“Has anybody said anything to any of them?”
“Yeah, Rudovsky went over to one of them, showed her warrant card and asked them to leave. They said ‘no way,’ they said that pictures of Bob Francis being arrested will be worth anything between twenty and thirty grand, at least.”
“So they definitely know something’s going on. It’s only come from one source.”
“Hey, this still doesn’t mean that my team…”
“Yes it does DCI Paxman. One of your team has tipped off the press, and now we’ll have a nightmare making the arrests. It’s a fucking disaster.”
“What do you suggest we do now then DCI Paxman?” asked Miller. The London officer looked confused, and embarrassed. He had nothing to say, this was a real bolt-from-the-blue. Miller looked disappointed, but what Paxman didn’t know was that this under-hand activity by one of his team had created an excellent opportunity for the Manchester detectives, who were now beginning to feel that they had absolutely no loyalty to show towards the London force.
“I don’t, I can’t believe one of my team would do that. Genuinely guys, I want you to believe me.” Paxman really did look upset by the revelation.
“Look, we’re not blaming you. I can tell by your reaction that it wasn’t you. But it’s happened now, and it’s going to be your problem to deal with. We’ll be off to the north as soon as we can, away from here, but you’ll still be left with a rat in your team.”
“Okay, well, I’m sorry…”
Miller wanted to spare Paxman’s blushes now, despite the fact that he’d been acting the dick all week with this unfortunate case. Saunders on the other hand was still visibly angry. He hated this kind of nonsense getting in the way of his work, especially after all the crap that had been printed in the press about him and Grant already this week. This job had been a nightmare from the very beginning, and none of the men in the room felt particularly enthusiastic about the Bob Francis arrest now that it was practically going to be televised live.
There were a few moments of quiet, while the three senior detectives lost themselves in their own thoughts. Eventually, it was Miller who broke the silence.
“Listen, try not to beat yourself up about it too much, you’ve got a bloody massive team of officers. It’s hard to be tight-knit when there are so many personalities involved.”
Paxman didn’t say anything. His pride was very openly bruised in front of these two northerners. Not only were they from the backwards north, they were also significantly younger than him, and they dressed much more smartly. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be the thick-twat northerners getting out-of-their-depth in the big smoke, where policing is done much better and with greater sophistication. That was how it was supposed to have been anyway. It certainly wasn’t supposed to have worked out that the northerners come down here and make the southerners look like useless fucking morons. But that’s how this was starting to pan out, and DCI Paxman was beyond embarrassed.
“Listen,” said Miller. “I’ve got an idea, how we can make this work. You need to call your team in, and tell them what’s happened. You never know, the culprit might just go bright red.” Miller smiled, in an attempt to lighten the dark mood. “But the bottom line is this, one or maybe two of your team have created this problem, so I think it’s only right that your team take full ownership of the problem. You guys carry on with this plan, as you intended. You can have the extra hour. You need to bring in the eight names that we previously discussed, but the number one priority is Bob Francis. So I suggest you revise the approach, and you send in just one undercover car with four officers in. You then go in with a new car, every few minutes, and take the next person out….”
“And what exactly will you be doing while my officers are carrying out these raids?” asked Paxman. He looked quite sad, and embarrassed.
“Well, I can’t really say, under the circumstances.”
Chapter 47
The greed and unprofessionalism of one of Paxman’s detectives had actually worked out extremely well for Miller and Saunders, and the other three SCIU members, who had just arrived back at Shepherd’s Bush police station.
Miller and Saunders met the car as it pulled into the car-park at the rear of the police station.
“Oh my lord, who’s been grating parmesan in here?” asked Saunders, knowing full well that the pungent smell was DC Peter Kenyon’s feet.
“I can’t smell that DI Saunders, all I can smell is Jo’s farts. Hanging Jo!”
“Ey, come off it, you’re smelling this car out of context Sir!” said Rudovsky. “There are several smells in here, including goody-two-shoes DC Grant here, who’s been ripping plenty of eggy farts out.”
“That’s such bullshit!” said Grant, with a great deal of passion. It gained a laugh, and this daft banter cheered up Miller and Saunders especially. They were just glad to be out of the station, and back amongst familiar people. People they could trust. “Well open a window anyway, give us a chance!”
Miller and Saunders slammed their doors shut. Saunders was over-the-moon to be sitting in the back with Grant. He’d almost forgotten all about her lovely face while he’d been getting wound up with Paxman’s CID circus.
“Right, just drive aimlessly, there’s lots to talk about.” Miller tapped Kenyon on the shoulder and the DC eased his foot off the clutch, reversing the car out of the car park that he’d only just driven into. As the car drove past the side of the building, both Miller and Saunders saw the silhouette of DCI Paxman, and another colleague, standing by the window on the stairs. Both of the officers looked deeply dissatisfied as the car drove away.
“Well guys, I’ll tell you what, I’ve seen some bullshit in my time, but these southerners take the trophy. They haven’t got a Scooby doo!”
“Why is it, right Sir, that southerners hate us so much?” Jo Rudovsky was leaning round from the front seat, “we’ve just been going on about this. We can’t suss it out!”
Saunders decided to answer. “It’s just jealousy, innit?”
“Is it?” Rudovsky didn’t seem too convinced.
“Yeah, definitely. Think about it, best football teams, from up north. Best bands and music, from up north. Best celebrities, from up north, best comedians, best telly shows, best inventions, best everything. But if you ask a southerner what comes from up north, they just say mushy peas and diseases.” Everybody laughed out loud at Saunders’ quip, including himself.
“Northerners are a lot friendlier as well!” offered Kenyon. “These Londoners just walk around looking paranoid and confused.”
“The southerners are just massively inferior, they’re all like the school bully picking on the ginger kid. And if you come from the north, you’re the ginger kid.”
“So we’re all sort of like ambassadors for Mick Hucknall!” suggested Grant which received a good laugh.
The conversation continued for a few more minutes with more light-hearted references to the north-south divide.
“Right, anyway, drive to an all night café and let’s sit down and have a catch-up. Find the most southern themed café you can please DC Kenyon, and we’ll stop and have some fackin’ laaavly cockles!”
* * *
Miller and his team soon found themselves tucked away in the corner of an all-night McDonalds on Uxbridge Road, tucking into some traditional cockney Big Mac and Fries.
Speaking quietly, Miller and Saunders told the rest of their team about the bizarre turn-of-events regarding Sally King’s tell-all interview. Rudovsky, Grant and Kenyon were stunned, but re-energised by this exciting announcement.
Although the media tip-off had presented a ridiculous situation, and a very embarrassing one for the London detectives, Miller explained how it had proved extremely fortuitous, and helpful for the Manchester team. Armed with Sally King’s bombshell revelations, the SCIU team could now leave the ball-ache operation of bringing in Britain’s best loved national treasure to t
he snidey sods who’d sold the story on already.
This left Miller, Saunders, Rudovsky, Grant and Kenyon with the big, secret task to themselves. Bringing Piers Marshall in, and all the while, the media eyes would be looking in Bob Francis’ direction, and watching the sensational news developments in the heart-stopping hunt for Kathy Hopkirk.
“These southern detectives have scored a hat-trick of own goals on this case. From day one, last Sunday, they’ve tried to dump it on us, knowing it would be a nightmare case. And guess what, we’ve managed to break away from them completely now. They are off doing the dawn raid at Bob’s, whilst we are going to be working on something much more interesting and exciting!”
Over the next forty-five minutes, in the corner of that deserted McDonalds, the SCIU team planned the operation of bringing in Piers Marshall. It was decided that this was going to be a “dumbo” operation. For the benefit of the new DC, Helen Grant, Miller explained what a “dumbo” job meant.
It was a very familiar operation in the SCIU, throwing a dumbo – it was just an extremely polite and well mannered affair with a chief suspect, a simple “we were just wondering if you might be able to help us please,” type of introduction, usually aimed at the prime suspect. A few dumbo questions would be asked, along the lines of “have you heard about the disappearance of Kathy Hopkirk?” which would warm up to, “have you heard any rumours within the industry?” and then the carefully planned, but deliberately dumb conversation would lead to the officers revealing that they “haven’t got the faintest idea what is going on,” and “nobody really gives a toss anyway, let’s be honest.”
In this situation, in theory at least, this manner of behaviour should begin to empower Piers Marshall with the notion that the detectives didn’t have a clue. From some unexpected police attention rattling his cage, to then realising that the detectives running the investigation were about as much use as a handbrake on a canoe, it was planned that this tactic would enable Piers Marshall’s confidence to get sky-high.
“Over confident people are very easy to break down, because they make silly mistakes.” Explained Miller, “people with less confidence always do their homework, they always dot the I’s and cross the T’s. Folk with plenty of confidence are always a bit too arrogant to waste any time on such nonsense.”
“How do you mean?” asked Grant, looking as though she wasn’t quite following.
“Well, look at David Cameron. Perfect example. Through his arrogance and over-confidence, he called the EU referendum, believing that the British people would do as he told them, and vote remain. He was so over confident in himself, so caught up in his own sense of power, he forgot to check if it was a good idea first.”
“And it turned out he was a total bell-end, and lost his job that day?” asked DC Kenyon.
“Precisely. Case in point! He lost his job as Prime Minister because he was too confident and arrogant to dot his I’s or cross his T’s.”
“He did cry on the news though, doesn’t that count for owt?” offered Rudovsky, to a wave of mocking laughter.
“Over-confidence and arrogance, a failure to do your homework, they are the main signs of weakness. And for us, as investigating officers, they are the greatest qualities we can ever wish to find in people, because we trap them every time, especially when we act dumb.”
“Okay, I get it,” said Grant.
“So what we try to do is lead suspects down a path which actively encourages them to think we are all as thick as David Cameron.”
Grant raised her hand, and Miller nodded to give way. “I’ve got a slight problem with all this,” she said, without much conviction in her voice.
“Oh?” said Miller.
“Well, from what we’ve seen with the paparazzi guys at Bob Francis’ house – it’s not going to have escaped Piers’ attention that Bob Francis is in custody. I don’t care how thick we are supposed to be acting – when we get to his house, he’s not going to swallow it. It’s way beyond any coincidence. He’s going to know that the game’s up.”
“Yes, she’s right,” said Rudovsky.
“Shit, yeah. Didn’t think of that.” Said Saunders.
“There’s no way that Piers will be able to avoid the news. The news is absolutely everywhere now, on phones, tablets, even Facebook. If Piers Marshall is awake, he’ll be aware that Bob Francis is in police custody.”
“So what do we do?” Miller looked surprised by this obvious announcement from his newest member of staff.
“Call off the arrest of Bob Francis?” suggested Grant.
“What? Why…” Miller looked lost by the idea.
“Well, lets be honest, he’s not going to be charged with anything, is he? The girl that he allegedly abused has been found dead. Are there any witnesses? Do we have any forensic evidence? The CPS won’t let us charge him, even if he confessed to it all. It’ll never happen without at least one supporting witness. From what you’ve said, the only person who could possibly offer any supporting evidence is Kathy Hopkirk. And nobody seems to know where she is!”
“Now that is a bloody good point!” said Rudovsky, and it was appreciated by Grant, who felt that her only female colleague wasn’t really a fan.
“Go on,” said Miller, he was most intrigued by the new DC’s point of view.
“I say, best all round if we call the whole Bob Francis thing off. And the police officer who phoned the press will get a red face as well, when it doesn’t happen.” Grant was growing in confidence, and this suggestion had just given her a great deal of kudos amongst her colleagues. It was an excellent suggestion, and nobody thought otherwise.
“But, just to throw caution to the wind – the press that we saw up at Bob Francis’ estate will have tipped off others. Even if we don’t bring Francis in this morning – it’s going to get out there very soon that police are linking him to a murder, and the disappearance of Kathy Hopkirk. It’s too sensational to keep a lid on.”
Grant stopped talking, and took a suck of her chocolate milkshake. Saunders looked pleased by the reaction on the rest of the team’s faces.
“Bloody hell, she’s going to be our next DCI, this one.” Said Rudovsky, patting Grant gently on the shoulder. She then pointed across the table at Miller. “You, get a bin-bag and clear your fucking locker out!”
There was a bit of laughing and banter for a few minutes while Miller got another round of drinks and a share box of chicken McNuggets in. When he arrived back at the table, he looked like he was ready to get things sorted.
“Right, it’s now half-past-four. There is half-an-hour until Paxman and his team raid Bob’s house. I’m going to suggest that we carry out our own raid at Piers Marshall’s house, at exactly the same time.”
“That’s going to cut it fine, Sir.” Said Saunders. “Piers Marshall’s house is thirty minutes away according to the thing on my phone.”
Miller smiled. “For God’s sake, what are the chances? Right, okay, everyone get in the car, I’ll drive. And don’t forget those McNuggetts.”
Within seconds the SCIU team were sitting inside the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia, and were racing away from the McDonalds, headed up Wood Lane, past the world famous BBC Television Centre, and in the direction of Piers Marshall’s city home, seven miles away in Belsize Park, at the foot of Hampstead Heath.
Chapter 48
A fresh, misty dawn was breaking as DCI Paxman’s team gathered on the Fox and Hounds car park, roughly a quarter of a mile away from the gates to Bob Francis’ country estate. Despite the sweet sound of birdsong and the fresh country air – there was an uptight, snappy atmosphere amongst the London detectives, all of whom viewed one another suspiciously. Paxman had made no secret of his anger that one of his officers had contacted the press, and the friction was all around. His officers were keen to discover who the rat was, so they could divert any suspicion from themselves.
Paxman didn’t know who he could trust. It was a difficult enough ope
ration to organise and carry out, without the added complication of being paranoid about who he could depend on amongst his staff.
“Okay guys, time to put the negative energy behind us. Stop sulking about the bollocking and let’s all focus on the job that we have come here to do.”
The considerable crowd of detectives and uniformed support officers were standing in front of Paxman, who was addressing them from his vantage point, stood on top of one of the pub’s bench-tables.
“We are going in there one car at a time, the first car, my car will arrest the home-owner. Once we have that individual in our custody, the next car will be ordered to attend. Each incoming car will be four-up, and each outgoing car will leave two-up, with one suspect. We have five suspects, so this will result in a surplus of ten officers inside the property. Okay then, off we go. Good luck.”
A window opened above DCI Paxman’s head. An angry looking woman in her fifties stuck her head out. She had a face like a melted welly. “What the hell is going on? Why are you filming Midsummer Murders on my car park? It’s five o’ clock in the morning, you gormless bastards. Fuck off!”
* * *
“Right, here we are. That’s his house… and that’s his car. Look.” The registration plate of the Aston Martin Vanquish read “P1ERS”
“Now, that is a car!” Kenyon’s eyes were popping out of his head as he gazed at the graphite grey supercar, as the stinking fart, feet and chicken McNuggett infused CID car pulled up alongside.
“They cost two hundred grand them! More than my flipping house!”
“Shut up Pete. God no wonder your wife wishes you were dead.” Rudovsky pushed her partner in the ribs.
“Geddoff.”
“Nice gaff Piers.” said Miller, gazing out of the windscreen in awe at the immaculate row of four-storey town houses. “Look at the state of these houses! It’s like something off one of those posh films. Four Weddings and a Funeral or summat. Proper nice!”
“Chris Evans lives round here somewhere. He’ll have an even better car than that,” said Kenyon, still in full ogling mode.
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 26
