The screen changed from the head and shoulder shot of the news-reader, to a familiar publicity photo of Bob Francis, smiling. Beside it was a message which read, quite simply, “Entertainment will never be the same without you. RIP Bob Francis.” Thirty seconds or so of complete silence passed by, before Eamonn Ahearn spoke again. The emotion was clear in his voice.
“We’re joined by our media correspondent James Jeffries who is outside Bob Francis’ home. A sad day, to say the least, James?”
“Oh, for sure Eamonn, not least because Bob Francis was in remarkably good health for his age. Only weeks ago, at his ninetieth birthday celebrations, Bob joked that he felt great, and confessed that he was still partying like a seventy-seven year old.”
“God bless him,” said Eamonn as he laughed sombrely and affectionately at the typical sounding gag.
“There’s a very strange mood about here this morning. Obviously, Bob Francis had reached a great age at ninety years, but despite that, there’s still a real sense of shock here, a feeling that it’s just not true, that it’s not really happening. I must admit that I too feel that way, almost as though I can’t quite believe that he’s gone.”
“The world is a poorer place without him, and many staff here at Sky Television have very openly shed tears this morning. He had a very rare gift, a talent that almost every television presenter would love to have, and the only way I can describe this talent is to say that when Bob Francis was on the television, you felt that he was right there in the room with you.”
“Yes, and as this news spreads around the country, I think we’ll be hearing many more thoughts about a great, great man.”
“Do we have any idea why Bob Francis died, James? Any news on the cause of death yet?”
“That’s a very interesting question Eamonn, and there are lots of differing viewpoints and opinions flying around on this subject. One thing that is becoming clearer, is the fact that Metropolitan police officers were in attendance at this address when Bob Francis tragically passed away. We’ve heard that detectives from Scotland Yard battled for almost half an hour to revive Bob Francis, but when the ambulance crew arrived from Watford General Hospital, they found that there was nothing they could do to save him, and pronounced Bob Francis extinct of life just before six o’clock this morning.”
* * *
Miller, Saunders and Grant were sitting in the A&E department at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, watching the Sky News reports on the TV in the main waiting room. Miller had a cheeky smile on his face as he watched the news report surrounding Bob Francis.
“It’s a hell of a bad karma come-back for DCI Paxman. This one will go down as the worst attempted stitch-up of all time!” Miller was speaking quietly, sat with his arms folded across his chest. Grant wasn’t exactly sure what Miller was talking about, so Miller explained the way that Paxman and his team had behaved with the Kathy case since the very beginning. Paxman had back-heeled the case to Manchester as quickly as he possibly could. He now had the rest of his career to blush and cringe about that decision.
“In short, they thought they’d drop it on us, because they knew it was going to be a nightmare. Well, they were right… it was a nightmare, but not for us! We’ve come down and sorted it all out in their own back-yard, while they’ve caused the death of Britain’s biggest A lister!”
Grant and Saunders laughed. It was a peculiar outcome for Paxman and his team, who would now have the IPCC enquiry, as well as the media scrutinising their activities. It was going to be hell for them, there was absolutely no way out of it.
“Too bad DCI Paxman,” said Saunders quietly.
“Gutted!” said Grant, without any hint of sincerity in her voice.
“Hey, watch, we’re on now!” Miller sat up and leaned in closer to the TV. The sound was down, but it was still very obvious what was happening on the news channel, as amateurish camera footage was broadcast. It showed Rudovsky and Kenyon banging on the front door of a big, posh house. The footage was shaky and quite blurry, it looked like it was taken by a nosey neighbour on a mobile phone, but it was good enough to see Rudovsky’s and Kenyon’s stupefied reaction when Kathy Hopkirk opened the door.
“Ha ha ha, aw God love them! What would you do though? That just wasn’t expected, was it?”
“That is classic! We need to get hold of that footage and torture them with it!” said Saunders, laughing manically at the double, open-mouth, head-wobble that Kenyon and Rudovsky gave to one another. The TV company also seemed to enjoy this moment of bewilderment, as they showed the moment of surprise once again, forcing another huge laugh from the three detectives in the waiting area.
“Aw, we’ve got to learn how to do that face, and then when Rudovsky is being a dick, we can just go like that in her face!” Miller had tears of amusement running down his cheeks as he thought of the terror that this footage would unleash on his most boisterous member of staff. “Aw Jesus, I’m over tired. I always feel dead giddy when I’m too tired. Forgive me DC Grant, I’m not really insane.”
“Haha, no, carry on, it’s funny! It’s passing the time nicely for me to be honest.” Grant looked like she was having fun.
“Yeah, good point.” Saunders looked at his watch. “How much longer are we going to be waiting Sir?” The DI was beginning to get a bit restless now. There was still so much to do, so many questions to find answers to. This was quite literally a waste of time for the three officers sat staring at the TV screen. The mood started to drop a little as the TV news returned to its main story, and showing photographs of Tweets that celebrities had posted after hearing of Bob Francis’ unexpected death.
The waiting room was full, people of all ages, ethnicities, religions and genders were waiting for a nurse or doctor to see to their ailments. This hospital, along with the rest of the country’s A&E departments was struggling to cope with demand. The government’s cuts to social care and mental health services were having a negative, knock-on effect which was forcing additional care onto emergency NHS departments. This deliberate, planned chaos was designed to undermine the service to such a degree that it would seem that there was no other option available, but to privatise it. Accident and Emergency wards were the public’s first point of contact, and as a result, most hospitals in the UK were habitually receiving their worst performance ratings since records began.
But, despite the six, seven, even eight-hour waiting times to see a healthcare professional, the people just sat patiently. Some were weeping with pain, others were rocking back-and-forth, trying to ease their discomfort. One or two of the patients exhaled huge gusts of frustrated air every couple of minutes. All around, the NHS staff were working tirelessly, trying their best to keep on top of things.
None of the public in the waiting room had any idea that Kathy Hopkirk was being treated here, just a few feet away from this stuffy, overcrowded, uncomfortable waiting room.
Rudovsky and Kenyon had sneaked Kathy into the A&E department with a blanket over her head almost two hours earlier. They wanted to get Kathy checked over, as she hadn’t looked like she was in very good condition at Piers Marshall’s house. But, as Miller text Rudovsky to ask how long they were likely to be, the DCI was surprised to learn that Kathy hadn’t been seen yet.
“Fuck’s sake,” said Miller, as he showed Rudovsky’s text to Saunders.
“Sorry Sir, we’re just sat in a side room, nobody has been in to see us yet. Kathy’s nodded off.”
The message seriously annoyed Saunders. “Oh that’s a piss take!” he said in a loud whisper.
“Well, it’s not life-or-death, is it? I’ll bet they are dealing with much more serious matters than checking over a celebrity. I’ll bet she’ll still be here this afternoon to be honest.” Miller looked disappointed, but not surprised. Kathy had a few facial wounds that needed a quick once over, and she looked a bit skinny, and pale. She didn’t really look any different to an average alcoholic who’d gone on a mad one for a few day
s.
“Permission to go and start the interview with Marshall, Sir?” Saunders was leaning forward, the news that Kathy was still waiting to be seen had fired the DI up. He needed to be doing something worthwhile, and this was far from it.
“Not yet. I want Kath…” Miller stopped himself before he revealed the whole of Kathy’s name to the bored, demoralised patients sat all around him, a few of whom were trying to figure out what all his waffle was about. “I want to hear her version first. I need to know what Marshall was on about when he was reminding her, what was it he said before we split them up?”
“Remember what we’ve been through,” said Grant.
“That was it. We need to know what that was about, and we need to hear her version of events before we even look at Marshall. The longer we are, the longer he’s stewing over anyway, so it’s all good.”
“Right then, I’m just going to go and lie down somewhere Sir, while I can.”
“Okay. Yes, that’s a good idea.” Saunders’ suggestion made a sudden, intense tiredness wash over Miller. “Go and do that, tell you what DC Grant, why don’t you go with him, and get a few hours in yourself?”
Grant wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to say yes, thanks, seeya, more than anything. She was so tired that her eyes were watering constantly. But she was a probationer, she was working with the SCIU on a trial basis. As such, she wasn’t sure what the protocol should be in these circumstances. Her mind was suddenly fizzing with conflicting thoughts.
Miller saw straight through her expression. “Go on, you look like shit DC Grant.”
“Well, I’ll probably be a bit more use after a recharge. Thanks.”
“Yeah, no worries, and remember, one of you will be driving us back up that road, so get a good rest. There’s no rush. We’ve got at least twenty four hours with Marshall before we need to make a decision about him.”
“Alright. Nice one Sir, cheers.”
“Thanks Sir.”
Grant and Saunders left the waiting room and Miller focused his attentions back on the TV. A few seconds passed by before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and saw an old lady staring at him.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yes, I was just wondering if you’re one of those coppers who are on the telly. You are ain’t ya?”
Miller looked up at the screen and saw himself, standing outside the address. He looked almost as gobsmacked as his colleagues had done when he saw who had opened the door. It made him smile. “No, that’s nowt to do with me.” Miller was polite enough, but the elderly lady didn’t seem convinced.
“I’ve been listening to you talk all this police business for the last ten minutes. She’s here, ain’t she?”
“Who?” asked Miller, turning around once again.
“Kathy Hopkirk. She’s here ain’t she? That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
All of a sudden, the sound of excitable chitter-chatter in the waiting room became unbearable. Miller tried to rubbish the old lady’s suggestion, but it was too late. She’d let the cat out of the bag. Miller got to his feet and headed out of the waiting room, heading towards the exit. He was phoning Rudovsky as he walked away from the giddy patients, many of whom were already phoning and texting friends about the shocking turn-up.
“Well, here I am still waiting in A&E at the Royal Free after ten hours and a certain Kathy Hopkirk has just jumped the queue! #FML!” was one typical Facebook status update.
Within no time, the message was spreading onto the internet, and Miller knew that it was a nightmare. It was only going to be a few minutes before the press got wind-of-it and came and turned this place into a media-frenzy.
“Jo, yeah, what’s happening?”
“Hi boss. Nowt, we’ve still not been seen. I’ve quizzed the staff, but they’ve got bigger priorities. The corridors are filled with trolleys, there are some really ill looking people everywhere Sir, its like a third-world country in here. I don’t think she’s going to be seen anytime soon.” Rudovsky sounded as though she was half-asleep.
“How is she?”
“She’s okay, she’s still asleep.”
“Right, well, we’ve got a problem.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’ve been sussed out, the press will be here any minute. We need to get out of here right now, or its going to turn into a circus.”
“Oh, right. What’s the plan?”
“We’ll just get in the car, and go. Meet us at the door.”
“Right. How long?”
“Now. And put that blanket over her head again, I don’t want anyone trying to get a selfie. Hurry up, I’ll be right outside the main door, in the ambulance bay.”
Miller was standing outside the CID car when the call ended. It was parked in one of the reserved police bays beside the ambulance unloading bays. Within a couple of seconds, he’d reversed the vehicle into an ambulance’s parking space and was watching his rear-view mirror, waiting for sight of Rudovsky, Kenyon and the under-cover celebrity they were escorting.
“Come on, come on,” said Miller under his breath, tapping his hand against the steering-wheel as he noticed a couple of people coming from the waiting room, and starting to gather around the entrance doors. A few were mumbling to one-another excitedly, whilst a few others held up their phones in the expectation that they would get some pretty cool content for Facebook or Twitter if Kathy Hopkirk really was in there, and about to get in that copper’s car.
“Fuck’s sake Rudovsky!” said Miller as he saw the interest beginning to grow. More and more people were gathering inside, and outside the A&E entrance doors. He could see that it was going to be hard-work getting out of there, there were at least twenty gormless looking people hanging about around the doors, and another ten or so standing outside, smoking and taking photos of the DCI sitting in his car with the engine running.
“Move!”
“Get out of the way!”
Miller recognised those voices. It was Rudovsky and Kenyon, they were coming through. They were struggling, with mobile phones being held up in front of their faces, but they were making progress. The crowd starting cheering and shouting random remarks and questions.
“Kathy!”
“Ha ha is it really you!”
“Can I have a photo for my profile pic bruv?”
Miller stepped out of the car, opened the rear passenger door on his side, and then went around the car to open the other. The public were absolutely loving this unexpected excitement after spending so many boring, never-ending hours sitting in that stuffy waiting room. The excitement got too much however, and somebody at the back of the jeering scrum pulled Kathy’s blanket off her head.
Suddenly, the excitement levels raised up to another level. There she was, Kathy Hopkirk, looking pale, bruised and vulnerable. Scared and confused. From what had seemed like a bit of a far-fetched suggestion from an old woman in the waiting room a few minutes earlier, to actually seeing the UK’s most famous missing-person being bundled out of the hospital like this was absolutely thrilling, and the mobile phones that were being held up above all of this drama and chaos were capturing this bizarre moment for posterity.
“Get in, get in,” Miller was pushing against the mob, holding them back. Kathy really did look scared, and Miller felt exceptionally sorry for her. He felt like he had stepped back into the Victorian ages, and was accompanying a criminal past a baying mob to the town stocks. Kathy sat in the car first, and Rudovsky wriggled onto the back seat beside her. She managed to close the door and lock it before any of the morons outside grabbed hold of the door-handle.
“Fuck’s sake!” said Rudovsky. “I felt like I was in Shaun of the Dead then!” as she clipped her seatbelt and handed Kathy hers. Kenyon finally managed to get past the A&E patients, and jumped into the front passenger seat beside Miller.
Just as Miller was about to lift his clutch and set off, a few of the mob started to move i
n front of the car. Miller had to make a split-second decision, and released the clutch and started pulling away slowly, forcing the idiots who’d raced in front of the vehicle, to step away again, just as quickly. All around the car, people were banging their hands on the roof and windows, still shouting weird comments. The excitement had got too much for them, and Miller decided to increase his speed a little. Within seconds, he’d managed to pull away from the frolicsome crowd of walking wounded.
“Okay. What just happened?” asked Kenyon.
“Are you alright Kathy?” asked Miller.
“Yes, I’m okay, thank you.” Kathy looked humiliated, and extremely sad.
“Sorry about that. When you guys knocked on Piers Marshall’s front door, some neighbour was filming it, and now it’s on all of the news channels. Then the bit came on when I joined you and some old biddy in the waiting room recognised me, put two and two together, and then all that weird shit happened!” Miller sounded shocked by his own story.
“Where we going?”
“Police station. We’ll get the duty quack to check Kathy over.”
“I’m fine, honestly.” Kathy looked exhausted. Three minutes earlier, she’d been fast-asleep, so it was quite understandable that she looked quite washed out. Those facial wounds looked around about a week old, the last, jaundiced yellow of the bruises was fading. Miller had wanted an A&E assessment doing, as in his experience, it would be faster than waiting for a duty doctor, who could come at any time and disrupt a very important part of an interview. The idea was that they’d be in and out in half-an-hour, with an injury report that could be used as evidence. But it hadn’t worked out that way, and Miller was the most surprised.
“It’s like a different country, down here.” He said, to nobody in particular.
Forty minutes later, Miller and his colleagues arrived at Shepherd’s Bush police station with their star guest. They were led into the station through the back doors, where the police vans unloaded their prisoners.
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 31
