Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared
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“There’s a team of them.” Announced the older security guard, in quite a sniffy manner.
“Yes, I’ll bet,” replied the detective, trying to keep relations cordial.
After walking around the entire perimeter of the house, the four police officers were led into a smaller house, which looked like a miniature version of the main property, complete with blue slate conical roof.
“Okay, if you can wait in here, we’ll bring Mr Francis to you once he is up and dressed.”
Paxman didn’t seem happy with this. “No, I’m sorry, we’re not here for a cup of tea and a natter at Mr Francis’ convenience. We need to see Bob Francis as a matter of the utmost urgency, so please take us to him, right now.”
“Jen’s getting him now. He’s fast asleep. He’s ninety years old for God’s sake!” snapped the security guard, who clearly held his boss in a very high regard.
“Right, I’ll give you five minutes. No longer.”
The security guard headed off in the direction of Bob’s house, leaving the younger one standing outside the summer house with Paxman and his detectives.
“They must think they’re above the law if they’ve got a bit of money!” said Paxman, for the security man’s benefit more than anybody else’s.
A few minutes passed by, and then the older guard, and Jen appeared, pushing a very familiar looking man in a wheelchair. It was Bob Francis, although he looked different sitting in this wheelchair. He certainly didn’t look like the happy go-lucky entertainer from Saturday night TV. His famous white hair was all up and frizzy, and he looked furious, his face was so red.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” he shouted as his wheelchair was pushed nearer to the uninvited guests. “How DARE you come here unannounced to speak to me! I demand that you leave here at once!” Bob Francis was getting extremely worked up, pointing his finger and waving his arm about.
But then he grabbed his chest with both hands, and fell forward. He made a gasping sound, before jerking forward. He jerked so much, it made him topple out of the chair. It all happened so quickly.
“Bob!” shouted Jen, as she rushed around to her boss’s motionless body that was lay out on the ground.
“Shit!” said the security guard that had been pushing the wheelchair. “Do something!”
“Oh my God,” said Paxman as he fell to his knees, trying desperately to revive Bob Francis.
PART FOUR
Kathy Hopkirk always enjoyed visiting Manchester. For a Scottish child, growing up in seventies, Manchester was the exciting, exotic city in England that her family would visit for a day-trip every year during their annual “Wakes week” holiday to Blackpool.
Home of the Bee Gees, Coronation Street, Georgie Best and the Arndale Centre, Manchester was usually the closest that working-class Scottish families got to visiting England’s capital city. Arguably, it’s a much better city anyway, and its close proximity to Blackpool, and its rich industrial heritage, along with the areas exciting cultural achievements are largely the reason that so many people of Scottish heritage have settled in the Greater Manchester and Lancashire areas today. Put simply, Manchester is much better than London in many Scot’s eyes because the people are friendlier, there are plenty of off-licenses around and haggis is available at many Mancunian Butcher shops. Plus Manchester is “nearer tae hame” than the capital city is.
And now, many years on from those wonderful halcyon childhood holidays and day trips to Manchester in the seventies, here she was. Kathy Hopkirk wasn’t looking up at the building from the pavement anymore. Now, she was inside the place, she was staying at The Midland. This enormous, Victorian era hotel, built from red granite, and the almost indestructible Accy red brick had captivated her imagination as a child. Her eyes would be drawn to the attention to detail around every window, every hand-carved cornice and finial. She’d stand there as a little girl and dream of the film-stars and pop singers and Kings that were relaxing inside all those big, elegant rooms.
It was always her first port-of-call when visiting Manchester, still to this day. That big posh hotel which had offered accommodation to the world’s most famous and gifted people for over a century was her idea of paradise. By just standing outside, looking up above the double archway entrance, it made her feel young, and innocent, carefree and happy once again. She felt extremely grateful that she was now financially comfortable enough that she could stay there whenever she found herself in the north west of England. Kathy used this childhood dream of hers as a barometer of her success in life. In this case, dreams really did come true, and Kathy was mindful to never forget that she was once that poor, penniless child standing outside and admiring this place, dreaming of one day entering the fine looking building. It always made Kathy thankful for her lot, when she thought of her younger self in that way.
The following day’s engagements were in Kathy’s diary. The plans included an interview for Granada TV’s local news magazine show, a book signing event at Waterstones in the city centre, then she’d need to write her newspaper column for The Mail at some point, and then the day would end with a visit to Piccadilly Radio, where she was going to record something controversial for the late-night talk show. She wasn’t sure what she’d say just yet, but she couldn’t possibly leave this city without making a big splash on the front page of the Manchester Evening News. Anything less would be viewed as a wasted opportunity.
As Kathy phoned down to room-service and ordered a bottle of House Red, and one glass, she was planning to relax in the Jacuzzi, watch a little television, and grab an early night. As the clock reached 8pm, Kathy Hopkirk could have had no idea that none of her appointments for the following day would be fulfilled. Shortly after this time, the telephone that she had been sent by Piers Marshall began ringing.
She rummaged around in her handbag. She’d almost forgotten all about that phone. After a few seconds of frantic scrapping through the piles of junk that she kept in there, Kathy found the old, retro mobile.
“Hello?” she said, she sounded nervous, and slightly awkward. She’d never answered a call on this phone before, and she had no idea what the protocol was when answering a secret phone.
“Kathy, its Piers. Where are you?” he sounded quite stressed, thought Kathy, as she told him where she was, and what her itinerary consisted of for the following twenty-four hours. She rounded off by explaining “but I’ll be back in London around this time tomorrow, so we could meet up and have a chat then, if you like?”
“No, Kathy, I’m not in London, I’m in the north myself, Yorkshire. Look, I need to speak with you, face-to-face. Tonight.”
“Oh?” Kathy sounded very concerned.
“Something unexpected has cropped up. I need to check a couple of things with you, before I can book the studio for our big show.”
“Well, you can ask me now, on the phone?” Kathy really wasn’t in the mood for altering her plans for the evening. By the sound of his voice, Piers wasn’t really in the mood for altering his plans either.
“No, listen, time is tight. If I don’t book that studio by midnight tonight, we’ll be looking at six weeks until it’s available again. I’m not prepared to chance it. And I’m not prepared to risk this leaking by talking over a phone connection. You never know who could be listening in.”
“So you want to see me in person?” Kathy sounded a little bit pissed off, but all the same, she wanted that studio booking more than anything. She wanted this most outrageous, most shocking sex abuse outing of Bob Francis to take place ASAP. Yesterday, if it was at all possible. After all, he was ninety years old. There was no way that she wanted a six week delay hanging over this.
“Yes, I need to speak face-to-face. I’m at a shoot for a new crime drama we’re filming in Huddersfield at the moment, it’s about an hours drive to Manchester, but I’ll organise a car to pick you up, and we’ll meet up half way. What do you say? I won’t need you for long, and then you can get back to wha
t you’re doing in Manchester, and I can get back to this.”
“What I was planning to do was relax!”
“Sorry! But you know what these things are like…”
Right. Okay. No problem.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Midland.”
“Ooh, very nice. I’ve spent many a lovely night there, enjoyed the divine food at Mr Cooper’s House and Garden, too.”
“Oh, I must try Mr Cooper’s. I always eat at The French.”
“Love it! Okay, give me a couple of minutes please to organise transport, and I’ll call you back with the details.”
“Okay, thanks Piers. I’m really glad that you’re doing this.”
“Me too Kathy. Give me five and I’ll call you back.”
“Give me ten if you will, I need to shower.”
“Okay, no problem. Speak to you soon.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Piers called.
“Hi, I’ve got you a car, it’ll pick you up at Saint Peter’s Square, just across the road from the Midland at quarter to nine. The driver says that it takes an extra ten minutes to get out of town around the one-way system at the Midland, so walk across the square, just wait at the tram stop and he’ll let you know when he’s there.”
“Quarter to nine. Saint Peter’s Square tram stop. Okay, no problem. Thanks Piers.” Kathy checked her watch. It was twenty past eight. She had twenty five minutes to dry her hair and throw some clothes on.
“No, no, thank you. Oh, and Kathy, not a word to anyone about this.”
“Of course not. Top secret.”
“Great. Okay. See you soon.”
* * *
It was going dark as Kathy was picked up beside St Peter’s Square Metrolink stop by a mini-cab driver, at exactly 8.45pm. He was nice enough, he didn’t say much. They were the best kind of drivers as far as Kathy was concerned. She hated making small talk about how busy it had been, or how sunny or rainy or hot or cold it had been. Silence was always her preference.
Kathy didn’t get to see the outskirts of Manchester very often, so she sat quietly in the back seat, taking in the views of the area as the vehicle headed out of the city.
“Where are we going?” asked Kathy after twenty minutes or so.
“We’re not very far now, soon be there,” said the driver as the scenery became less urban and started to become more and more rural. The last big landmark that Kathy had noticed signs for was Tameside General Hospital. This wasn’t a place she remembered hearing much about, but she thought that it looked like a pleasant enough area. She was trying to think of something scandalous to say tomorrow, just to ensure she hit the local headlines, but this part of Greater Manchester was extremely pleasant, so she mused that she’d have to say something about the unfeasible amount of fat arses that there were in this part of Britain, and the catastrophic amount of methane that they probably produce.
By the time that her mini-cab was reaching its destination, it was dark. Her driver had pulled off the main road, and was travelling along a very bumpy, very dark country lane.
Suddenly, Kathy began to feel jumpy, and nervous. She felt an instant, overwhelming sense of panic and vulnerability. All of her cock-sure confidence was gone, and as the minicab continued to bump up and down this uneven country track, she was tempted to ask the driver to turn around, and head back to the main road, back to the reassurance of those orange street lamps in the distance.
A few things hadn’t been adding up to Kathy Hopkirk. The need for this visit seemed a little bit suspect from the beginning, as soon as Piers mentioned it. But, she had agreed to it, and put her doubts to the back of her mind. However, as the arrangement began to become more and more peculiar, such as having to walk a hundred yards away from her hotel, to a very exact spot to meet her car, she had started becoming more and more paranoid. Now that this mini-cab was bouncing in and out of pot-holes and huge puddles along this dark, deserted country road, Kathy began to sense that all was not well. Her heart started pumping hard, she could feel her face heating up and her breath tightening.
“Bloody pot-holes! My bloody tyres are crying!”
“Yes, this is like a road from the middle ages.”
“Not to worry. We are here now, madam,” said the taxi driver in his very warm, very friendly Bangladeshi accent.
“Thanks.” Said Kathy, her voice was cold, lacking any enthusiasm or warmth. The car began to slow and Kathy saw a huge black Range Rover parked up on the opposite side of an enormous puddle. The vehicle’s lights were off, but Kathy sensed that this was Piers Marshall’s vehicle.
“Okay, this is where I drop you off.”
“You’re waiting for me, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry?” asked the taxi driver, he sounded confused by the question.
“I’m here for a meeting. I’ll be going back to Manchester in a few minutes.”
“No, nobody said this to me. I have to go, other jobs, see.”
“No. Wait here. I’ll pay you extra. I’ll give you fifty quid. Please, I want you to take me back to The Midland. Here, take this twenty. I’ll give you the rest later.”
“Okay, trust me, I’ll wait. I’ll take you back, no problems.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.” Kathy got out of the minicab and walked around an enormous puddle, across the uneven, cratered surface of the country lane, taking care not to trip in one of the huge pot-holes using only the light from her phone. As she got half way across the dividing ground between her minicab and the Range Rover, Kathy heard her taxi-driver begin to reverse away.
“You fucking bastard!” she muttered quietly as she reached the Range Rover. Her heart was pounding, banging, up high in her chest. Something was wrong here. Something was definitely wrong. She was on a deserted pathway, in the pitch dark, all alone.
“Fuck.” She whispered as she reached the passenger door. Something was definitely wrong. Everything pointed to this unavoidable conclusion. Kathy wanted to run, more than anything, she wanted to dart away, as fast as she could. But it was no use, she wouldn’t get anywhere on this dark, deserted, treacherous lane. She’d fall and break her ankle, or she’d be followed by this big car and run over. Kathy felt the danger so strongly, she could smell it, she could taste it in the air.
“Hi,” she said, as she opened the car door. She was acting cool.
“Kathy, hi!” said a man in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t Piers. He was younger, early thirties, blond, shaved hair, lots of tattoos on his huge biceps. He had a strong cockney accent. Kathy had never met this man before, she’d never seen him before.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Ben. I’m his security consultant. I’ve come to take you to see Piers.”
“But Piers said…”
“Yeah, no, it’s cool. He’s been held up. Filming. Its all cool, jump in, I’ll take you to see him.”
Kathy stepped away from the vehicle and tried to open the back door. It was locked.
“What’s wrong Kathy? Come and sit up front.”
“No, I want to sit in the back. I always sit in the back.”
“Well, the… the doors are locked. Piers is getting it fixed in the garage next week some time. Common fault with this model apparently.”
“Bollocks mate, I’m not getting in, so shove it!” Kathy slammed the door and started walking quickly away from the car, back in the direction that her minicab had travelled. She didn’t have a plan, she had no idea what she was doing, but she certainly wasn’t getting in that car, that much was for certain. If she could just get back to that main road with the street-lights, or to one of those farm-houses further down the lane, she’d be fine. Kathy was planning her exit from this very fucking dodgy set-up.
And then the street lights in the distance suddenly went out. She felt a thud, right at the back of her skull, and she heard her body hit the damp, muddy floor. Nothing else.
* * *
“Aargh, shit, my head!”
“Aw God, Kathy, are you alright?” It was Piers Marshall. He was sat beside her, on the back-seat of the Range Rover. That guy, Ben, he was driving, pretty fast as well from what she could gather. Her window was wide open. It was the cold draft that had woken her. It was still dark outside, still night-time, they were still on a deserted country lane with no street-lights. They were still on that bumpy, dark lane. They’d put a seat-belt on around her though. That was reassuring.
“What the fuck…” Kathy placed her hand behind her head, directly at the place where she felt the most pain. There was a lump the size of a two pound coin sticking out of her skull, sticking right out, a good inch at least.
“What the…” she repeated as she touched the head-wound again, feeling for blood.
“Kathy, here, have a drink.” Piers handed Kathy a cup, it was an old, manky mug with a chip on the lip. Kathy took it, and put it to her lips, but there was no liquid in it. The dirty old cup was empty.
“Aw shit, sorry, where’s the water gone?” Piers took the cup back, and put it in a bag by his feet.
“What the hell…” She felt in her pocket. Her phone was missing.
“Where’s my phone?” she asked.
“Kathy, listen to me, you’ve had a fall, it’s okay though, we’re taking you down to the hospital. It’s not far.”
“Bullshit. You’re a lying bastard. You’ve hit me round the head when I tried to get away. What, I, you were hiding behind the car weren’t you?”
“Kathy, calm down. You’re confused. You’ve got a head injury. Just settle down now, everything’s going to be alright.”
“Bollocks Piers, don’t talk shit to me. You’re up to something. Something dodgy.”
“Honestly Kathy, just stop talking, keep your strength.”
“Why are you wearing those gloves then?” Kathy pointed at Piers’ hands, and the tan leather gloves that were covering his fingers. “Listen to me, Piers. Three separate people know that I came up here to meet you. I’ve also got the tracker app on my phone. That places me right here, and I’ve got people watching it.”