As a former Sun editor, I didn’t see why voicemail hacking bothered celebrities – until it happened to me
It was the kind of building George Smiley would have been happy to call home. Anonymous and bleak, it’s the home of Operation Weeting, where 60 officers flog themselves to death every day in the biggest Scotland Yard inquiry in anyone’s memory. I am here by appointment. A charming woman detective has called me a couple of times — when you are a former tabloid editor that’s worrying in itself — and asked me to drop by ‘at my convenience’ to look at the fact that my name and mobile number had been found in the paperwork of the private investigator Glenn Mulcaire.
At reception I ask for the detective. The receptionist asks if I am Kelvin MacKenzie. My experience over the years is not to own up to that question too quickly — especially in the Merseyside area. After some hesitation I admit I am MacKenzie and he asks me to call a number scribbled on a scrap of paper. I ring the mobile and it’s answered by a detective sergeant. The sergeant says he will be right down. I had hardly clicked off when the lift door opened and out stepped a friendly chap in his late forties who also asked me if I was Kelvin MacKenzie. Surely I am not being charged with being Kelvin MacKenzie?
He turned out to be considerably further up the rozzers’ ladder.A detective chief superintendent, no less. He was then joined by the younger sergeant. I’ve seen this movie… good cop, bad cop. I know their game.
We went into a large empty room where the sergeant produced a tatty binder with my name down the side. By this time I was beginning to sweat.
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