by Claire Askew
Ishbel smiled. Inside her chest, she felt that little spark again: I’m going to enjoy this.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’d like to start by talking about Stuart Telford.’
Lockley frowned.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh.’ Ishbel let her eyes widen in mock-surprise. ‘Don’t you remember? When you first called me, asking to do this . . . story. You know? You mentioned Stuart and Annie Telford. That couple, with the care home.’
Lockley straightened up a little.
‘Why do you want to talk about that?’ he asked.
Ishbel shrugged.
‘You brought it up, on the phone that day. In fact, if I were a hysterical sort of person, I could say you threatened me. You seemed to be suggesting that if I didn’t talk to you, you’d do an interview with Stuart Telford instead . . . right?’
Lockley spread his hands, and forced his lips into a smile, though his eyes remained cold.
‘Ishbel,’ he said, ‘that was never my intention. I was never actually in touch with the Telfords. I just thought you needed a little push, to get you to a place where you could open up. And now that you’re here, and we’re doing this, can you blame me?’
‘I can question your journalistic ethics. Do you deny that you were making a threat?’
Lockley kept smiling.
‘I don’t think it’s uncommon for people in my line of work to . . . push the boundaries. Just every now and again, it’s necessary.’
‘Will you at least apologise?’ Ishbel kept her voice level, even pleasant. ‘Whatever your end goal, you phoned me up when you knew I had just lost my only daughter, in a terrible act of violence, and you threatened me. Can I ask for an apology?’
‘Ishbel, I’m so upset that you’ve formed such a negative opinion of me—’
Ishbel stood up quickly, cutting him off.
‘I guess that’s a no, then,’ she said. ‘Okay.’
She walked across the room, past Lockley, and over to the window, turning her back on him. She stood there a moment, and then reached out and flicked the curtain aside slightly, as though she wanted to look out at the street. But instead she snuck a glance through the slightly open door at Birch, who was still there, standing in the shadow of the hallway. She’d drawn close to the door, to listen. Ishbel raised an eyebrow at her: Watch this.
‘So,’ Ishbel turned back to look at Lockley, ‘tell me. Where did you find your information, exactly? About the Telfords. That was all . . . what? Three years ago? It’s ancient history, isn’t it?’
For the first time since he’d walked through the door, Lockley looked uncomfortable.
‘I don’t see why this is relevant,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should try more of a question-and-answer format?’
‘Maybe in a minute,’ Ishbel said. ‘I would just really like to know where you heard about that whole Telford case.’
Lockley shifted a little in his seat.
‘It’s a matter of public record,’ he said. ‘Stuart Telford went to trial, and was convicted. It was in the papers. I think I even reported on it a little, at the time.’
‘Of course.’ Ishbel allowed herself to smile a rather nasty smile. ‘How silly of me. But, see . . . the thing is this: I can’t figure out for the life of me how you found out that I was the lead regulator on that case. My understanding was that those case files were anonymised. In fact, it was a condition of my testimony at Mr Telford’s trial. So it’s been bothering me, these ten days since we spoke on the phone. If you haven’t been in touch with the Telfords, then how on earth did you manage to follow a trail to me?’
Lockley glanced at the mobile phone at his elbow, still recording.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘there are some questions I’d like to ask you while we’re alone, before Mrs Summers joins us. Maybe I could get on with those, and we could come back to this later?’
‘Oh,’ Ishbel said, ‘won’t you just put me out of my misery? It’s been niggling at me all this time.’
‘For example,’ Lockley said, waving her words away with a flick of his hand, ‘I’d like to ask you the question that absolutely everyone would like an answer to. Why do you think Ryan Summers did what he did? What do you think could have led him to murder your daughter, and all those other poor girls, in such an unspeakable way?’
Ishbel batted her eyelashes.
‘Oh!’ She’d been right: she was enjoying herself. ‘I know exactly why. Abigail wrote about it in her journal. But if we can just go back, just for a second . . .’
Lockley leaned forward in his chair.
‘Did you just say . . . you know why Abigail was killed?’
‘Oh yes,’ Ishbel said. She took a couple of steps back across the room, and stopped in front of Lockley. ‘But I’m not going to tell you about it until you answer my question.’
Lockley leaned back again, clearly unnerved by her standing over him.
‘Okay, look,’ he said, ‘you were right . . . about my conduct on the phone, when we spoke ten days ago. It was unprofessional.’ He glanced again at his mobile phone, its red blinking light. ‘You’re right. I used a threat. And . . . I’m sorry. Okay? Can we move on now?’
Ishbel rearranged her features for a moment, making it look as though she were deep in thought.
‘Well, I accept your apology – thank you.’ She paused to watch Lockley relax a little, but then added, ‘However, I really do want you to explain to me how you knew I was connected to the Telfords.’
Lockley stared up at her, apparently at a rare loss for words. She couldn’t help but smile.
‘I’m not going to let this go,’ she said.
Suddenly, Lockley was on his feet, his face very close to hers.
‘What is this?’ he hissed.
Ishbel stiffened. This was it – this was the moment.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is me accusing you of hacking into my private correspondence. All the official documents from the Telford case were sealed, as a condition of the trial. I’ve been thinking about it, and this afternoon I’ve made some calls. And I know now that the only possible way for anyone to find out about my involvement would be . . . what? Can you tell me, Mr Lockley?’
She waited, holding his gaze. Lockley faltered, and looked at his feet.
‘Would be to read my personal emails,’ she finished. ‘Emails where I poured my heart out to friends, or to my mother-in-law. Emails that have absolutely no place in the public domain.’
Lockley’s eyes snapped back to look at her.
‘You couldn’t prove that.’ His voice had become a snarl. ‘You couldn’t prove that I ever mentioned Stuart Telford to you. If you pursue this, I’ll deny even knowing that name.’
His thin, pale face was colouring: two scarlet patches had appeared high up on his cheekbones, and his eyes were bulging. Ishbel held her nerve.
‘Would you admit that you did it,’ she said, ‘if I promised I would hand over Abigail’s journals to you?’ She paused for effect. ‘Just . . . for me. Just admit it for me.’
Lockley was quiet. Behind his eyes, Ishbel could see a fight starting up.
‘Just to set my mind at rest,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so strung up lately, with everything that’s gone on. If I could just know I was right . . . that my detective work was right. You’d make me feel so much better.’
She watched him.
‘And,’ she went on, ‘just think what you could do with those journals. If I gave you permission to excerpt from them, everyone would get to know the truth, at last. Isn’t that what you strive for? That’s what you always say, isn’t it? You just want to get to the truth? That’s your job, isn’t it?’
Lockley’s blood was up. Their faces were close enough that Ishbel could feel the heat of his breath, a little ragged now. He smelled strange: musty, and somehow medicinal. Fear battered at her like a high wind – they were roughly the same size, but he was wiry, and coiled tight as a spring. If he decided to attack her she’d have to scream for
DI Birch, and this spell she’d got him under would be broken. She forced herself to look calm, and meet his eyes. The fight in them went on, and then, suddenly, was lost.
‘Okay, fine,’ he hissed. It was barely more than a whisper, and Ishbel prayed that DI Birch could hear it. ‘You’ve got me. Yes, I went in your emails, okay? I wasn’t looking for Stuart Telford’s name . . . I was just looking for something I could use, to get you to talk. If you’d have just come quietly I would never have mentioned him. But you were being so difficult.’
Ishbel was silent. It had worked. She couldn’t believe it had worked. A strange, warm feeling surged through her, and for the first time since she’d run out of her office on that awful day – her heart shuddering and her car keys in her hand – she felt like laughing. Control yourself, she thought. She knew that her time with Lockley was running out. Let’s see what else we can do.
‘Was it terribly hard?’ She widened her eyes. ‘I can’t imagine the skill it must take, to break into someone else’s email.’
A vein was pulsing in Lockley’s neck.
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘It’s fucking child’s play, once you know how. I’ve done it a million times.’
Ishbel nodded.
‘You got into Aidan’s, too, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘That’s another thing that’s been bothering me . . . the idea that Abigail knew about Aidan having an affair, and kept it secret from me. That really cut me up, for a while, that she would do that. It seemed so unlike her. And I didn’t see it mentioned anywhere in her journal. But then . . . when you mentioned the Telfords. I started to think, Well, maybe he didn’t get that information from Jack Egan. You didn’t, did you? Jack didn’t tell you Aidan was having an affair – he didn’t know that. Abigail didn’t know that. You got it from Aidan’s emails, didn’t you?’
Lockley reached round behind him, and snatched up the mobile phone from the sofa arm. He punched at it with a stiffened index finger, switching off the recording and then, as Ishbel watched, deleting the file.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did. Are you satisfied? Because you shouldn’t be. I didn’t make any of it up, so I’m afraid it doesn’t make your situation any better. Your daughter really was dealing drugs all round Three Rivers College, and beyond – Jack Egan did tell me that, and trust me, that kid’s too stupid to lie. Your husband really is having an affair, no matter how I found out . . . he’s been carrying on for years, in fact.’ He paused, to look Ishbel up and down, his breath fast. ‘And of course, none of this changes the fact that your daughter is dead – murdered. So . . . does it really matter, how the information came out?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Ishbel caught a movement in the corner of the room. DI Birch had slipped silently in through the door, and was watching them. Ishbel looked back at Lockley, and smiled.
‘Not to me,’ she said, ‘no.’
She watched Lockley relax. He’d drawn himself up to his full height, she realised, and now he seemed to shrink two or three inches, back into the slightly hunched shoulders of his threadbare grey jacket.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I could set your mind at rest. Now, can we pick up where we left off? I’d like to hear more about these journals.’
‘I fucking bet you would.’
For a split second, Lockley looked confused, as if he’d just seen Ishbel speak without moving her lips. But his face was a white mask of panic: he’d recognised the voice. As he spun around to face her, DI Birch cleared the three paces over to him and closed a hand around his wrist.
‘Grant Lockley,’ she said, ‘I’m delighted to tell you that you’re under arrest.’
Lockley spluttered. To Ishbel, he looked like a drowning man, gasping for the air that might save him, but finding none.
‘You do not have to say anything,’ DI Birch was saying, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ She grinned at Ishbel, then looked back at Lockley. ‘Why don’t you sit down, until my colleagues arrive?’
Lockley wrenched his arm free of Birch’s grip. He finally found some air.
‘You can’t arrest me! What have I done?’
Birch rolled her eyes.
‘You just confessed to illegally acquiring confidential information,’ she said.
Lockley laughed a warped laugh.
‘Yeah?’ he spat. ‘Prove it!’
Birch looked at Ishbel, and Lockley followed her gaze. Ishbel allowed herself a pantomime flourish as she drew her own mobile phone from the breast pocket of her jacket.
Lockley threw up his arms.
‘This is entrapment, Birch! I’ll have you fucking struck off for this!’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Ishbel heard her own voice, the force in it, and was shocked. ‘Will you for once just shut up? Sit down, like DI Birch has asked, and stop your blustering. It isn’t entrapment. You agreed to being recorded right at the start of our conversation.’
Lockley’s eyes boggled.
‘I did no such thing!’
Ishbel felt a strange calm, though her heart was racing.
‘You did,’ she said. ‘You remember? I said, “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it.” And you said that you were. So when I got a chance, I stood up, I went over to the window’ – Ishbel pointed, as though Lockley might not remember – ‘and I started recording.’
Lockley opened his mouth and tilted slightly towards Ishbel, as if he intended to counter her. But then he seemed to have another thought that cut off the words before they formed. In the quiet that followed, he sank down onto the sofa.
‘That’s my boy,’ Birch said, still grinning.
Lockley scowled up at her.
‘I’ll fight you on this, Birch,’ he growled. ‘There’s no way you can make this stick.’
Ishbel watched Birch: she was beaming, and some of the fatigue and worry that had been there seemed to fall away.
‘D’you fancy a bet on that, Grant?’ she said.
Lockley looked sullenly up at her for a moment.
‘No comment,’ he said.
Birch glanced at Ishbel, who smiled back at her: a tired smile, but a genuine one.
‘I thought so,’ Birch said.
In the corner of the room, the door was pushed open, and Moira Summers shuffled in, her movements almost apologetic. She looked down at Lockley sitting on her sofa – at first in surprise, and then as though he were some slimy invertebrate creature that had found its way in from the dirt outside.
‘Moira,’ Birch said, her face like Christmas morning, ‘can you dig out your panic button for me, please? Let’s call up the cavalry.’
8 June, 9.00 p.m.
Birch watched from Moira’s front doorstep as Lockley was led out of the garden gate and put into the back of the panda car. It was a strange sensation: this was a fantasy film-reel she’d allowed to play out in her mind so many times in the past. Lockley in handcuffs, walking towards an adequate punishment for the hurts he’d inflicted. Of course, there was still work to be done to ensure that happened. But seeing him fold himself into the back of the police car, and be driven away, prompted a deep, warm feeling of calm. For a moment, she was alone on that front doorstep: the summer twilight was deepening around her, and beyond the rooftops of Moira’s street she could hear the general hush of the city’s traffic, a distant siren somewhere, like always. Moira had flicked on the outside light, and in its beam, little moths and midges danced like dust motes. Birch felt her mother’s presence with her then: a pillar of warm air beside her, so seemingly real that she almost spoke to it aloud. But two uniformed colleagues were advancing back up the path towards her, so she said the words inwardly: It’s over, Mum. He can’t hurt us any more.
‘Marm?’ One of the uniforms was standing in front of her now. Birch gave herself a little shake, and the spell was broken.
McLeod was on the phone.
‘Helen,’ he said, ‘y
ou’ve made my night.’
She blinked. She’d told him as many of the details as she dared, but still, he sounded pleased.
‘Don’t congratulate me just yet, sir,’ she said. ‘Lockley’s lawyer will have some fun and games with the way we got that confession.’
McLeod seemed unperturbed.
‘Oh, whatever,’ he said. ‘The point is, we can build a case here. I bet my bottom dollar that if he’s been in the Hodgekiss emails, he’ll have been messing with the other families, too. And I doubt that “learn how to spy on people” was one of his new year’s resolutions: he’ll have been doing this stuff for donkey’s.’
Birch took a deep breath.
‘Before you go out and celebrate, sir,’ she said, ‘you should perhaps also know that Lockley does have at least one damning story left up his sleeve.’
McLeod’s snort buzzed in the speaker at Birch’s ear.
‘I assume you mean Lockley’s mobile phone footage of you arresting a peaceful protester and then openly gloating about it with a colleague?’
Birch squeezed her eyes closed, and braced herself.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. And then, ‘You heard about that?’
McLeod laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Your young drinking buddy . . . Ms Kato? She came to me in something of a flap about it this afternoon, and told me everything. Not your best police-work, Birch, I have to say.’
Birch sighed.
‘I know, sir. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘I do,’ McLeod said. ‘Grant Lockley came over you. This investigation can’t have been easy for you, Birch – I can see that.’
He’s right, she thought. Dammit.
‘So you decided to set up your own little meet-and-greet at Moira Summers’ house? I can tell you that neither of the respective FLOs are huge fans of that decision . . . Reh Ibrahiim especially.’