Gail Walker: Lyra McKee really was that 'bright, shiny button of a person'... but we couldn't save this light from being extinguished
All day Saturday the sun beats down, unseasonably strong for April. In the garden the sound of birdsong as the wood pigeons hurry in and out of their nest in a tree, high above the head of the oblivious, dozing cat. The daffodils sway wearily; in a week they'll be gone, giving way to the first flowers of summer. Somewhere not far away, the persistent thrum of a lawnmower, a child's shouts of excitement.