by Iain Cameron
At one time, it was a decrepit collection of old houses, abandoned warehouses, decaying train carriages, and redundant shunting yards, many dating from Victorian times, and the sight greeting millions of tourists as they arrived by train for a day at the seaside. Now its replacement, a forest of anonymous office blocks, left passengers searching for the station name board to ensure they hadn’t boarded a train to Reading or Basingstoke by mistake.
They were shown into reception by a smartly dressed young woman with the grace and style to feature in the colour pages of a Sunday magazine. They sat there only for a few minutes, before Jack Monaghan came out to meet them. He wore a smart charcoal-coloured suit, white shirt, no tie and brown expensive-looking brogues. Henderson expected no less from the owner of a fifty-person software business, designing and integrating major software systems for the oil and gas industry, or so it said in the company booklet he’d looked at.
Monaghan’s office avoided soft furnishings in favour of hard pieces of technology, with a laptop, oversized desktop pc, and various bits of kit winking and flashing atop cupboards and small filing cabinets.
‘It’s a terrible business, Kelly disappearing like she did, so it is,’ he said, from a seat behind a large desk, big enough to accommodate all his electronic toys and still giving him the space to work. The accent sounded Irish but softer than those in the North and probably from Dublin or further west.
‘You haven’t heard anything from her?’ Henderson asked.
‘No, and neither has Brian. Absolutely nothing. I tell you Inspector,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘it’s so unlike her. I send her texts every couple of days and she texts me back almost straight away. If I look on Twitter, there’s something new there every day and photos of her and the kids are always popping up on Facebook. Look.’ He tapped something at lightening speed into the keyboard and turned the screen to face them.
‘This is Facebook. The last post she wrote was on Monday, the day before she disappeared and here on Twitter,’ tap, tap and up came another screen, ‘the last Tweet she did was on Tuesday morning, about the MP caught on a camera phone feeling up one of his interns.’
‘Thank you sir, but we have seen it.’
‘I don’t want to over-egg the pudding,’ Monaghan said, turning the screen back to face him, ‘but I can’t tell you how uncharacteristic this is for her not to be in touch.’
‘What do you think has happened to her?’
‘She’s been taken by someone.’
‘You seem quite sure.’
‘There’s the evidence if you need it,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘If she ran off voluntarily, I’m 100% sure she would have sent me a text or posted something on Twitter to say she was ok.’
‘Mr Monaghan,’ Henderson said, ‘when we saw you last week and talked about the dinner party–’
‘Yep, I remember.’
‘You told us nothing of interest happened.’
‘It was a normal dinner party, everyone got drunk and talked rubbish, same as usual.’
‘Information passed onto us by a witness, suggests you were seen kissing Mrs Langton in the kitchen.’
‘What? How the hell? Do you have pictures or video? Brian will go ballistic if he finds out.’
‘No pictures or video, but a witness statement.’
‘Who saw us? Who was it?’
‘I can’t tell you, sir but perhaps you can tell us what happened?’
He ran trembling fingers through thick, black hair. ‘What happened? I’ll tell you what happened, nothing. She was pissed off with Brian about something and I gave her a hug to try and cheer her up and it turned into a kiss. It was nothing.’
‘Was this the first time for you and Mrs Langton?’ Graham asked.
He stared into space for a moment. ‘Second I suppose,’ he said, blowing out a puff of exasperated breath. ‘It happened about two weeks ago. I gave her a lift home when she called me to say her taxi didn’t show up. Naturally I assumed she fancied me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a home breaker but I’m a single bloke and she’s a grown woman so she can decide about these things for herself.’
He looked over at the screen for a moment, probably distracted by an incoming email. ‘All the time I’m thinking it’s about me, but in reality, I’m catching her on the bounce after a bad argument with Brian. She didn’t want to progress it and I didn’t push her.’
‘If she was having such a bad time with her husband,’ Graham said, ‘why didn’t she leave him?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose she assumed it was a sticky patch and they would soon get over it. Hey, you’re not suggesting that after a quick snog in the kitchen I kidnapped or killed her or I’ve got her living in my flat, ready to scoot off as soon I sell my business or something?’
‘Do you?’ Henderson said.
‘Don’t be daft. Olivia stays at my place a couple of nights a week and I’m getting two new bathrooms fitted and the builders are there all day. I think they would notice if someone else was living there or tied to a chair, wouldn’t you? In any case, this business is not up for sale and it won’t be until they carry me out in a box.’
‘You might also consider, sir,’ Henderson said, ‘that you may not be responsible for Kelly Langton’s disappearance, but what would her husband do if he suspected something was going on between you two?’
SIX
He nodded to fellow First Class passengers as he took his seat. Brian Langton saw most of them every day, but typically for commuters in the south, nobody spoke to him unless they wanted to borrow one of the three newspapers he carried. Sometimes he was recognised, not as the pugnacious television interviewer he used to be, but either as the disgraced ex-cabinet minister who liked to bugger young boys in public toilets, or the guitarist of an eighties rock band who died twenty years ago of a heroin overdose.
If they did speak to him, it was unlikely they would receive much of a response, as he had been in a black mood ever since his wife went missing. He couldn’t escape it, even if he wanted to, as every newspaper carried her picture on their front pages. He didn’t even need to buy three newspapers to know this, as they were in his eye-line as he approached the newsagent in the morning, and his every step was dogged by reporters and photographers, flocking like farmyard geese looking for food.
Today, The Daily Telegraph were running a taster on its front page, ‘Glamour Model Disappearance Latest P4’ and on said page, a whole spread about his wife and plotting her career, alongside several stylish photographs of Kelly’s younger self with an old picture of him when his hair was thicker and darker – well done DT. The Times ran a similar story, but moving away from the bland reporting of facts and instead, compared her ‘case’ to other high profile missing persons cases and starting to speculate about what might have happened.
His third newspaper was often The Argus or the Guardian but today, he bought The Sun as Kelly had been a permanent feature on page 3 throughout the late nineties and as expected, they went to town with their former ‘Babe of the Week.’ They ran two full pages of pictures, dating back to her modelling days and giving them the chance to display twelve pairs of boobs rather than the usual one or two, and a few of her clothed and walking across the South Downs with their dogs.
They also launched an appeal for information with a telephone number to call for those with something to share, but he suspected all they would get were cranks and perverts saying they did it, and some saying they wished they’d done it. This number would multiply ten-fold if the editor did his usual stunt of offering a substantial reward if they didn’t get a result in a week or two.
It was a short walk from Victoria Station to his office in Francis Street and even though he wanted to take his time as he couldn’t stand the empathetic looks, hushed conversations and the endless expressions of sympathy from his own staff, an icy wind whipped down Victoria Street chilling his bones and instead of slowing down, he walked at his usual brisk pace.
Creative compani
es were often located in Soho, Docklands, or in Uxbridge where they used to be, close to Sky Television one of their biggest customers; but after a shaky start for the company when they started out on making dramas and comedies, he found his mojo working with politicians. He shifted the focus of the business to political and current affairs and moved their offices to Victoria, to be close to the Houses of Parliament and government departments, a decision he’d never regretted.
He called a gruff ‘good morning’ to those who deserved it and gave a cursory nod or ignored those who didn’t and walked into his office. Having spent ten years facing eighteen-stone, scarred roughnecks from Manchester and skinny, knife-wielding thugs from Essex and everything in between, he’d never perfected the mainstay of actors, producers, and even lowly sub-editors, the ‘luvvy kiss’ or a ‘television smile,’ but he could produce an impassive mask or an aggressive snarl any time they wanted.
Five minutes later his personal assistant, Melanie Knight, came in bearing two mugs of coffee and a folder under her arm, forcing her to close the door with her foot. Following a recent trip to the hairdresser, her hair was short and dyed jet black, complimenting her rounded face. Perhaps the white blouse and navy skirt matched her hairstyle better than some of the outfits she wore over the last few days but whatever the reason, she looked great, a welcome sight in a sea of gloom.
She placed his mug on the ‘BBC TV’ coaster, sat down and opened the desk diary on her knee, revealing a tantalising hint of black nylon.
‘I take it there’s been no news, Brian, or I suspect you wouldn’t be in here today.’
‘Yeah, I’d either be cracking open a bottle of bubbly with a house full of well-wishers or warming my arse in a police interview room. The cops don’t have a clue and neither do the papers, despite putting the cream of Wapping on the case.’
‘They haven’t exactly been models of restraint, have they? Her picture is on every newsstand with tales of every indiscretion, no matter how minor.’
‘Some of which I’d forgotten about but when are they ever?’ He lifted the mug and took a drink. It was black with nothing added; a straight dose of caffeine to keep him going, but piping hot and he only managed a sip. ‘What’s in the diary for me today?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s the second Tuesday of the month so in ten minutes time in will come Damian and his team for an episode update. What else? You’re seeing Emilio at eleven, and this afternoon from two, you’re at Television Centre for a meeting with your favourite BBC producer, Tony Blacksmith.’
‘Fucking hell. I hate dealing with that odious little twerp. He squeezes me down to the last cent as if the bloody licence payer’s money came out of his pocket, and a couple of days later, calls me up, ‘can you add this,’ ‘can you put in that’ in his stupid, squeaky voice.’
‘Such are the colours of life.’
‘I’d like to wring the colours of life out of his bloody neck.’
‘You mustn’t say those things, Brian, even in jest. You never know who might be listening.’
He sighed. ‘You’re right. Subtlety is not my middle name. What else?’
‘That’s about it for the diary as you told me you wanted to go easy on meetings for the next week or two.’
‘So I did, carry on doing it.’
‘The next thing I need to talk to you about is the arrangements I’m making for the Newshound launch party. Now I’ve booked the…’
The office door flew open and Damian and the rest of his team trooped into his office. ‘C’mon Mel,’ Damien said, ‘out you go, at ten he’s ours. You know the rules.’
‘Yeah, when it suits you, as any time I ask you to come to a meeting, you arrive late.’ She turned to face her boss. ‘I guess we can finish this later.’
‘Yeah, no problem.’
Mel departed to the sound of Damian’s people rearranging Langton’s office, bringing in chairs, cups of coffee, thick running schedules, and a storyboard on a stand.
The television programme which had made him rich, bought the house in Hurstpierpoint, and pushed his company high above a slew of young, arrogant, and thrusting independent production companies, was Prime Minister’s Questions. A humorous, satirical political show, now in its sixth season, it poked a sharp stick at Downing Street and the Government. Viewed through the eyes of a jaundiced PM, played by Peter Grainger, it drew six million viewers, although he suspected many men tuned in to gaze at the PM’s beautiful press secretary, Rebecca Watts, who wore skirts way too short and blouses much too tight.
The paranoid members of several Cabinets accused them of having a mole in the Government, as the programme was always so topical and at times prescient. If so, why was it still cutting-edge when there had been a change of Government six months before and the last lot were now in opposition or working as highly-paid consultants for large corporations?
‘Picture this,’ Damian, the show’s current producer said without introduction or formality, an urgency Langton liked. ‘The Home Secretary’s ratings are falling like a stone after he refused to give a pay rise for the police and banned musical instruments in prisons, very topical. While on holiday in Newquay to lick his wounds and to consider his political future, he dives into the sea to save a drowning woman. The papers are full of the story and his ratings soar but one lone voice, the friend of the woman he saved, is telling anyone who will listen that it was his companion who saved her life while the Home Secretary stood on the beach looking at his phone. This will–’
‘Hang on Damian,’ Langton said. ‘Two things. First, why not set the rescue somewhere a little more exotic and warm than Cornwall, as not many people are swimming in the sea down there in late September; and second, wouldn’t it be better for him to rescue a pet because, as we know, the Brits go gaga for an animal lover?’
‘See, I said it should be a pet,’ Production Designer Stu said in a shrill, theatrical voice. ‘It would be easier to film and it would resonate with our core target audience.’
‘No, no it works better with a woman as we can use a sexy bathing costume to spice things up and make the Home Secretary appear racier, but I take your point about Cornwall in September. I fancy the Azores.’
And so it went on. To an outsider it resembled the sort of angry shouting match you could hear in any city centre bar at midnight on a Friday night, but meetings like this generated creative energy and often a raft of new ideas poured out. It proved its worth yet again, as the PMQ team left an hour later with more ways of developing the script than before they came in.
He didn’t have time for more than one phone call and to grab another cup of coffee, before his business partner Emilio Levanti appeared in the doorway, his generous bulk blocking the view of the outer office.
‘Good day to you, Brian.’
‘Come in Emilio, take a pew,’ he said, a touch more warmly than he felt. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No thanks, Lucy gave me one twenty minutes ago,’ he said, closing the door before he sat down.
Born of an Italian father and Irish mother, he didn’t resemble either and looked a man who liked to lunch, leaving him with a big gut and an insatiable appetite for food and drink. With a deep, sonorous voice, sounding as though it came from the bottom of a mine, he had soothed the ears of Radio 4 listeners for many years, and more recently his Radio 2 regulars enjoyed a treat on Friday nights when he hosted his ‘oldies’ show.
He and Emilio had set up Camino House Productions over a drink, as everything with Emilio is done over a drink, with Langton as Managing Director and head of production and the man in the visitor’s chair as the Development Director, a powerful creative force to open television network doors and encourage them to open chequebooks and sign lucrative contracts. To date, their partnership worked like a dream, as good as any blockbuster TV serial and at times, it meant more to him than his partnership with Kelly.
‘I take it you’ve heard nothing new?’ Emilio asked.
‘Nothing at all. N
o ransom demand to bring her home, no boyfriend demanding I start divorce proceedings, nothing.’
‘I thought as much from the paucity of new information in the press. What do the police say?’
‘Their main message seems to be it’s still early days. I mean it’s only been a week, although to read the papers you’d think it was over a month. She could be in a hospital somewhere or away visiting someone I’d forgotten about or... ach, I don’t know. I don’t think there’s any point in second-guessing.’
‘Not likely though is it?’ Emilio said picking some fluff from the trousers of his Saville Row suit. He dressed sharply no matter what he did, even for late-night appearances on the radio. ‘Kelly wasn’t the forgetful type. Quite the opposite in fact.’
‘I know, as I’ve often found to my cost.’
‘You see,’ he said, moving his overweight frame to a more comfortable position in a chair he dwarfed, ‘I’ve been thinking about this. There’s plenty in this industry who would like nothing better than for you and me to take our eyes off the ball and for this business to fail.’
‘What? They’d kidnap my wife just to get their name and poxy programme on the box? Do me a favour, Emilio.’
‘There’s some I know, and you know them too, who would sell their grandmother to a group of Jihadis to get a slice of the on-air time we get.’
‘Like who?’ he said, but he knew the names well enough.
He opened his hand and counted out on his fingers. ‘One, Mat Hannah; two, Jasper Costain; three, Baz Kinghorn. That’s three off the top of my head. I could conjure up a few more with a drink in my hand.’
Langton fell silent for a moment, Emilio was right. Mat Hannah’s company, Fortuna Infiniti made a mini-series about a group of political journalists, which aired on prime-time but he and Emilio persuaded the BBC it contained too much swearing and alienated audiences, and in time, they replaced it with a similar programme made by them, called Truth and Lies. It had happened nine months ago and Hannah swore revenge and had even reiterated the threat when they attended the International TV convention in Dubai the previous month.
