Chapter 29
The media frenzy was almost over. The press-pack which had quickly gathered outside Kathy Hopkirk’s house on Sunday afternoon was now thinning and dwindling. There was no way that she was going to turn up at her house anytime soon, after announcing that she was finished with the media life for good. A few “glass-half-full” reporters stayed put, just in case, but most had headed off now, despatched to other stories or back to their offices and studios.
The debate was raging on across the British radio talk shows, about whether this was a real hoax, or a publicity stunt, or whether Kathy had actually, genuinely disappeared for real. Radio phone-ins were the ideal place to really vent some anger and frustration, and many people were waiting “on hold” to get on air, and express their thoughts about the whole affair.
Sky News had demoted the Kathy story to second in the headlines by five pm, and it was third by six. The energy that had surrounded the “what if” nature of Kathy’s disappearance had now been replaced with a deep sense of anger and irritation. People were angry and irritated for various reasons, and as the newspaper website and Facebook comment boxes filled up once more with the odious thoughts of a duped British public, the editors and producers realised that this story had become too toxic to give any more airtime or column space to.
Suddenly, there wasn’t very much of an appetite for this story, and the fact left a huge void in the news. There wasn’t very much happening, so it was a very tricky situation to try and manoeuvre out of. But one newspaper had found the perfect angle, and while it was a God-send for the media outlets, it was likely to be a difficult situation for DI Keith Saunders and DC Helen Grant to wriggle out of. But the press care very little about little details like this, and as such, they had a great new story.
The London Evening Standard had been contacted by a London Tour Bus driver who had supplied CCTV footage of DI Saunders and DC Grant having fun, laughing and joking on a tour bus the previous evening, when they were supposed to have been in London looking for Kathy Hopkirk. For the London newspaper, this was a golden opportunity to take the piss out of northern coppers who had ventured onto their manor, especially as the same officer had provided press photographers with a photo of his investigation notes. The journalist who was excitedly writing the story was Googling Saunders, looking for any other errors that could be “revealed” in the story.
DI Saunders was on the M6 motorway, just north of Birmingham when the Evening Standard Online went live with their “exclusive” story, headlined; “IS THIS BRITAIN’S MOST USELESS DETECTIVE?”
Chapter 30
Saunders and Grant had been making good progress of the journey north. It was almost seven pm as the car approached Knutsford on the M6, but it looked quite doubtful that they’d make the pub quiz now, after half an hour of stop-start traffic just north of Birmingham. This had knocked their timings out, but none-the-less, they were in good spirits and enjoying a light-hearted chat and lots of banter all the way home. The pub quiz wasn’t the be-all and end-all. Grant was planning to invite Saunders to have a drink with her anyway, if they missed the quiz.
Despite the long drive and the traffic problems, the mood in the car was good natured and fun. The radio was on, playing some good stuff and Saunders had been entertaining Grant with stories from his early days as a uniformed policeman, back when he’d been trying to attract the attention of the CID. He was sharing some of his slightly auspicious experiences, in a bid to show a more modest side to his professional image. Grant was hugely entertained by one particular story that Saunders recalled.
Saunders was just a young PC then, in the late 1990s. His beat was the Salford area, a tough place with plenty of crime and difficult social-issues at that time. A 999 call had come in, it was a man claiming that he’d been robbed in his own home in Little Hulton, and that the attacker was still in the house, reportedly having a toilet-rest. Saunders drove the Ford Escort “jam-butty” police car on blue lights and sirens, and arrived with his partner within minutes of the call. They were quickly let into a run-down, decrepit council house, and were faced with a very skinny, very angry man in his early thirties, wearing nothing but a pair of SPX shell-suit bottoms.
“I’ve bin robbed, I’ve bin robbed!” Saunders was doing a very amusing Salford-scally accent, which made Grant roar with laughter. Saunders continued explaining what he and his colleague were confronted with when they reached the grey pebble-dashed house.
“Calm down, and just tell us what’s happened!” said Saunders to this crazy guy, who looked like he was struggling with some addiction or other.
“My dealer’s stolen my fucking crack man!”
“Is he still here?”
“Nah man, is he fuck!” Saunders was really enjoying himself, doing the character voice for Grant’s entertainment. “He’s fucked off with my gear! I want him arresting, I want my fucking gear back!” The man was worked-up, shouting and sweating profusely. He was getting into a real state. Saunders and his partner were struggling to understand what the actual issue was.
“Right, just listen to me. Why has your drug-dealer stolen your drugs?”
“Because I haven’t paid him.”
“And how much do you owe him?”
“Forty quid.”
“So if you had forty quid, would he bring it back?”
“Yeah, course he would, why?”
“What’s he called, your dealer?”
“Tez Sanderson.”
The name rang a bell, and Saunders hatched a plan, deciding to utilise this unbelievable opportunity to try and impress his colleagues in the CID. After all, that was the only place that he wanted to work in the police force. He hated the uniform job, chasing after the same yobs and dickheads night after night.
At this point in time, the local Detective Sergeant was a certain DS Andrew Miller. The young Saunders phoned Miller and explained the situation. The dealer was a man that Salford police had been after for a while, for various drugs offences, robbery and violence. Saunders told his partner to drive the police car off the estate, and then gave the complainant forty pounds, telling him to ring his dealer, and ask him to bring back the crack. The man was so desperate for his drugs, he got straight on the line. A couple of CID officers were at the scene within minutes and Tez Sanderson was locked up.
A year later, Saunders was offered a position in Miller’s CID department, and it was probably all thanks to that lucky encounter with a desperate addict and a thick dealer.
Grant loved the story, and began making fun of the guy who had shopped his own dealer. “What became of the drug addict?” she asked.
“Oh, he got nicked. When he realised what was going on, he started kicking off so we took him in as well. It was for the best, or he’d have been murdered for being a grass. And I got my forty quid back too.”
* * *
Miller arrived home a little after seven pm. Clare was stood at the door with Leo by her side, Molly was inside, chilling on the settee with her i-pad.
“Hello my darling, what a lovely surprise to see you before bedtime!”
“Hello Daddy!” said Leo, waving. Clare was laughing, and whooping to herself. Andy could now look after the worst part of the day. Bedtime. The time of day that just when you thought you were done, the kids want to drink water. Try giving them water in the daytime and there’s no chance. When you want them in bed, it’s all they can think about.
“Hiya, nice to see you! I got finished on time today, I’d have been in a lot earlier but there’s been a pretty bad smash on the East Lancs, its took me an hour to get here from Swinton you know.”
Miller kissed his wife, and ruffled Leo’s hair. “Do you want to carry Daddy’s bag in for me?”
“Nah, its okay,” said Leo, before laughing and running into the house. Miller laughed at the cheek of his four-year-old, as he closed the front door and placed his bag down by the bottom of the stairs.
“Brew or beer?” as
ked Clare as she walked off towards the kitchen.
“Beer. Definitely a beer. Just one though! Cheers love.”
“Hi Daddy!” said Molly, dropping her i-pad onto her lap. She threw her arms open for a hug.
“Hello gorgeous! How are you?”
“Tired!” Molly wobbled her head and blew a raspberry. Miller smiled and leant down to kiss Molly’s forehead. He stood back up, groaning at the sudden pain in his back, before heading towards the kitchen. He grabbed the ice-cold bottle of lager off the worktop. Clare had taken the lid off.
“Cheers love. Oh, by the way, forgot to say, Keith has got himself well and truly obsessed with that new DC we’ve started.”
“Is that the girl he’s been on telly with, down in London.”
“Yeah, that’s her. Well, she’s not a girl, she’s nearly thirty. But yeah, he’s bloody crazy over her.”
“Aw, that’s so cool. She’s really pretty too. I hope she likes him back.”
“She does apparently! That’s what Jo Rudovsky was saying. She’s a bit obsessed by him as well. So this is going to be absolutely brilliant, or absolutely awful. Only time will tell!”
“Aw, bless him. Aw that’s so cute! Keith Saunders with a woman. God, she’ll soon get sick of his twenty-four hour shifts!”
“Or his guffy farts!”
“Andy! Why do you always lower the tone?”
Miller didn’t reply, his mind was suddenly elsewhere as his work phone began vibrating in his pocket. He grabbed it, but didn’t recognise the number.
“DCI Miller” he said as he answered. He took a swig of lager from the bottle.
“Ah, Mr Miller, hello, my name is Ann Walker, I’m with the Daily Express.”
“Oh, right.” Miller was cold, and deliberately unwelcoming. These journalists were always getting his number from somewhere. Miller was about to read the rehearsed line about contacting the Manchester City Police Press-Office when Ann continued.
“It’s about the misconduct story surrounding your Detective Inspector. I assume you’re aware of it?”
Miller turned around and stared out of his side-window, trying to figure out what this lady was talking about. “No, what. Wait… I’ve not got a clue…”
“There’s a story that has come out in the past hour about DI Saunders, apparently using Kathy Hopkirk’s disappearance as an excuse to go on a jolly around London.”
“What? Listen, that’s such a load of nonsense…”
“It’s the Evening Standard who broke the story. But, the thing is, its pretty quiet today, now that the Kathy mystery has been solved, so quite a few of us are using it too.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know Ann. I owe you one.”
“No, wait, I…”
Miller hung up, then looked at his call logs. He blocked the number that had just called him, before pulling up the London newspaper’s website on his phone. Sure enough, there it was, a full “exclusive” and “revealed” story about DI Saunders and DC Grant, accompanied by a really cheesy “exposed” photograph of the pair, looking as though they were on a fair-ride or something. As Miller began reading the report, Clare called him through to the living room, with a tone of voice that made him think that he wasn’t going to like this.
The same story about Saunders and Grant was
making BREAKING NEWS on the Sky News channel.
* * *
“Hi Sir, how’s it going?” Saunders had Miller on speakerphone.
“Alright Keith, where are you?”
“Just approaching the best city in the world…” Saunders was waiting for a daft reply from Miller, such as “What Swansea?” or something similar. But Miller didn’t make a joke, he sounded pretty tense. Grant picked up on the bad vibes too.
“Fucking hell Keith, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re all over the news! Some journalist has come up with a story, saying you and DC Grant have used this trip to London for a knees-up!”
“You what?” Saunders looked across at Grant. He wanted to laugh, assuming this was a wind-up.
“Yes, I know, don’t worry – I know it’s a load of shit. But listen, if any press contact you about it, just say nowt. Act like a crook and say no comment. In fact, don’t answer your phone to anyone except me until I’ve sorted this out. Is Grant with you?”
“Yes Sir, sat right beside me.”
“Hello Sir!” said Grant, her voice wobbled as she struggled to find the correct pitch for the seriousness of the situation.
“Hi, listen, did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes Sir, all of it.”
“Okay, don’t answer your phone or reply to any text messages until I give the all-clear. I need to nip this shit in the bud before it gets silly.”
“Of course Sir, no problem.”
“Right, Keith, talk me through your diary for yesterday, and tell me about any parts where you might have been photographed having a good time with DC Grant.”
“Flipping heck Sir! Yesterday was a total pain in the arse from the minute we arrived in London. The only time me and Helen would have had a smile on our faces would have been long after we finished, we didn’t even check into the hotel until nine pm. Oh, and on the way to get some tea we saw a daft tour bus so jumped on that for half-an-hour. Other than that, it was a totally frustrating, ball-breaking day with Kathy’s bell-end husband.
“What time did you go to bed?”
“We got back to the hotel about eleven, after a couple of beers in the pub where we ate. This is totally ridiculous Sir. We both did about six hours over-time each yesterday.”
“I know, don’t worry about it. Go home, and stay put until I ring you. If there’s any press outside your house, just smile and be polite but don’t say nowt. Right?
“Right, Sir.”
Chapter 31
“Kathy Hopkirk has turned up safely, but there are growing calls this evening for a senior detective in the case to be removed from duty.” The BBC 9’0’clock news presenter looked really disappointed by Saunders’ actions as he read the bulletin. “Let’s cross live now to Catherine Appleby who has the details.”
“Yes, thank you. This has been a very unexpected development in the Kathy Hopkirk story. The detective who was responsible for trying to find Kathy can be seen very clearly on video footage, relaxing and having fun with his colleague on a London Tour Bus. This came just hours after Detective Inspector Saunders, from Manchester Police, allowed press photographers to take pictures of his highly confidential notes relating to the disappearance.” The reporter also looked really disappointed.
Saunders was sat in his apartment in Manchester city centre, trying to take this ridiculous story in. Grant was sat beside him. They both looked utterly confounded. Not a word was said between them as the BBC national news ran its lead story.
“Officers from the Met Police Force are tonight said to be angered by these images, particularly as they had been informed that Manchester police were taking over the investigation. However, Detective Inspector Saunders’ superior, DCI Andrew Miller has been very quick to defend his staff, and try to rubbish the claims.” The screen changed from the head and shoulders shot of the dissatisfied looking reporter, and was replaced by a photograph of Miller, with a telephone graphic in the corner to tell viewers that this was a phone call. Miller sounded bemused, rather than annoyed.
“Well, course I’m rubbishing these claims. This is probably the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my entire life, and I’ve heard some bonkers stuff, let me tell you. DI Saunders is the most dedicated, hard-working and obsessive detective that I have ever known. I can confidently say that this news story is a complete and total joke!”
“With respect DCI Miller, it doesn’t seem like a joke. In fact, it looks extremely serious, and there are growing calls for DI Saunders and DC Grant to lose their jobs over this scandal.”
“Scandal? Are you being serious? Honestly, is this a prank cal
l?”
“No DCI Miller, it is not a prank call. The public are extremely alarmed that a leading officer can treat a missing persons enquiry with such a flagrant display of disinterest.” The reporter looked outraged now. Miller just laughed mockingly.
“Listen right, I’ve spoken to DI Saunders, and he’s told me what happened. I’m happy with it, and that’s all that matters.”
“And can you tell the British tax-paying public what happened, as they surely have a right to know.”
“Yes, no problem, if you don’t mind finishing your report with a load of egg on your chin. Right, so, this bus ride took place at half past nine at night, some, what, fourteen hours after my colleagues clocked into work in Manchester. You can’t dispute that, when this tour bus footage you’ve broadcast has the time in the corner. So they were off duty, and having a bit of a laugh after a long, hard, stressful day. That’s it.”
“Could they not have been working on something a little more productive?”
“Listen, you’re obviously desperate to make something out of this, but it’s a load of nonsense. They’d put in a fifteen hour shift. They’ll not be paid any extra for that either. In those fifteen hours, they travelled to London, arrested a suspect, questioned him, and then locked him up for the night because he wasn’t co-operating. They then found a hotel, and went out for some tea. That’s dinner down your way isn’t it? Sorry, they went out to dinner, oh and they went on the London tour bus as well, enjoying a bit of down-time. They got back to the hotel around eleven pm. As your own reporters showed this morning, live on air, they both entered Shepherd’s Bush police station just before eight am and looked very smart and professional.”
“DCI Miller, thank you for your…”
“No, wait, I just wanted to add… If I’m annoyed about anything to do with this, it’s that DI Saunders and DC Grant failed to bring us back a souvenir. Like, one of those little red London Buses or a Beef-Eater ornament, or summat. Anything, you know, a memento, just a little bit of tat. But quite frankly, that doesn’t surprise me because it’s a well known fact that DI Saunders is as tight as a drum. I had to use a spanner to get fifty pence off him once! Honestly, I’ve never known anyone as mean as DI Saunders! I went round his house the other day and he was stripping wallpaper. I asked him if he was redecorating, and he said, no, I’m moving house.” Miller laughed loudly, and the news reporter looked completely wrong footed. She stalled as she looked into the camera.
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 13
