“God Pete you are such a dud.”
“Kenyon and Rudovsky, stop bickering you pair of knobs, it’s like being in the car with Basil and Cybil Fawlty.”
“Not old enough to know that one, Sir.” said Rudovsky. “Pete is though!”
“Right, you two can do this one. Hurry up, make it all seem rushed. And don’t forget, you’re going to tell him that his name has come up in conversation, along with another thirty or so, so it’s just a process of elimination. Convince him that you’re just here ticking boxes, ask him where he was last Thursday night, has he got anyone that can verify it, and don’t forget to feed his ego, just as we discussed. After a few minutes of talking shit and putting his mind at ease, ask him to come and talk to us at the station, say we need to see him ASAP because we need to head back to Manchester.”
“Yeah, but he’s not going to buy all that Sir. We’ll be banging him out of bed. He’s going to know that it’s a load of shite, asking him to attend the police station after he’s had his brew.”
“Jo, shut up, you’ll be right. You’re the biggest bull-shitter I’ve ever met. If anyone can talk absolute crap, it’s you. You wipe your mouth after taking a shit.”
“Right, well, cheers. That’s a pretty shambolic compliment, but I’ll take it.” Rudovsky pulled a sarcastic face.
“What he means is, you’re a cunning linguist.” Saunders was sniggering at his own, familiar gag.
“Fuck off Sir,” said Rudovsky, starting to get annoyed by the onslaught of piss-taking.
“Right, jog on. If he starts being arsey, just text me and we’ll be right outside the front door.”
“Right, no worries.”
“Good luck.”
“It’s not luck I need, it’s a method of spraying breath freshener in his mouth. I hate interviewing suspects who haven’t had chance to brush their teeth yet. Smells like Janet Croft’s flat.”
“Come on Jo, stop waffling. Let’s get this done.” Kenyon was almost out of the car, urging his partner to get herself together.
“Right, go and park up. See you in a bit.”
* * *
The first arrest that was made was carried out at exactly 5am. The address was in Bromley, Kent, the person taken into custody by two of Paxman’s detectives was fifty-seven year old Christine Mason.
Christine Mason had been Bob Francis’ PA for almost thirty years. It had been a job which had served her well, judging by her opulent home and idyllic gardens. She was a kindly looking woman, who spoke as though she was an announcer for BBC Radio 4.
“What on earth is this about?” she asked as the detectives entered her front door.
“I’m afraid that we have to ask you to come with us to Shepherd’s Bush police station, to help us with our enquiries.”
“What, Shepherd’s Bush. What in God’s name is going on here? Is this a hoax?”
“No, Mrs Mason, I can assure you that this is not a hoax. We can ask you to join us voluntarily, and we can clear this matter up very quickly, and drop you back off here in a few hours.”
“Or?” Christine Mason was standing in her dressing gown, her arms firmly folded across her chest. Her husband was standing behind her, he looked shocked and confused by this incredible situation. Police had never been at this door, not even to offer crime reduction advice, let alone to carry out a dawn raid. It really was quite preposterous.
“Or, we can arrest you, and take you against your will. But that will only make things take longer as there’ll be more paperwork and procedure involved.”
Christine Mason couldn’t hide her anger. She stood there, shaking her head as her husband caressed her shoulders.
“Really Mrs Mason, there is no need for any unpleasantness. We would strongly advise you to co-operate.”
“And would you mind telling me what I’m supposed to have done wrong?”
“This is a very sensitive matter. We cannot disclose any information until you are in our police station. All I can say is that you or your family are not under any suspicion for any crimes. This is purely relating to an ongoing incident which you may have information regarding – most probably unwittingly. That’s all I can say at this time.”
Christine turned and looked at her husband. He nodded to her, offering her encouragement to submit her hostility and surrender to this absolutely ridiculous situation.
“The sooner you go, love, the sooner it will be done. At least then you’ll know what it’s all about, eh?”
“Can I at least get dressed?” asked Christine, huffily of the detectives.
“Of course. My female colleague will escort you though, if that’s okay?”
“For heaven’s sake! WHY?” Tears were running down Christine’s cheeks as she struggled to cope with the anger and frustration and downright confusion from this bizarre early morning wake-up call.
“Yes, come on officer. For God’s sake!” Christine’s husband was losing his temper.
“I’m afraid you must be escorted while you get changed. It is just so that we can ensure that you do not contact anybody while you are out of our sight. This is a very sensitive enquiry, and the fewer people who are aware of it, the better. Now, this is normal procedure.”
“Okay, I just want this over and done with!” Christine walked briskly towards the stairs, the female detective followed.
“Seriously, this is most outrageous!” said the husband. The detective gave a stock look of sympathy before expertly driving the conversation on.
“Are you going to follow behind?”
“What, yes, well yes I will have to be there for her. I can’t think of a single time we’ve had any dealings with the law. And now this, a dawn raid. It’s quite something.”
“Well, I’m sure that once you are made aware of the facts surrounding this matter Sir, you will appreciate the reasons.”
“Okay, well I’m just worried about what the neighbours will be thinking.”
“To be honest with you Sir, I imagine that they are fast asleep and know nothing about this. Now, you can follow directly behind us if you like, but won’t that attract suspicion from your neighbours, if any of them are awake?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”
“As far as anybody else is concerned, this could be a taxi company, taking your wife off on a business meeting. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.”
This comment, delivered in a kind and apologetic manner seemed to satisfy Christine’s husband. He walked off quietly towards the stairs.
“I’ll just get myself dressed. Thank you.”
Within five minutes, the London CID car was pulling off Christine Mason’s neat drive, with the home-owner sat in the passenger seat, a deal that had been brokered to try and keep things civil and appear less like a police matter.
The first staff member of Bob Francis’ team was in custody.
* * *
The huge metal gates which protected Bob Francis’ enormous country estate were locked shut. One of the stone built walls which supported the gates had an intercom device, upon which DCI Paxman had been trying to get an answer for several minutes, without success. There was no noise when he pressed the button, so he couldn’t be sure if it was working correctly. One thing that was certain was that his every move was being filmed by CCTV cameras, one of which was moving slightly, which suggested that it was being operated remotely by somebody.
Paxman pressed the buzzer again, holding his ear close to the unit to try and hear any click or fizz of connection when his finger pressed against it. He thought he could hear a faint sound in there. Paxman stood straight and looked through the railings of the gates. He could see a strobing, flashing white light coming from the side of a tree, halfway up the lawn.
“Bleeding paparazzi!” said the DCI under his breath as he stepped once again towards the intercom, and pressed the buzzer.
Inside his CID car sat three of Paxman’s detectives. They didn’t seem too impres
sed by how this operation was going, and it hadn’t even begun yet. Not properly anyway.
“This is a complete farce.”
“It’s a bit of a bodge job, got to admit.”
“Well it fucking wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the tit that told the bastard press.”
“True.”
Suddenly, without warning, the gates started opening. The unusual sound, and the unexpectedness of it made Paxman jump. There hadn’t been a voice on the intercom, just a loud clunk and then the whine of the motor. It put him on edge and he felt his adrenaline flick up another notch, but he was still pleased to see the pathway opening up. This had had the potential of being the most embarrassing police raid ever, caught live by the vultures who were filming it from behind bushes and magnificent oak trees further up the dew covered lawns.
“Right, right, we’re on,” said Paxman as he raced into the passenger seat. “That wasn’t in the script!”
His driver eased the car through the gates, and they began a steady 10mph drive up the half mile driveway, which led to the next set of perimeter gates.
“Did they not say anything on the intercom, Sir?” asked one of his team.
“No, not a thing. I just saw the gates start opening and jumped in the car.”
“This is so bizarre. I can’t believe they didn’t ask who you were?”
“Maybe it’s just set up for the milkman or something.” Suggested another colleague.
“Well, we’ll see once we reach the next gate. We’re only half way in.”
A couple of tense, slow minutes passed before the undercover police car reached the next obstacle which stood in the path of the CID officers, a huge twelve foot wall covered in ivy and other climbing espalier plants. This place looked and felt like a fortress. As the car approached the gateway, Paxman took a deep breath. The driver began slowing to a stop, and the DCI took off his seat belt, ready to jump out and press the intercom.
But the double gates just opened. Those huge, solid wooden gates began opening very gracefully.
“What the actual fuck is going on with this?” asked Paxman as his driver pressed gently against the accelerator and eased the car through the gates, and into Bob Francis’ courtyard. This was so weird.
* * *
Rudovsky and Kenyon had been knocking at Piers Marshall’s house for a couple of minutes, but the door wasn’t being answered. Kenyon had spotted a curtain twitch upstairs, so there was somebody home. But whoever it was seemed reluctant to open the door.
Rudovsky double pressed the door-bell again, as Kenyon slapped his hand repetitively against the front door. Still, there was nothing.
“I’ll ring the boss.” Said Rudovsky. “He’s in there but doesn’t want to answer. I’ll see what Miller suggests.” A few seconds later, she was speaking into her phone. “Hi, someone’s in, we saw activity in the upper left window. They don’t want to open the door though.”
“Okay, well, it’ll be a shame if you have to, but if you felt it necessary to announce that you are police officers, at a very high volume, and grab the whole neighbourhood’s attention, that might hurry things along.”
“Sir.”
“What did he say?” asked Kenyon, still knocking at the door. Rudovsky answered him, and executed Miller’s suggestion at the same time.
“POLICE, OPEN UP! POLICE!” Shouted Rudovsky at the top of her voice. Suddenly there was the unmistakable sound of activity behind the door.
“COME ON, WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! OPEN THIS DOOR! POLICE!” Shouted Kenyon, unable to resist joining in with this most mischievous tactic. It seemed to be working though, both officers could hear urgent footsteps coming towards the door.
A big, heavy sounding bolt could be heard being unlocked behind the door. And then, with a turn of a key, the door began opening slowly. Rudovsky and Kenyon were not prepared for the sight that greeted them once the door was fully opened.
* * *
“Harry, darling, wake up.”
“Eh? What?”
“Harry, quick, wake up. Something’s happening over the street, at Piers Marshall’s house!” Wendy Hudson was standing at the bedroom window, trying to figure out what all the commotion was in the street.
“What?”
“Harry, come here, at once!”
Harry, a fifty-two year old barrister was most dissatisfied by this alarming disturbance to his sleep. “What on earth is it?” he asked as he stood and walked across the enormous bedroom, and joined his wife at the window.
“These two people have been banging on Piers’ door for a few minutes now. I saw a curtain move upstairs, so they are definitely at home.”
“His car’s there. What time is it?” asked Harry, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Wendy walked across to her bedside table and took her phone. “It’s five, just gone.”
It was a ridiculous hour to be awake, and she hoped that the children didn’t hear this antisocial noise. The kids getting up and starting their Saturday at this hour was the last thing she needed. She began recording the commotion on her phone.
“I’ll send this to the council. It’s absolutely outrageous!” The phone couldn’t really pick out the two characters who were hammering on Piers’ door, so Wendy pressed the zoom button and the images became a little clearer.
“They might be plain clothes police officers Harry!” she announced. Her suggestion was confirmed as accurate a second or two later, when one of the people started shouting; “POLICE, OPEN UP! POLICE!” It was a woman shouting, and then the other person, a man started shouting too.
“OPEN THIS DOOR! POLICE!”
Wendy zoomed her camera in even further. The images weren’t very sharp, and her trembling hands made the video look quite wobbly. But Wendy and Harry could see the two officers very clearly on the phone screen. And then suddenly the door opened and the two officers were confronted by a woman.
“Oh my God, Harry! Who is that standing at the door? Is that… no, it can’t be?”
* * *
“What the…”
As DCI Paxman got out of the vehicle, he was instantly greeted by two security officers. Paxman’s own officers alighted the vehicle and suddenly, the confidence of the two security men looked dented. The six people were standing in the courtyard car park, close to the front entrance of Bob Francis’ stunning country mansion.
“What’s happening here?” asked the older looking security man.
“We’re police officers, from the Met. We need to have a few words with Bob Francis.”
Both of the men looked surprised. From the look on their faces, it wasn’t a regular occurrence for police to come up here, asking to speak to Britain’s best loved TV personality.
“Have you made an appointment?” asked the younger of the two security men.
“No Sir, this is an urgent police matter. Can you get Mr Francis here for me please?”
Suddenly, another person started walking across the courtyard towards the six people on the car park.
“What’s going on here?” It was a young woman, early thirties, she was wearing her pyjamas, and she looked extremely annoyed.
“Who are you?” asked Paxman.
“I’m Jen, Bob’s personal secretary. Who the hell are you?”
“They’re police,” said one of the security men, quietly.
“We need to talk to Bob Francis please, as a matter of urgency. If you could go and get him please, that would be most helpful.”
“But Bob is asleep right now, it’s five o’ clock in the morning for goodness sake!”
“Well I’m afraid you will have to wake him madam, this is an urgent police matter.”
Jen turned sharply and started walking quickly back towards the house. “Tell them to wait in the summer house!” she snapped in the direction of the security guards, before disappearing into the lavish, stunning property. The security officers gestured the police officers to follow them, as
they headed away from the main entrance to the house, and headed around the side of the building.
Bob Francis’ home looked like an exclusive country hotel, the kind of which that was reserved for only the very super rich. Every part of this property looked like it was made from the very best that money could buy. The main building was painted brilliant white, and had a conical blue slate roof, the kind rarely seen in the UK. The gardens were pristine, and the whole place looked like a palace. This man was very clearly intent on living out his concluding years in the most resplendent comfort.
This place had been in the news several times through the years, most notably for Bob’s summer garden parties. These private parties were the highlight of Bob’s annual charity work, and he would invite hundreds of sick and disadvantaged people to come along and meet the stars of TV, film and music throughout one spectacular day of fun and happiness. Bob Francis’ garden parties were the talk of the media, mainly due to the fact that the media were locked out. Bob didn’t want his big charitable day being broadcast and published in magazines, so if you were invited, you were made aware that you’d be letting everybody down if you sold photos or made films of the event.
People from all over the UK were invited along. There were children with terminal illnesses, teenagers who’d done heroic things in their communities, adults with learning difficulties who’d achieved special goals in their lives. Ordinary people who’d done extraordinary things for others, were entertained for the day by the very cream of the UK’s musicians and comedians, telly stars and celebs. Attendees were picked from nominations which were sent into Bob Francis’ Charitable Trust by teachers, carers and support workers throughout the year.
“Nice place!” said one of Paxman’s officers as they followed the security men through a picturesque, never-ending garden which was bursting with colour and life.
“The gardener must work a few hours on this!” remarked another officer.
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 27
