But today, Miller was quite clearly surprised that his secret weapon hadn’t managed to chink Jack Greenwood’s armour.
“So what’s going on up there?” asked Rudovsky, despite wanting to say “so can we come back home now?”
“We’ve had India Nine Nine up with their thermal imaging, they’ve been combing the area.” Miller was referring to the Manchester Police helicopter, and the sophisticated machinery on board which could detect any disruption to the countryside. If a grave had been dug, and Kathy Hopkirk had been chucked in it at some point within the past seven days, the thermal equipment would show it up as though it was a red car in a snow-covered field.
“But there’s not been anything to report on the Pike. It looks like the taxi-driver has dropped her off here on this muddy little car park and headed off. Kathy must have got into another car, but we haven’t got the foggiest.”
“There’s a pub up there isn’t there? I used to go with me Mam and Dad when I was a kid.”
“Nah, the pub shut down years ago. It’s been converted into a house now. Why?”
“Nowt, I was just reminiscing.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I was going to say, the pub will have CCTV.”
“Yes, we’ve got uniform officers talking to all of the home-owners up here. There’s about ten farm houses and barn conversions along the track. There’s a chance we could get a CCTV clip of the other vehicle leaving, but its still a fucking nightmare job this. I can’t believe we’ve not had a single phone-call in from someone saying they’ve seen her somewhere. It’s unheard of.”
“I know. So… well, I’m not sure what me and Peter are…”
“Do you want to go in again?”
“He’s not talking Sir. Honest, he’s a fucking psycho, he’s just staring me out. Everything I say, everything Peter says to him, he just stares straight through you and says “now comment” in this weird voice. It’s as though he’s trying to take the piss out of my accent or summat.”
“Do you think a shock tactic might move things on?”
Jo thought hard for a few seconds, whilst staring at DC Kenyon. Her colleague nodded enthusiastically, persuading Jo that he still had some patience left.
“What are you thinking?” asked Rudovsky of her boss.
“I’ve not… I was just thinking, last throw of the dice… you could go in there and talk a load of shit. Say she’s just been admitted to a hospital in Stoke with head injuries or summat. Ask if she knows anyone in Stoke. Ask if he knows what she was doing in Stoke. Talk shit Jo, see if he starts getting a bit agitated or confused or summat. I don’t care what you say, I just want to see if you can shake his foundations a bit. Figure out whether he knows what’s going on with Kathy, or not. If he knows there’s no way that Kathy is in a hospital in Stoke, you and Kenyon will be able to read it loud and clear. Go on… please mate, I’m not having you leaving London without sussing this douche-bag out. Right?”
There was a pause before Rudovsky answered. “Okay Sir, I’ll see what I can come up with. But he’s as smug as Gary Barlow singing at the Inland Revenue Christmas do.”
“Come on Jo. I’m on the ropes here. I need you to turn this around. Is Peter there?”
“Yes, he’s listening.”
“Alright Sir?”
“Hiya Pete. Right, just keep your eyes trained on Greenwood please. Any odd actions, involuntary movements, tensing shoulders, foot-tapping, sweating, twitching, gurning, dismissive gestures. We need to know if he’s in on this, or if he’s just playing some kind of game with us.”
“No problem Sir, I’ll monitor him very closely. But…”
“What?”
“Well, Jo’s right in what she says… he’s impossible to engage with. It’s as though he can’t hear what we’re saying. But then he just says ‘no comment’ when your lips stop moving. He’s a creepy fucker.”
“That’s exactly what DI Saunders has said. In fact he got so frustrated that he left DC Grant to interview him alone.”
“He’s a bell-end Sir, of the highest order.”
“But I know you can sort this Jo. Come on, don’t be a loser. I can’t believe an old crud like Jack Greenwood can get the better of you. Sort yourself out Jo. Jesus, even the new DC got further than you, what’s happened to you? Where’s your self respect?”
“Right. Shut up. You’ve pissed me off now Sir! We’re going back in.”
Rudovsky hung up on her boss and shot Kenyon a look of anger. “God, he knows how to push my buttons.”
Kenyon just nodded. He knew that Miller was the master of getting Jo revved up. It was as though she had a clockwork winding key on her back, and only he could turn it to full tension.
* * *
“So, here we are again.” Rudovsky was going for a softer, friendlier approach this time.
Greenwood just stared at her, that smirk was still present on his face. All Rudovsky could think about was slapping him so hard, he’d struggle to pull that wretched expression for a few days at least. Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep fucking breaths.
“Just to remind you Mr Greenwood, you are here because we have reason to believe that you have some involvement in the disappearance of your wife.”
Greenwood just stared ahead, looking beyond Rudovsky’s shoulder.
“And the thing that is baffling us all, is that you don’t seem to have anything to say about it.”
“No comment.”
“Exactly. It makes absolutely no sense that you would say no comment when we are trying to locate your wife. We are trying to help you, trying to help Kathy, and basically, well, its so bizarre how you are behaving that I’m beginning to worry that you are not mentally well enough to continue.”
There was no reaction from Greenwood. Not an eyelid flutter, not a blink. The solicitor didn’t look too impressed with Rudovsky’s choice of phrase however. She couldn’t care less, and she demonstrated it by returning the solicitor’s hard stare straight back at him, which unnerved him visibly as he looked down urgently at his notes.
“No comment.”
“But the thing is Mr Greenwood, there’s something you don’t know. You’re sat here in the belief that you’re holding all the cards. But it’s us who are holding the trump mate.” Rudovsky smiled, and made a quiet snort noise. We’ve got something. And we know for a fact that you can’t possibly know about it.”
Kenyon’s eyes were trained on the aging DJ. There wasn’t a flicker of concern, not a hint of interest on his face. This was a very cool customer. But Rudovsky was about to put this to the test with maximum pressure. Her knee tapped against Kenyon’s leg under the table. This was the signal. She was going for the reaction.
“We’re in touch with Kathy.”
Greenwood’s hand began to shake on the tabletop. It looked like an involuntary twitch, but it carried on for a second or two. Kenyon saw it peripherally, despite keeping his eyes transfixed on Greenwood’s face. There was a shimmer appearing, enveloping his head. This announcement had made him react, no question about it.
“Is there anything you’d like to say to her? Through us I mean. A message you’d like us to pass on?”
Greenwood’s jaw began vibrating and he leaned back heavily in his chair. This was good, Kenyon was making mental notes. Rudovsky was getting somewhere. His ridiculous smirk was gone now. It was being retracted slowly, but surely. The solicitor didn’t look impressed at all. The no comment tactic was hanging in the balance here, it was all about to go tits up for Greenwood and everybody in the interview room sensed it. Rudovsky could taste first blood and was ready to pounce, ready to kill her prey.
“You’re in a lot of trouble Mr Greenwood. So I’m glad you’ve stopped acting clever, because when it comes down to it, you’re not clever at all, are you?”
“IT WASN’T ME!” shouted Greenwood, his eyes were filling with tears, his voice betraying the calm, confident posture that he’d tried so desperate
ly to portray. It was a pretty spectacular reversal, from grinning psycho to panicky infant.
“Why are you choosing to tell us that it wasn’t you? You’ve had all morning to say this to us.”
Greenwood’s solicitor looked as though he was getting nervous, and placed his hand in the air, his client was losing the plot, and fast.
“We need to take a break.” Said the brief. There was a sense of panic in his voice as well.
“I’m not talking unless I get police protection. I mean it.”
“We can promise you police protection, we can get you all the protection you need. I guarantee it. But you need to tell us what the hell is going on.”
Greenwood grabbed his solicitor’s plastic cup of water and drank the contents in one. His hand was shaking violently, his eyes had an unmistakable fear within them. The room began to smell rotten, and it quickly became obvious that Greenwood had passed wind. Kenyon was satisfied by observing Jack Greenwood, that Rudovsky had destroyed him inside a couple of minutes, and it was all down to one tiny fib.
“Let’s have a break for ten minutes. I’ll talk to witness protection and alert them that we need their services. Interview suspended at… eleven thirty five. Thanks.”
Rudovsky stood and headed to the door, as Kenyon followed, leaving a very scared, very broken man sitting with his solicitor in a room that stank of egg and body odour.
Ten minutes later, the Manchester detectives returned to the desk of interview room six at Shepherds Bush police station.
The solicitor began talking on his client’s behalf. Greenwood was just staring down at the tabletop, his arms hugging around his waist. It looked as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but he looked somewhat humiliated by the situation too. He was in a state. Rudovsky and Kenyon had no sympathy, and felt a great sense of pride for the part they’d played in creating this transformation.
“My client wishes to make a phone call. Can this be arranged please?”
“What, now?” asked Kenyon.
“Well, when it is convenient.” Kenyon and Rudovsky looked at one another. This was interesting. Rudovsky nodded to Kenyon, letting him know that she had no objections.
“Yes, I’ll organise for an officer to take you down to custody.” Kenyon stood and left the interview room. Rudovsky looked down at her notes and used the time productively, adding notes to her paperwork.
A few minutes later, Kenyon returned. He was accompanied by a uniformed police man. “The phone is free, so you can go now. We’ll just wait here.”
Greenwood nodded as he stood, and followed the policeman out of the small, grey room. There was a slowness about him, he seemed to shuffle more than stride. For somebody who’d displayed such a cocky, arrogant demeanour, Jack Greenwood looked like a different person. It was as though he knew that his game was up, just when he’d least expected it.
Chapter 39
Sally King had lost half a stone in the time that Kathy had been missing. That was a hell of a lot of weight to lose for such a small woman. She’d been stressed out of course, but also worried. The anxiety had sent her metabolism into hyper-drive. She’d hardly eaten in the seven days that Kathy had been missing, and what little food that she had managed to eat had gone straight through her. She didn’t look her usual, well-presented self as she sat at her desk.
Sally King Associates was her trading name. She was the manager of one of the most successful talent agencies in London. She had more than twenty A list names on her books, and as many B and C listers too. Kathy Hopkirk had started as a C lister a decade earlier, straight out of the Big Brother house. It hadn’t taken her long to step up to the B list, and during the past five years, she’d remained a strong A list member of Sally’s team.
And now this. Jack Greenwood was phoning her from his police cell.
“Sally, it’s Jack. I’m voluntarily entering into the witness protection programme. I’m confessing to everything I know about Kathy’s disappearance. I just thought that you should know the state-of-play. I’m sorry if this puts you in a difficult spot, but I have no choice.”
Greenwood put the phone down on its cradle. As he did so, he could hear Sally shouting “Wait! What are you…”
Sally King held the phone to her ear, even though the call was disconnected. This was the worst case scenario. This meant only one thing. Sally King would now have to hand herself in, and join the witness protection scheme too. It was game over. Her life would never be the same again.
“Kathy you stupid woman!” she sobbed as she stared out of her office window and across Covent Garden, knowing that this would be the very last time that she would be able to. The life that she knew and loved, that she had built for herself from nothing, was over now.
PART TWO
Kathy Hopkirk’s notoriety had presented her with some excellent showbiz opportunities over the years. As radio had been her first love, she had been over-the-moon when an offer came in from the national station Talk AM. The Sunday night slot, from 7pm until 10pm was offered to Kathy, with only one condition. The condition being that she attracted a whopping-big audience. The pay cheque was extremely generous, and Kathy laughed at the amount of noughts on her weekly fee. She loved radio so much that she would have happily done the show for free.
Talk AM is a very serious, high-brow radio station, broadcasting none-stop news, sport and current affairs twenty-four hours a day. Kathy Hopkirk isn’t their usual type of presenter by any means. But the radio station’s bosses had worked out that Kathy attracted such a huge following, it was an unmissable opportunity to get the radio station’s brand out there at the very least, and the adverts and trailers throughout her three hour slot would hopefully sell the rest of the station’s output to Kathy’s listeners.
It paid off. The listening figures for Kathy’s show were close to the million mark. It was beyond compare for a Sunday evening slot, and the programme was the most listened to off-peak radio show in Britain. Listening numbers had swelled on every other slot on the schedule too, as new listeners discovered the stations various selling points off the back of Kathy’s involvement.
The “No Empathy, Just Kathy” show had caused several high-profile stirs in its first twelve months on the air. The most memorable suggestion that she’d made was that all new parents should be required a license in order to keep their children. If they smoked, or drank, or were unemployed, or had a criminal record, they should be refused a license, she’d suggested. “You need a license to drive a car, or to run a pub. You even need a bloody license to sell clothes on a market stall,” she suggested, “but any old ugly-faced moron can procreate without a single questionnaire being filled in? It’s not right, and we need better systems to thin out the amount of arseholes that are walking our streets. Especially around Grimsby.”
To be fair, the suggestion was made with Kathy’s tongue firmly in her cheek, but it went viral anyway. This was great news for Talk AM, and had secured several minutes of the radio station’s logo time on all of the news networks as the nation’s most hysterical people took great offence at this latest suggestion. The suggestion had even ended up being referred to at Prime Minister’s Questions in Parliament.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” came the familiar outrage from the listeners who jammed the radio stations switchboard. Thousands were desperate to get on the air and tell Kathy what they thought of her outrageous suggestion.
“You’re no oil painting yourself darling!”
“Maybe not, but I’m not a useless moron who can’t put a nappy on a child without getting fag-ash in its eyes, lovey. Am I?”
It was entertaining radio for the most part. Kathy Hopkirk revelled in her “shock-jock” role, and had a running death-threat count throughout each show. She even had a jingle made, to make her online abuse into a regular feature on the show. The most death-threats that she’d received via text, e-mail, tweet or phone call in a single show was fifty-five, a figure t
hat Kathy was delighted with, and had even contacted Guinness Records to see if she could be included in their book.
And that was what made Kathy so bloody infuriating. Instead of piping down, or trying to wind her neck in a little, The more insults, outrage and even death threats she received, the more contented she became.
“You don’t hate me!” she’d explain to her army of weekly listeners. “You think you hate me, but then you tune in to my show! That’s not hate you morons, it’s adoration. You adore me! Now, let’s go to line seven… Phil, what do you want to talk about lovey?”
“I want to know why you think you’re so clever?” asked the angry, irritable sounding cockney.
“I don’t think I’m clever Phil. What makes you say that?”
“You come on here, shouting the odds, saying that folks need a license to fetch kids up. You’re off your bonce mate.”
“Phil there, on line six. License application rejected. Those poor children, stuck in a house with a man like that. Run away kids, go now, flee…while he’s still trying to figure out why he can’t hear anything in his phone.”
The programme was entertaining, there was no question about that. It was also highly controversial at times, and in Kathy’s inimitable style, she encouraged her listeners to be as divisive and near-to-the-knuckle as they could. Kathy Hopkirk had no intention of allowing this radio show to become just another “what’s your favourite kind of biscuit” phone-in. Kathy was determined that it should be edgy, but more than anything else – interesting.
As she closed the show one Sunday night, around a month before she’d disappeared, Kathy had made her familiar appeal for topics to discuss on the following week’s programme. The Tweets and Facebook comments came in as usual.
“Next week, why not discuss people going to Mars on a one-way rocket? It might cost ten-million dollars, but I’m sure everyone will chip in to pay for it if you promised to go Kathy, you awful old boot.” Was one typical suggestion.
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 17
