“By examining Kathy’s hair length on Thursday evening from CCTV footage gathered at the Midland Hotel, and from a television appearance last Tuesday morning, I have discovered that if the video in which Kathy claims that she is safe and well, and retiring from show-business is legitimate and a trustworthy piece of evidence… then it means that Kathy’s hair has grown three inches within one week.”
Saunders held up the photographs. Several members of the press could be heard to gasp. This case had just taken a bizarre, unbelievable twist.
Miller was sitting on a chair, close to the TV crews at the front of the stage. “Not bad for Britain’s worst detective!” he shouted, loud enough to be broadcast on Sky, BBC and CNN news channels. “None of you spotted that. Did ya not?”
Saunders rounded up the rest of the press conference, reiterating the appeal for any sightings of Kathy to be called in. Finally, Saunders kept his word and invited questions from the press.
“Kelly Fisher, Granada Reports, isn’t there any other CCTV footage of Kathy after leaving The Midland?”
“Hi Kelly, no, well, I mean, we were making progress on this, but then the operation was halted completely on Tuesday lunchtime, as we all assumed that the case was closed. We will of course pick those enquiries up again now, but it means we’ve lost a few days, and if there is forensic evidence to be gathered, that’s been a really unhelpful delay.”
“How can a city centre the size of Manchester not be able to track a single person down?”
“Well, it was night time, and Kathy was wearing a very neutral coloured outfit. It was a black jacket, black pants, grey handbag. I’m sorry to say but there are literally thousands of women walking around in very similar clothes, and that’s what has caused a lot of difficulty on this investigation. It’s almost like looking for one silver car on Motorway cameras, when most of the cars are silver. That is the best way to describe it I’m afraid. One CCTV operator told me that it was as though Kathy just upped and vanished from the Metrolink stop. She was seen there on CCTV, and then a tram arrived, obscured the CCTV footage, and then about ninety seconds later, when the tram left, she was no longer stood there. There was no credit card payment made by Kathy, so she didn’t buy a tram ticket with her card. She could have paid cash, but she didn’t do that before the tram arrived. So, we have to start our enquiries once again, at Saint Peter’s Square tram stop.”
“It’s a bit embarrassing all this, isn’t it?” shouted one journalist. The remark seemed to attract some agreement from others in the Media Centre.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment on that.” Saunders looked down at his paper work, satisfied that from his response, every member of the press knew that Saunders agreed, and that he was laying the blame squarely at the feet of the Met officers who hadn’t wiped their bum with this one.
“You must be frustrated though!” shouted another correspondent.
Saunders nodded. “Yes, it is frustrating, but on a more positive note, we now have the video, which has been put online to wrong-foot us. So, with this new piece of evidence, the search for Kathy’s whereabouts just got much more interesting. Before I stepped in here I was waiting for Youtube to identify the location where the video originated from. I’m encouraged that we know of the address, and that we have the person that we believe responsible for publishing that video in police custody. My over-riding concern now is to find Kathy, and over and above that, I want to find her safe, and well. Thanks a lot everyone.” Saunders stood and headed quickly out of the Media Centre, with questions still being shouted at his back.
“Has Greenwood been charged with anything?”
“Where do you think Kathy is?”
“Are Manchester Police taking sole responsibility for this case now?”
Saunders disappeared behind the double-doors, walking with a meaningful stride which left no doubt in anybody’s mind that he was in a hurry to get on with his work.
Chapter 34
“Well, that was… I’m lost for words. I can only say, that was an absolutely startling press conference from Manchester.” Sky News’ afternoon presenter Sue Bentley looked visibly rocked by the revelations which Saunders had just read out, and those candidly truthful answers which he had given to the questions posed. It was literally unbelievable.
This news was even more earth-shatteringly sensational than the original story, which had broken four days earlier, on Sunday. It was Thursday now, so give-or-take a few hours, it was almost an entire week since Kathy had left The Midland, and hadn’t been seen nor heard of since.
“Well let’s cross live now to our North of England correspondent Paul Mitchell who is still in the press office there, Paul, what the heck is going on?”
“Yes, absolutely Sue – that is what every single person inside this room is wondering!”
“And everybody here, at Sky Centre, and everybody else out there in the UK. This is just unbelievable!”
“Definitely.” Paul was just nodding into the camera. He had no idea what to say, and it seemed that like Sue, he was also completely bowled-over by these sensational developments. After a couple of seconds of silence, Paul panicked and decided to ad-lib for a moment, sure that Sue would be getting all kinds of information fed into her earpiece, and could use a little breathing space.
“Not one of us had any idea what today’s press conference was about, until we arrived here. Well I can honestly say Sue, that you could hear a pin drop in here, as all of the members of the press tried to get an understanding of what developments had been made in the search for Kathy Hopkins, a search that we were all under the impression, had ended two days ago.”
* * *
Joan Williams and her friend Pat were work-mates from the McVities biscuit factory in Stockport. They were sat in the familiar rush-hour traffic jam on Wellington Road, listening to the radio.
“I hate working there. I just smell of ginger all the time. You know what, I’d leave, but I knead the dough.”
Pat groaned at the familiar joke. “I’m after a new job. I fancy becoming a mirror cleaner you know.”
“A mirror cleaner?”
“Aw yeah, I could really see myself doing that.”
The workmates laughed at Pat’s daft joke.
Pat turned the radio up as the news headlines came on. They sat in silence whilst the newsreader excitedly, breathlessly announced the big news regarding Kathy.
“Wait a minute, summat just doesn’t add up here with all this. It’s dodgy as anything!” Pat turned the radio off.
“God, that is weird though isn’t it? They thought she were safe and now they’re saying it was all just a lie. God, what do you think must have happened to her Pat?”
“Well it sounds to me like her husband has killed her, and well, this video, he must have made her record it for a laugh, or a prank or summat?”
“Yes, I bet you’re right. I bet he’s tricked her into doing it, saying summat like, let’s pretend you’ve gone missing, and we’ll see what the public make of it. But he’s actually done it for real. Fucking psycho mate! Absolute fucking psycho!”
The traffic finally started moving, Pat put her foot down as she turned off the main road and onto Broadstone Road towards the estate where she and Joan lived opposite one another in Reddish.
“He looks the sort though, doesn’t he?”
“He does, proper wrong ‘un that Jack Greenwood, I’ve always said it. He makes my skin crawl. He used to present Top of the Pops as well didn’t he, back in the day? I bet he was in on all that what Jimmy Savile was getting up-to. They reckon Savile murdered a few kids as well you know.”
Patricia started indicating, and slowed the car down. She parked on double-yellow lines.
“Right, I just need to bob in Bargain Booze a minute, if you see the traffic warden press the horn loads of times.”
“No worries. What you getting?”
“I’m gonna watch Sky News with a bott
le of plonk. I’m gonna ring myself a curry for tea and I’ll give the kids money to piss off out for their tea. Heaven. See-you in a minute.
* * *
Behind the paint-faded front-door of a small, run-down looking terraced house in the Heybrook district of Rochdale, this latest news update was causing a blazing row.
“Nazir, you’re going to have to tell.”
“I cannot Sadia! I am in deep trouble already. It has been too long, and now I will be implicated in this. I must never speak of this again. AND YOU MUST NEVER!” Nazir was towering over his wife of twenty-six years. His body language was intended to scare his wife, but it didn’t work. Sadia was more terrified by the prospect of her husband facing prison, than she was of a slap for back-chatting.
“You’re no good to us in jail Nazir! If you won’t tell, I WILL!”
Nazir Sardar was a private-hire driver. The previous week, he had been called into the office by the boss, Nazir’s cousin. Based on how much trust existed between the two men, Nazir was to be offered an excellent opportunity. He was asked to pick up a fare from Manchester, and take the passenger to a rural address close to Ashton-Under-Lyne. It was explained to Nazir that there would be a fee of two hundred and fifty pounds for the fare. However, this was an extremely sensitive matter, and it was to remain top-secret no matter what. That was why such an impressive sum of money was involved.
However, Nazir had let himself down. On Sunday, when it had been announced on the news that the person he had picked up, and had driven to the drop-off point had been reported missing, Nazir began to realise that he was in trouble. He needed to talk to somebody, needed to share that after dropping a passenger off at her destination, she had not been seen or heard of since.
Whether it was panic, or shock, he wasn’t sure. But Nazir confessed all to his wife. He told her of the arrangement, where he took the passenger, and how it was all to remain a top secret. Nazir and Sadia talked it through, and decided to sleep on it.
The following day, Monday morning, they were both nervous-wrecks, but decided to wait and see what happened. “They will find your car on CCTV Nazir. You can’t hide!” Sadia had pleaded with him. They agreed to sleep on it once again, though to be honest, neither of them slept very much at all, due to the strain that they were both feeling. It was a long, stressful, panic-stricken night.
But then, on Tuesday, when it was announced that Kathy had posted her video on Youtube, everything was okay. Panic over. Thank heavens that the couple had not spoken to police, they’d considered. Nazir had done a few of these dodgy fares before, usually it was young girls being moved around from one location to another. Rochdale to Burnley runs were the most common, but never before had the money involved been so handsome. The girls that he had moved around were usually teens, from some Eastern European country or other. There was always a menacing looking man in the car on these journeys too. Nazir never asked questions, he just did as he was asked, and accepted the money afterwards. It wasn’t any of his business, and he preferred for things to remain that way.
This trip had been very different though. For a start, Nazir recognised the lady, but he couldn’t remember why he knew her. That small detail had soon been explained though, when the photographs were all over the news programmes, the press and the internet a few days later.
It had been such a massive relief on Tuesday, with the story ending the way that it had. Now, the feeling of terror and paranoia was back, and it was worse than ever. Sadia just wanted her husband to wake-up to the seriousness of his position, and call the police.
“No! I won’t do it! And neither will you Sadia Sardar! If you disobey your husband I will fucking break your back and put your body in a wheely-bin, and then I will push it into the river. Be warned!”
But Sadia would not be swayed. She was going to tell the police about this, the first chance she got. She knew that Nazir would go out soon, to do a few more hours in his private-hire car. He would be out at least two or three hours, taking the drunks home from the pubs. Although she promised her husband that his secret was safe with her, Sadia could not wait to release this burden from herself.
Chapter 35
It was quite busy. Thursdays were always a good night for taxi drivers. The blokes play pool on Thursday in the north, a very old tradition dating back to the days when working men were handed their wages in a little brown envelope on Thursday afternoons. Traditionally, the mill-workers, miners, steel-workers et-al would tip-up the wife’s house-keeping, put the bill money in the bill-jar and then go off and have a few pints and a game of billiards with the lads with what little bit of cash was left. It was the highlight of the working week. Pool night still happens to this day, and is one of very few traditions that remain from a time when the industrial north was the powerhouse of the world.
Pool night also results in a lot of taxi work, taking the “away” teams to pubs in other districts in their league. There was also plenty of work afterwards, for the return journeys. On top of all this, there were usually plenty of men that had enjoyed one or two too many, and they required a cab to get home. It could mean rich-pickings for taxi drivers.
It was just after nine, and pretty quiet. This was the lull between taking teams to pubs, and picking them up again later. Nazir Sardar was on duty, parked up at the taxi-rank in Rochdale town centre, waiting for a fare. His window was down and he was smoking a cigarette whilst looking at something on his phone, when he caught sight of a police car pulling up alongside his.
“Shit. Something is happening!” he said to himself as he saw that the police car had been parked in a way that blocked him in. He threw his cigarette out of the window.
“Hello Sir, can you give me the keys for your vehicle please?” said a young PC as he reached Nazir’s window. He looked like a friend of one of his own boys. Nazir was stunned.
“What’s going on?” he pleaded. He looked scared.
The PC leant in and took Nazir’s car-key out of the ignition.
“Are you Nazir Sardar?”
“Yes Sir, I am!”
“Sir, I am arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice…” The PC looked pleased with how easy this arrest had been. The call had only come over the radio two or three minutes earlier. As the officer was on patrol in the town centre, he decided to drive past the taxi-rank, just to see. Bingo. It had been a nice easy one, the taxi driver looked as though he was about to break-down in tears.
“What am I done for?” asked Nazir, his voice was faltering as he spoke, the emotion and fear was taking over.
“No idea mate. All I know is what I said, perverting the course of justice. Come on, jump out of the car and let’s get you down to the station.”
“But I am not a pervert officer! Not at all.”
“Come on. Let’s lock your car up!”
“But wait, I’ll get a ticket if I leave my car here.”
“Well to be fair mate, that’s the least of your worries at this moment in time! Come on.”
* * *
“Right, I don’t have any time for bullshit Nazir. I want straight-forward answers to my questions. You can make this easier for yourself, you might even get away without a charge if you answer my questions. If you don’t play ball, you’re going to be living in Strangeways prison for the next fifteen years. Do you understand me?” Saunders was being extremely harsh towards the taxi-driver, who looked small and scared as he huddled over the interview room table at Rochdale police station. Nazir was nodding.
“You need to speak, for the tape.”
“Yes, yes Sir, I understand.”
“Okay, is this a photograph of your taxi?”
“Yes.”
“And does your taxi have a false number-plate on it in this photograph?” Saunders presented another picture. He placed it in front of Nazir.
“Yes Sir.”
“Can you please tell me why you had a false plate on your taxi?”
“I
stick it on sometimes, it’s just in case I go through speed camera.”
“Well when my colleague arrested you a few hours ago in Rochdale town centre, those plates weren’t on your vehicle.”
“No, that’s right, that’s what I mean, I took them off.”
Saunders exhaled loudly and shook his head. He wasn’t impressed. “Right, listen to me Mr Sardar. I just told you not to bullshit me, and you stand the better chance of avoiding prison.”
Nazir was nodding manically.
“Why did you put the false plates on?”
“I have them for… sometimes, I am asked to do jobs that are… well, they are a bit…”
“Dodgy?”
“Yes, yes, dodgy.”
“So let me show you this photo. Is this your car?”
“Yes.”
“This photo was taken on CCTV in Manchester city centre last Thursday night. With your dodgy plates on.”
“Yes Sir, I am truthful.”
“And this photo here. It’s your car, in the city centre with a female passenger. We believe that passenger to be Kathy Hopkirk. Is this the case?”
“Yes Sir. I confess all. This is her, but I know nothing about her disappearance. I just pick her up, and drop her off. Nothing more.”
“Well that presents two vital questions Mr Sardar. The first one is why were you even in Manchester city centre picking up a fare when your private-hire license is Rochdale. And it also makes me wonder why you had fake number plates stuck over your vehicle’s real plates.”
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 15
