“Well Vickie, I’m going to say no. I’ve spoken at length to Kathy’s manager Sally King and she is extremely worried about Kathy. Sally has told me that Kathy is the consummate professional, who would never miss a work appointment. Well, Kathy has actually missed two appointments since Thursday evening when she was last seen leaving her hotel in Manchester city centre. She missed a book signing on Friday morning, and of course, the moment when everybody realised that something wasn’t quite right – when Kathy failed to appear on ITV’s live discussion show, Sunday View Point.”
“So if this is a genuine missing person case, what exactly are the police doing to try and get to the bottom of this?”
“Yes, the thing is, this is still a very, very new enquiry. Home Office figures suggest that police in the UK deal with around a quarter of a million missing persons reports each year, and it’s important to add that almost all of those people reported missing, do turn up safe and well after a few days. So to answer your question, I don’t think that the police are creating too much drama at this point in time.”
“Are we expecting any updates from the police?”
“No, I’m not aware of any updates that are scheduled. The official police line at the moment is that they are carrying out their enquiries.”
“Okay, thank you. Sky’s chief media commentator Penny McAllen there, outside Kathy’s home in Hammersmith. On to some other news now, and Joy Rowley’s fiftieth birthday celebrations are getting under-way in Leek, despite the bouncy castle not arriving on time…”
* * *
“She hasn’t been abducted. Trust me, if she’d been abducted, whoever had done it would have surrendered by now.” The well-timed joke from Joe, the landlord of the Hare and Hounds in Manchester city centre received a loud laugh from all of his regulars, sat along the bar.
“I’ll tell you now what’s happened, right?” One of the regulars, Fred was holding his hand up, trying to grab the attention of his drinking pals, who were still smiling at Joe’s quip, but just wanted to listen to the TV news reports, to be honest. “Ey, listen. Ignorant bastards. Right, I’ll tell you. Now, what I’m saying is, that Kathy has been taken abroad by the fucking terrorists that she’s been taking the piss out of! Innit! I’m telling you – you can’t call them the kind of things that she’s been saying, without, you know…”
“Consequences?” suggested Joe.
“Yeah! Exactly. I’m right aren’t I? You can’t call terrorists names like that and expect to get away with it. She’ll turn up on some Alibajeera news channel or summat and they’ll chop her fucking head off live on the air. And I, for one, will give them a round of applause to tell you the truth.”
Fred’s drinking associates said nothing. The silence hung for a few seconds, before Fred concluded his point. “I will. Honestly.”
* * *
Beryl Butterworth, the famous local radio presenter from BBC Radio Manchester was engrossed in the Kathy story, as she sat on her sofa having watched the entire day’s news output. She was absolutely fascinated by the story, mainly because she had worked with Kathy many years ago, and the two had remained in contact. Whenever Kathy had something to plug she’d make a bee-line for Beryl’s mid-morning show, and was always a very entertaining, and a very interesting guest, who always boosted the listening figures.
Although it wasn’t particularly what people wanted to hear, Beryl had always spoken highly of Kathy. The seasoned radio star who had been a constant of the Manchester radio landscape since the 1970’s had met practically every star that had been and gone over a forty-odd year period, and she had said many times on air that Kathy was one of the nicest, friendliest and most professional people that she’d had the pleasure of meeting. Beryl had always been keen to make people realise that Kathy’s obnoxious style and manner was more of a character role, than the thoughts and actions of a real person.
“Aw, I wish I was on air today, just to give another side to this.” Beryl was talking to her partner, Julie. “These news reports are so one-sided. I wish I could say that there is another side to Kathy. I’d love to be able to say that Kathy donated twenty grand to little Demi’s America fund, but she swore me to secrecy.”
“Well, you can’t mention that, but you can talk about all the positive things that Kathy has brought about. You’ll get your chance on tomorrow’s show, love.” Julie was getting a bit sick of hearing about this now, and was hoping for a different topic.
“Yes, you’re right pet. I just hope its not bad news by then.”
* * *
“Flamin’ Norah! Is that our Jodie sat there?” Mike laughed at his own joke as he entered the room, surprised to see his sixteen-year-old daughter sitting in the living room.
“Shut up dad. Obviously it’s me, or you wouldn’t have said anything. Gizoid.”
“Alright, alright, I’m just saying, I’m not used to seeing you in here. You’re normally up in your room, staring at your phone, all cross-eyed, smelling of bogeys.”
“Well its lovely to see you, anyway love,” said Vicky, Jodie’s mum, smiling.
“Well don’t get used to it. I’m only down here cos my telly doesn’t have Sky News on it.”
“Course it does. All telly’s have Sky News. Who’s a gizoid now? Eh?” Mike laughed.
“My telly’s broke. I meant to say something, but it was six months ago now. It fell off the side.” Jodie looked down at the floor.
“Fell off?”
“Yeah. I swear down.”
“For fuck’s sake love…”
“Aw don’t start – I’m trying to watch this.” Jodie turned the volume up to drown out her parents’ bullshit about the broken television. A moment or so later, Mike had caught the gist, and was quite shocked to hear about Kathy’s disappearance.
“No way! When did that happen?”
“It’s been on all day dad, where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been visiting your nana in the old folk’s home. It’s the first I’ve heard about this, turn it up a bit.”
“It’s on full blast Mike,” said Vicky.
“Fucking hell, can’t believe this. Mad or what?”
* * *
“And this one is going out to all of the Trolls out there. You know who you are, desperately going through your Twitter accounts looking for the death-threat tweets that you’ve sent to Kathy Hopkirk over the past ten years. This song is for you, and for you as well Kathy, if you’re tuned in. Here’s the Talking Heads with Pyscho Killer.” Veteran comedian and BBC Radio 2 DJ Jonathan James was joking around as he often did on his Sunday evening slot. He had absolutely no idea that his jovial quip would result in the weekend controller Mark Bannister storming straight into the broadcast studio, demanding that Jonathan removed the song immediately, and apologise on-air for the “outrageous” remark.
“Come off it off Mark, I’m not apologising!” Jonathan James was furious at this unprecedented interruption to his show, a show which was celebrated for its “near-the-knuckle risqué humour.” He jumped up out of his seat and looking angry, but a little confused too.
“No, absolutely no way is this going on. Remove it, apologise immediately, or I’ll put the emergency tape on Jonathan, I’m not pissing around here!” The two men were stood face-to-face, and neither of them looked as though they were prepared to back down.
“Come on Mark, it was just a fucking gag.”
“It’s not funny. It’s beyond reasonable taste and decency. This is the fucking BBC you know, it’s not a bloody pirate radio station. Now last chance, take it off and apologise…”
“Or?”
“Or what?”
“What are you going to do if I won’t?”
“Right, seriously Jonathan, you’ve had your chance. You’ve got too big for your boots.” Mark Bannister turned and walked out of the studio, leaving Jonathan’s bewildered guests sitting awkwardly, with bemused “shit-what’s-going-on?” looks on their faces.
Inside the adjoining broadcast suite, Mark pulled some levers and pressed some buttons. The red light in Jonathan’s studio went off and BBC Radio 2 ceased playing the Talking Heads. And with that the Jonathan James show was off the air, replaced by the emergency tape, which was a simple hour-long segue of none-stop music and celebrity “you’re listening to Radio Two” inserts. It very rarely got played, and on the rare occasions that it did, the senior management team would panic that one of the cheery sounding celebs on the tape may have passed on, after all, most of the decent celebs had died in the past year or so.
“You complete and total wanker Mark. Fuck’s sake man!”
“Just go Jonathan, you’ve done your last show on here. I’ll personally see to that.”
“Oh, is that right? Well I might as well give you this then.” Jonathan James lurched forward and punched the radio station’s weekend boss right in the face. This was truly unbelievable, and all of it was being broadcast live on the BBC website’s studio-cam feature.
Mark Bannister was hurt, and shocked, and cried out in pain as he lay on the floor. Jonathan turned and walked away. He saw the red light sign on the wall and realised that the radio desk was live on air, so he decided to sign off in his own, unforgettable way. He turned on the microphone and spoke slowly and quietly. “This is Jonathan James, and apparently, I’ve done my last show on BBC Radio 2. Sorry for any offence I’ve caused, and sorry to my ex-boss for his black-eye, but I love that song. See you again my lovely friends, another time, another channel… it will probably be Absolute Radio to be honest. Chow for now.”
Chapter 6
As the evening wore on, and most people were making their way up to their bed, the people who had been following the Kathy case all day on the news were becoming increasingly frustrated. The story hadn’t moved at all, the only “development” had been the side-story regarding BBC Radio 2’s Jonathan James being sacked live-on-air for “making indefensible remarks” concerning Kathy’s disappearance, and then punching his boss in the face, which had proved quite a sensational story in its own right thanks to the visual content supplied via the BBC Radio 2 webcam.
But, despite this rather extraordinary distraction, there was a deep anger brewing amongst many viewers, an anger that was manifesting itself in the form of furious tweets and frustrated Facebook posts.
“Seriously though @MetPolice, are you not arsed that somebody could be in real danger?” asked one Twitter user.
“Kathy could be lay in a ditch with a dagger in her neck and the @MetPolice couldn’t give a toss!” suggested another.
“Kathy might be a stupid bitch, but the police should still be looking for her ffs. We pay your wages remember! WTF!” Was another viewpoint.
The mood was darkening, lots of people were desperate to know what had happened. They were eager to find out the next part of this story. They had invested a great chunk of their day into following this BREAKING NEWS on the telly, and via their social media accounts. It seemed diabolical that the day should come to an end without so much as an update or even a comment from the police. It just didn’t seem right, and as a result, those that were heavily engaged with the news item were launching all kinds of accusations and conspiracy theories at the police via their Twitter and Facebook accounts.
As midnight came, and the headline remained unaltered, the suggestion that the police were not taking the case seriously, simply because of the fact that it was Kathy Hopkirk, was becoming a story in its own right – and Sky News were the first to formally mention the growing discontent amongst its viewers.
“#FindKathy It seems to me that even the police hate Kathy. They’ve not done a thing to find her. This seems like a massive conspiracy to me @SkyNews” suggested one Twitter user. In a break from the orthodox, Sky News put the Tweet up on their screen and used it as justification to raise the topic. “Sky News viewers are beginning to contact us in their thousands, demanding to know why there seems to be so little police activity in the Kathy Hopkirk missing person enquiry. We will, of course keep our viewers up to date with all developments, including any response that we receive to the suggestion that the Metropolitan Police don’t appear to be taking this case seriously.”
But it seemed as though it was in extremely bad-taste. It felt very hollow, and soul-less. The tweet suggested so much more than was simply written. It displayed virtually no concern for the missing woman, but conveyed more of a general nosiness, an anger at the police for not providing the latest juicy gossip on a drip-feed for the nation’s news junkies and the celebrity obsessed public.
It all felt like a grubby, fake campaign from the outset, mainly because it was completely lacking in the one ingredient that was required in order to make it appear authentic. Compassion. There was none. Not a single tweet was floating around that contained any concern or emotional investment regarding Kathy’s welfare. In short, people seemed much more concerned that the police should be providing a running commentary on the latest details. It felt as though nobody really cared where Kathy was, or what had happened. They just wanted the goss.
Indeed, across the various social media platforms that were using the hash-tag #FindKathy and #KathyComeHome the tweets lacked the most basic of empathy or apprehension for the missing woman’s plight. One thing the tweets did do, however, was offer a myriad of suggestions and ideas about where Kathy had disappeared to.
“She’s gone to get her big wobbly head reshaped by plastic surgeons, and she is leaving show business now she’s made her money.”
Another suggestion;
“I know where Kathy has gone, she’s gone to apologise personally to all the people that she’s upset. She’ll be back in about 460 years. #FindKathy”
Twitter was seeing a great number of people making fun out of the situation too, there were thousands of tweets that were simply making a cheap shot about the news story.
“Imagine being Kathy Hopkirk, she’s a missing person and absolutely everbody in Britain is hoping that it remains the case! #KathyDONTComeHome #StupidBitch”
“I was upset when I heard that #Kathy had gone missing. Not because she’s missing, but because I spilt red wine on the sofa, jumping for joy.”
There was a very small number of people who were concerned, and were offering any kind of genuine concern on Twitter. But their number was so small, their tweets didn’t really see the light of day as tens of thousands of anti-Kathy tweets were retweeted and favourited and copied.
If Kathy was out there, observing the media reaction – which was the theory many people were suggesting, then she must surely be hurt by the complete and utter lack of compassion and humanity shown towards her.
But then again, this was Kathy Hopkirk. She revelled in her notoriety. Perhaps, if she was out there, and this was just some pointless attention-seeking stunt – maybe she would be absolutely delighted with this reaction.
Chapter 7
DCI Andy Miller arrived at the police HQ early on Monday morning, getting into the SCIU office by 6.30. He’d been beaten, comfortably, by DI Keith Saunders who was typing away at his laptop. There was a steaming brew on the filing cabinet by the side of the desk.
“Bloody hell Keith, I’m never going to get in before you, am I?”
“Not if you come in this late, Sir.” replied Saunders without turning around.
Miller laughed and checked his watch. “What time did you come in?” asked the senior detective.
“Five minutes ago.”
Saunders always said five minutes ago. Miller couldn’t fault the DI’s enthusiasm and commitment to his work, but he did quietly worry that Saunders tended to work too hard. It was great news for the SCIU team, and for Miller especially. But it did worry the DCI that Saunders may not have the work and private life balance anywhere near to a healthy compromise.
“Did you get my text yesterday?”
“About the missing celebrity?” asked Miller, as he unlocked his office door.
/> “Yes.”
“No, I didn’t get any texts off you yesterday.” Miller smiled as he pushed the door with his shoulder and disappeared into his glass walled office in the corner of the SCIU department. Saunders followed his boss.
“Do you know if we’re running it yet?”
“Whoah, slow down Keith. Flipping heck, give me a chance to get a brew on.”
“I know, sorry, it’s just…”
“She disappeared on our patch and you want us to run the investigation ourselves, and not watch on as the Met detectives make a dogs-dinner of it?”
“Well… er, yes. Exactly. I’ve been looking into her background and that, I know all the basic facts about her, I just want the nod to get on and find out where she is, what’s happened and, well, find out where she is.”
Miller placed his bag and laptop case down on his desk and tutted at the sheer size of his workload. “Look at the state of this lot. It never goes down,” said Miller, to himself mainly.
“Do you want me to brew up?” asked Saunders.
“I’d prefer it if you threw all this lot out of the window to be honest. Yeah, go on then, nice one Keith. Make it two spoons of coffee. Cheers.”
Saunders left the office and Miller turned on his laptop and started familiarising himself with the case-files that had been left on his desk all weekend. He soon remembered where everything was up to, and how things had been left on Friday afternoon. The weekend seemed like a distant memory already, and Miller had only been in the building a couple of minutes. Saunders was soon back with Miller’s brew, and looked for a space on the desk to put it down.
“Oh, cheers Keith. Good weekend?”
“Not bad. Didn’t do much. Spent most of Sunday watching the news about Kathy.”
“Oh, I know, Clare had it on all day as well.”
“It’s a big deal though, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a serious job. It stinks of foul-play.”
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 3
