A Matter of Time

Book 0: DI Birch

by Claire Askew

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

At 8am the first shots are fired.

At 1pm, the police establish the gunman has a hostage.

By 5pm, a siege is underway.

At 9pm, DI Helen Birch walks, alone and unarmed, into an abandoned Borders farmhouse to negotiate with the killer.

One day. One woman. One chance to get everyone out alive.

The outstanding new novel from the highly acclaimed author of All the Hidden Truths and What You Pay For - both shortlisted for the CWA Golden Dagger.

A beautifully written and plotted police procedural from a rising star in the genre who has delivered a game-changing fourth book: 'Claire Askew takes us away from the obvious plot and asks us tantalising questions ... an absorbing, thought-provoking entry into crime fiction' - The Times

(P) 2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: September 2, 2021

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Acknowledgements

I am forever grateful to be surrounded by a dream team of incredible women, without whom my books simply would not exist.  Chief among them are Cath Summerhayes, my superb agent, and editor of the century Jo Dickinson.  Jenny Platt, special thanks to you, for all the times you cajoled and consoled me through this strange year: you’re a star.  I’m grateful to everyone at Curtis Brown and Hodder & Stoughton who has worked on this book.

This novel is set in the Bowmont Valley, where I grew up, and I have to give a special mention to Lesley Janaway, who first took me to the pasture at Seefew when I was thirteen years old.  Lesley, getting to work with you on the farm shaped my life in ways I’m still coming to understand – thank you.

Also deserving of special thanks is the utterly brilliant Stella Hervey Birrell.  Stella, your regular check-ins and endless kindness and encouragement got me through this novel, and through the plague times of 2020.  You also did the best sensitivity read I could have asked for.  You really are my writing rock.

2020 was the hardest year many of us have ever known, and I feel truly indebted to the people who helped me survive it.  Alice Tarbuck, Leon Crosby, Natalie Fergie, Jane Bradley, Kerry Ryan, Sasha de Buyl, Dean Rhetoric – I love you all dearly.  Special thanks to Dominic Stevenson, who helped me become the woman I am. And I can’t not mention Al Smith, whose steady refrain of it’s fine, it’ll be fine was like the beam of a lighthouse in the dark.

Last but not least, I have to thank Team Askew.  

Nick, I hated how 2020 kept us apart, but I thought of you every single day.  

I wrote a lot of this book under COVID lockdown in my parents’ spare bedroom and they did the absolute most to support me: they were the manuscript’s first readers and they proofed the very last draft.  In between, they provided endless cups of tea and a lot of laughs.  Mam and Fath, I love you.  This one’s for you.

00:00

HOUR EIGHTEEN

‘Why don’t I tell you,’ Birch said, ‘what I think happened this morning.’

Hodgson was back at the chimney breast. He’d braced one forearm against it, and pushed his head into the crook of his elbow. In the darkness, his vague silhouette was that of a man weeping, or else of a man asleep standing up. Birch couldn’t see the shotgun any more, which worried her.

‘Since you don’t seem to want to tell me,’ she added.

Hodgson let out a low moan.

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’

Birch stifled a yawn. The adrenalin she’d been running on for the past few hours had waned enough for her to realise she was exhausted. Hodgson must be, too – she hadn’t seen him sit down in almost three hours. Elise was fast asleep once again, her breaths dry and raspy from crying.

‘Well,’ Birch said, ‘we know you went to see Sophie. It was early – you get up early every day, right? For work.’

‘Right.’ His voice was weary.

‘So you drove into Kelso, to Sophie’s house. Maybe you sat in the Land Rover for a little while, psyching yourself up to it. Did you take the gun to the door with you? I suppose you must have – you wouldn’t have gone back outside for it, that might have given her time to escape.’

‘Please,’ Hodgson said, ‘it isn’t like you think. It wasn’t . . .’

He fell silent.

‘It wasn’t what, Gerry?’

‘The gun,’ he said. Again, Birch wondered if he was crying – his voice sounded wet, but it was hard to tell in the gloom of the ruin. ‘The gun was only to frighten her.’

‘I must say, that’s hard for me to believe,’ Birch said, ‘having read some of your recent Facebook updates. They sound pretty threatening.’

He moved his head, fast and erratic, his hair a sudden blur. He nodded, but didn’t immediately speak: Birch imagined his mind whirring, trying to recall the posts she was referring to.

‘Threatening, yes,’ he said at last, ‘okay. I’ll admit, I wanted to show her I knew where she was, where she lived. Shake her up a bit. But that’s all.’

‘Less than a week ago you posted that time was running out. You’d had enough.’

‘I had,’ Hodgson said, his voice plaintive, ‘I had had enough. But you have to understand, I had a plan. All along, I had a plan, and the plan was to frighten her. Mess up her perfect new life a bit. Let her get blindsided, so she could see what it felt like. That was all.’

Birch cocked her head. For a brief second, she thought of Marcello. Marcello would have been able to look at the words Hodgson had written, and determine whether or not these protestations checked out. He’d be able to pick up the invisible thread of premeditation, if it was there. Marcello would be so much better at this than her.

‘Maybe.’ She tried to keep her voice level, stay firm. ‘Maybe, at the start. But then what happened? What happened to change that?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t.’

‘Something,’ Birch went on. ‘Something she said to you, maybe? Or was it seeing Elise? Seeing she had a child now? Seeing just how far she’d moved on?’

‘Please stop.’ Hodgson was whispering now. ‘Please don’t say any more.’

‘Then tell me what happened, Gerry. Tell me what she said to you. Tell me how it went down.’ Birch could feel the adrenalin kicking back up now. She wasn’t negotiating any more, she was interrogating – the change felt like static building in her chest. For the first time since she’d squeezed in through the broken door, she felt like she was in charge, and the feeling was exhilarating. ‘Tell me how you ended up cornering your ex-partner in her bedroom and then shooting her and her husband through the chest. Tell me how you ended up killing two innocent people, after all you’ve said to me tonight about never wanting to kill anything ever again. Tell me, Gerry.’

‘Stop, I said stop!’

There was a clatter, and Birch jumped. The shotgun, which had been leaning against Hodgson’s legs, fell to the floor. Instinctively, Birch pressed Elise’s body closer to her chest, and the little girl stirred awake. But Hodgson didn’t reach for the gun. He fell to his knees on the rough, rocky floor of the ruin. Out of his mouth came a long, animal sound, a sound with spit and misery in it. The sound emptied his lungs, and he hauled in a tattered breath before making it again, every bit as long and loud. A twisted sound. The sound of desperate grief.

‘Okay, Gerry,’ Birch said. She could feel her own eyes were wide. Her heart was hammering. ‘Okay, I’ve stopped.’

Elise twisted her head in Birch’s grip to look at the source of this strange, new noise. She didn’t cry again herself: Birch could feel the child’s little eyelashes flickering against her wrist as she blinked, curious, trying to see in the dark.

‘You’re all right,’ Birch whispered to her, ‘you’re all right.’

Hodgson was not all right. In the weird light, Birch could see his back heaving up and down. He was now on all fours – the gun somewhere beside him – crying and retching. She wondered if he’d throw up, then remembered he hadn’t eaten for many hours. Neither had she, for that matter: Birch realised her head felt light, her limbs swimmy. She wanted very badly to sleep now. She didn’t know how much longer any of this could go on.

‘Gerry, I—’

Hodgson dragged in another breath.

‘I killed them?’ he said, and it took a moment for Birch to realise it wasn’t a statement, but a question. ‘I killed Sophie?’

Birch couldn’t think of anything to say beyond the obvious, so she said the obvious.

‘You didn’t know that?’

Hodgson was coughing now, and she could hear how raw his throat was. He shook his head, hard enough that she could see even in the strange near-dark.

‘But . . .’ Birch glanced down at Elise, hoping she wasn’t taking in any of what was being said. ‘But you shot them both at point-blank range. They had no chance.’

Hodgson spat on to the floor of the ruin. He was breathing hard.

‘So yes,’ Birch said, annoyance rising in her again, ‘yes, you killed them. And what’s more, you then drove to the showfield at Springwood Park and shot several other people.’

He pulled in another long breath.

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice thick and sodden, ‘yes, I did that. I did that, I remember. But Sophie—’

‘You’re telling me you don’t remember shooting Sophie?’

Hodgson rolled back off his knees, pushing himself up with his palms. Birch’s heart lurched, assuming he’d reach for the gun again. But instead he rocked backward into a sitting position, pulled his knees up to his chest, and hugged them. Now, he was a roundish mass in the dark: the fuzzy glow from the floodlight illuminated only the wisps of hair on top of his head. He looked like a boulder with a halo, she thought.

‘I wasn’t . . .’ He seemed to be trying to bring himself under control again – it was as though he’d curled into a ball to try and prevent the sobs from bursting out of him. ‘I wasn’t sure.’ His voice came out like rapid-fire now, punctuated by wet inward breaths, like a man whose lungs were giving out. ‘What happened. It was like. I’d watched it. But hadn’t done it. Like I’d watched. Someone else do it. I remember flashes. I can’t explain. Like – a bad dream. Like a nightmare. Screaming. And the shots. But I can’t. I can’t see them. I can’t see Sophie. Her face.’

‘What can you see?’

Hodgson hacked out another cough.

‘Her,’ he said. ‘The kid. Turning round. She was standing. In the doorway. She’d seen it. I hadn’t known about her.’ He was bringing his breath under control now, managing longer strings of words between his sobs. ‘I hadn’t known they had a child. It scared me, turning, seeing her there. I couldn’t look back to see what I’d done. I couldn’t look away.’

Birch’s head buzzed. She couldn’t think straight. Had Hodgson really not realised he’d shot Sophie and her husband? She didn’t want to believe that someone could commit such a decisive act without fully realising – and yet, she also wanted to believe him. She didn’t think such anguish could possibly be faked.

‘Why did you take Elise with you, Gerry?’

Hodgson was wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, now. Birch could feel he was calming down again, but something in the air between them was different. Something about him had changed.

‘No choice,’ he spluttered. ‘I couldn’t leave her there. Not after . . . what happened. What I thought I might have done. I couldn’t.’

‘You didn’t think about shooting her, too?’

Hodgson’s voice made her jump so hard that the legs of the camping chair scraped on the ground.

‘No!’ he yelled. ‘No! No, you can’t say that. You can’t say that!’

Birch heard his voice crack on the second can’t, all the air from his tired lungs pushed into that yell. The sound was frightening.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘okay, Gerry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.’

‘I never wanted to hurt her.’ He was still shouting. ‘I never wanted to hurt her, or anyone. You understand? No one.’

Of course I don’t understand, Birch thought, though she wasn’t sure if he was referring to Elise now, or Sophie.

‘I’m trying,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to understand, I promise. That’s all anyone up here wants. To try to understand what happened.’

Hodgson pressed his face into his pulled-up knees. Birch wondered if he thought he could curl up small enough to disappear. She could see his shoulders still quaking with sobs.

‘Just breathe,’ she said, in as soothing a voice as she could muster. ‘Just breathe.’

On her lap, Elise squirmed.

‘Want my mummy,’ she said, in a small voice, and when Birch didn’t respond, she said it again, louder. ‘Want my mummy.’

Birch tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

‘I know you do, wee scone,’ she said. ‘I know. But just stay with me for now, okay?’

Elise made a few little clucking sounds, pushing her face back into the creased front of Birch’s blouse.

‘Please don’t. Please don’t cry, Elise. I’m sorry, I can’t do anything. I can’t—’

Across the room, Hodgson lifted his head.

‘You’re saying I really killed them,’ he said. His voice was suddenly much calmer – colder, more like it had been before. ‘Him too.’

Birch hesitated. Her information was hours old. She had no idea if Elise’s father was alive or dead – only that his prognosis at the last update hadn’t looked good. As she thought about how to answer, a light came on in her mind, as though someone somewhere had opened the door to a bright room, just by a crack.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’

Hodgson made another sound – it took Birch a second to realise it was a creaking sort of laugh.

‘That’s it, then,’ he said. ‘I’m done for.’

Elise was grizzling into Birch’s chest, the sound muffled.

‘Done for?’

‘Life,’ he replied, the word sharp in his mouth. ‘I’ll get life. More than life.’

The crack of light widened in Birch’s mind.

‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘but nothing’s certain yet. There are still things we can do.’

Hodgson sniffed, and she heard the phlegm rattle in his chest.

‘Bullshit,’ he spat. ‘I’ve done it now. I’m fucked.’

‘No. I mean – I won’t lie to you, Gerry, you’ve got some big questions to answer. But this isn’t over. You still have ways to make things right.’

He laughed again – there was venom in him now.

‘Like fucking what?’

Birch placed a hand on top of Elise’s little head, though she guessed Hodgson probably couldn’t see.

‘You can let this little girl go, for starters.’

Hodgson said nothing. Birch held her breath, waiting for him to refuse her. He didn’t.

‘Think about it,’ she went on. ‘You said yourself that you didn’t want her with you. You took her because you didn’t want to leave her there, after – after what happened. That was an act of kindness, right? Any jury would see that. You didn’t hurt her, and you didn’t leave her. You wanted her to be okay. You can show you still want her to be okay, by letting her go. If you let her go, my colleagues will be able to confirm she isn’t hurt. You haven’t harmed her in any way. She’s tired and thirsty, nothing more. If you let her go now, it’ll improve things for you, Gerry, I guarantee it.’

Still he didn’t speak. Birch hoped that was a sign it was working: he was considering it.

‘Also,’ she said, unable to stop babbling now, ‘you don’t need her, because you’ve got me. In terms of, you know, having a hostage. Having leverage. I’m here, now. And I’ll make you a promise: I don’t leave this house until you do. How does that sound? Whatever happens from now on, happens to both of us. I promise.’

She paused. He still wasn’t arguing.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you don’t need Elise, do you? You can let her go and get warmed up. She can have something to eat. She can be taken care of. You can show that you still want what you wanted when you first saw her, back at the house: for Elise to be okay.’

Birch heard a voice in her head that she realised was Rena’s. Enough now. Stop talking. She remembered Marcello, standing behind McLeod’s desk, one hand raised, palm flat: wait. She waited.

It felt like many minutes passed before Hodgson spoke.

‘You really think,’ he said, ‘that would make a difference? When you’re telling me for sure that I’ve killed someone. I’ve murdered someone.’

Birch took a long breath in before answering.

‘So have lots of people,’ she said, ‘and it’s almost always complicated. Everything has to be taken into account, right? Every decision made. Whether or not there was intent. Whether or not there’s remorse. It’s all evidence. It’s all considered. And anything can make a difference.’

Hodgson went quiet again. You haven’t got him yet, Birch thought, you haven’t quite convinced him. But the door in her mind was creaking open.

‘Think about that guy,’ she said, ‘the one you mentioned earlier. The slaughterman who shot his colleague. He killed someone too, right? But there were all sorts of other factors. All sorts of things considered at the trial. And he was found not guilty.’

Hodgson snorted, and she thought he’d argue, but he didn’t speak.

‘This isn’t over,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

Hodgson still didn’t answer, but he began to move. Birch squinted against the darkness to watch him unfold his arms, and push his knees away from his chest. He put out one hand and felt around on the stone wall behind him, finding a handhold and beginning to lever himself upright. Birch realised how much she’d relaxed since he’d curled up on the floor. As he lurched upright again, she braced herself, tightening her grip on Elise.

Hodgson straightened up, and patted himself down, as though trying to knock the dust and soot of the ruin off his clothes. He didn’t reach down for the shotgun, like she’d expected him to do: instead, he turned his back on her, and inched towards the window. The outline of his head came into sharp relief as he peered out into the opening, looking up towards the bright eye of the floodlight and the perimeter beyond. Birch thought about the snipers posted around the cottage, wondered if any of them had a shot. His face must be at least partially visible, she thought – a small, pale moon in the window’s black square. Hodgson stood there, looking out, for long enough that she began to wonder how she’d react if the shot came, if she had to watch him sprawl back from the hit. He’d die in front of her. She realised she didn’t know how to feel about that. And yet she waited for it, the bright zipping sound of the bullet leaving its chamber. She realised she longed for it not because she wanted Hodgson dead, or even punished, but because she wanted an end to this miserable ordeal. She wanted an end to the helicopter’s overhead battering. She wanted someone to reach out and lift Elise out of her arms, to safety. She wanted to walk out of this wretched pile of stones and fall down in the tousled grass outside and sleep, right there in the middle of the pasture.

‘This poor kid,’ she said, quietly, looking down at the shivery bundle in her arms. ‘Both parents dead. So much to try and make sense of. You care about that, Gerry, I can tell. You don’t want any more harm to come to her.’

Hodgson didn’t turn around. They probably can’t be sure it’s him, Birch thought, the face in the window. They think it could be me, that’s why they aren’t taking the shot.

‘You’ll tell them that?’ Hodgson asked.

‘Sure. But if you let her go, they’ll know. It’ll be a powerful message.’

Hodgson stepped sideways, back into the shadows.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘She can leave.’

The door in Birch’s mind swung open, flooding her whole body with light. She tried to keep her body still, her face impassive, so he couldn’t see the relief she felt.

‘You’re doing the right thing,’ she said, evenly. ‘I promise you.’

Hodgson didn’t reply. He walked back to the spot where he’d fallen to the floor and retched. When he lifted the shotgun, Birch saw a seam of dim light run down the barrel, just for a moment. She waited until Hodgson had nestled the gun across his chest once more, until she was confident he wouldn’t point it at her. Then she shifted Elise on her lap, and raised one hand.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s talk about what I’m going to do, so you know what to expect. In a minute, I’m going to stand up. I’m going to talk to Elise a little bit about what’s happening. Then we can send her out of the door together, if you like. How does that sound?’

Hodgson was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘What if they shoot her?’

Birch blinked.

‘What do you mean?’

He let out a snort.

‘You think I don’t know how many guns are trained on the door of this house? You think I haven’t heard how trigger-happy you people can be? The slightest movement outside that door, and they shoot. It’s dark. How are they to know it’s her?’

Birch glanced down at the flak jacket, still propped beside the chair. She realised she didn’t know for sure if the microphone was still picking up. Her colleagues might not have heard a word of the deal she’d just negotiated. Hodgson had a point.

‘The perimeter is close by,’ she said. ‘You talked to me by shouting over, remember? We’ll shout to them. We’ll make sure they know.’

Hodgson gestured towards the flak vest.

‘You should put that on her,’ he said. ‘To be on the safe side.’

Birch froze. What Hodgson was proposing would send that microphone – the only connection she had to her team – back up to the perimeter. They’d be alone together, then.

‘Problem is,’ she said, ‘it’s very heavy. I’m not sure she could walk, wearing it.’

Hodgson shrugged.

‘So try it out,’ he said. He seemed almost amiable, his anguish gone now he’d made up his mind to let Elise go. Birch realised she’d really made him believe he could change things, doing this, and she felt a brief stab of guilt at manipulating a man whose mind was clearly not functioning as it should. But Hodgson was still speaking. ‘Stand her up and put it on her, see if she can manage it.’

Elise had twisted her head round again to try and look at Hodgson as he spoke. Birch could feel that a hank of her blouse was balled hard in the little girl’s fist. She didn’t want to send the flak vest out of the door – didn’t want to lose either the microphone or the protection it would offer if she put it back on. But she couldn’t think of a way to keep hold of it without Hodgson becoming suspicious, and she didn’t want to risk him changing his mind about the child.

‘You hear that, Elise?’ she said, wincing. ‘You want to try on my police lady outfit?’

Elise turned her gaze and looked up at Birch. In the half-light, her little eyes were shiny.

‘Come on,’ Birch said, ‘do you like dressing up? I bet you do. I bet you have all sorts of cool costumes at home.’

The little girl nodded.

‘I have princess dresses,’ she said.

‘You do?’ Birch hooked her hands into Elise’s armpits, and very slowl. . .