home – no one wants u there Moira! Personally Im still waiting for her public apology
^ 690 people liked this
keith00 @moongurl7 Personally I am still waiting for her to be locked up! Police Scotland have failed these poor girls and their families in so many ways. No justice. RIP beautiful girls.
^ 599 people liked this
stacey_xo Still want to know what makes someone commit an act like this. Thank you Grant Lockley for always striving to get to the truth. My theory is that Ryan Summers was taking drugs as we know drugs were in the college. But I know that if that is the truth then Grant will find it. Love this column. Will be there at W Parliament Sq today too. See you there Grant.
^ 409 people liked this
8 June, 9.15 a.m.
‘I really don’t want this.’
Moira was very aware of her unkempt state. She’d got tired of being aware of it, after nearly a month – tired of other people showing up at the house and making her aware of it. Right now she was standing in the poky hall with two uniformed officers and Callum, her new FLO. She was still in her dressing gown, which – she felt, on a day like today – she had every right to be. But somehow Callum made her feel ashamed of her grief, her guilt, and their physical manifestations – something Amy had never done.
‘It’s not a question of want, Moira,’ Callum said. ‘It’s a question of need.’
In the close confines of the hall, Moira tried to square up to Callum. She was determined not to let him get comfy today, and she was certainly not about to let these two strange new officers into her living room. Callum stood at around six foot four, and sported a beard so thick that Moira was amazed his superiors didn’t ask him to shave. She may as well try and square up to a polar bear.
‘We’d rather not take any chances,’ he was saying. ‘Tensions will be running high today, because of the memorial.’
Of course because of the memorial, Moira thought. I’m not stupid, I know why you’re suggesting this.
‘I know I was worried,’ she said, ‘when you first reduced the rotation. But I’ve had a full week now with no daytime scene guard at all and I see that you were right. I feel fine. And those – those journalists have been gone, most days, until this morning.’
Callum hadn’t been idle: the first thing he’d done after coming into the job was to insist that Moira have her front window fixed. She’d got rather used to the hoarding, and still felt exposed: though she kept the curtains closed at all times their barrier felt useless, flimsy. Callum’s second task had been to reduce her protective police presence, no doubt a ruling from somewhere on high. Moira had seen the news just like everyone else – knew a lot of people out there were of the opinion that her continued safety didn’t merit a single penny of taxpayers’ money.
‘The night rotation will go eventually, too,’ Callum reminded her. He used a paternal tone with her that she really didn’t care for, especially as he couldn’t yet be forty. ‘The threats have largely petered out, but for that one persistent bastard . . . and we think we’re close to an arrest, there. Plus, this isn’t a reinstatement, it’s a one-off. It would just be for today.’
Moira hesitated, and then decided to tell the truth.
‘Okay, listen. I don’t care if I get a visit from this death threat . . . person. You said it yourself – only last week, if I remember rightly – we can’t guard you forever. You’re right, you can’t. And you shouldn’t. And I’m telling you now that I don’t want you to, either. Perhaps if people think that I ought to die in order to avenge those girls, then I ought to. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about dying, this past month?’
Callum blinked. She could see she’d surprised him.
‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘I’ve started to think that it might have been better if Ryan had started with me – shot me first. Or better yet, shot me instead.’
The three policemen exchanged looks.
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do myself a mischief. Amy and I already had that particular heart-to-heart. And I’ll tell you what I told her: me killing myself would be utterly craven, given everything that’s happened. I couldn’t do it – I won’t do it. But a person that Ryan hurt, coming to kill me because they thought they could find some measure of solace in that? I’ve thought about it a lot – about what I might be able to do, to make those families feel better. So . . . I don’t think it would be any bad thing.’
‘Except,’ Callum said, ‘it would be murder.’
Moira rolled her eyes.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That would be how you’d see it.’
There was a pause. Moira watched Callum trying to decide how to play things next, and chose to cut him off.
‘I don’t want scene guards today,’ she said. ‘I don’t see why today should be different to any other day. And apart from anything else’ – she waved vaguely in the direction of the front garden – ‘the pack of vultures has come back. So if anyone does come to murder me, you’ll have plenty of photographic evidence.’
The men were looking at each other again. For a moment, Moira imagined how they must speak about her when they were not in her presence. Fucking Summers woman, bloody pain in the arse. She’s right, she deserves whatever she gets.
‘I’d like you to leave now,’ she said. ‘This is me officially refusing the offer of a scene guard.’
She went upstairs to watch the three of them file down the garden and across the road, while the paparazzi photographed them and shouted questions. She watched Callum fold his large frame into the passenger seat of the panda car, and pull out his mobile phone to report her unruliness. She waited until the car was out of sight, and then she walked out onto the landing, plugged in the phone extension, and dialled the number she had now committed to memory. Amy answered after only two rings.
‘I hate Callum,’ Moira said, by way of a greeting. ‘He talks to me like I’m a child.’
There was a pause on the line: Amy stifling a sigh, Moira could tell.
‘You have to stop phoning me, Moira. I’m not your FLO any more. I’m not even working on the investigation any more.’
‘I know,’ Moira said, ‘and I still don’t get it. I’m sure Callum is a very good policeman, but . . . I hate him. I liked you. You didn’t treat me like – like . . .’
Moira waited for Am
y to finish the sentence, though she didn’t really know what she was trying to say. Like I did something wrong? But you did, Moira. You did do something wrong.
‘You didn’t treat me like he does.’
Amy still didn’t say anything.
‘I felt like I could talk to you,’ Moira said. Something flickered in her chest, a warning that she was skirting close to danger. ‘What if I needed to . . . talk about something? To tell someone something?’
‘Moira, you can tell Callum anything, I promise you. He’s extremely professional. In fact, he has much more experience at the job than I do. If anything, it’s better that you have him as your FLO.’ Amy was trying to inject a smile into her voice. ‘You should think of this as an upgrade.’
She’s trying to fob you off, Moira. See? They’re all sick of you.
Moira took a long breath.
‘What if I wanted to talk to a woman? I’m allowed that right, aren’t I?’
Amy made a kind of deflating noise, which Moira assumed she hadn’t been meant to hear.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, ‘but you can’t talk to me any more. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.’
In the beat that followed, something seemed to occur to Amy.
‘I’m standing quite close to DI Birch right now, though, and I can put her on the phone.’ After a pause, Amy added, ‘She’s a woman.’
Moira almost laughed. She pictured DI Helen Birch – remembered her standing on the scruffy footpath round the back of Muffins Cafe, chewing on her bottom lip, looking like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Remembered Amy saying that Birch had fought their corner and lost: that the order to install Callum had been made above her.