by Lee Wood
The set-up is always the same: Dave receives a call on the unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile provided by the Russians at the previous meet up. The day and time will be agreed and they will meet in the motel coffee lounge.
One of the Russians and Dave’s second-in-command will then go out to their vehicles, which they have parked side-by-side. The Russian will check the money while Dave’s man will check the ‘merchandise’.
The Russians are slick operators. They are always on time and the goods are always exactly as agreed; never short or sub-standard and never carried out on the same day or at the same time. It is either a Tuesday or Wednesday and from any time between ten am and three pm. At each meet, Dave is given a new pay-as-you-go phone for the next drugs meeting and he hands back the previous one.
The Russians display no emotion, no fear, nothing. They are men of few words. As Dave peers into their menacing eyes, he imagines their hearts are as cold as a Siberian winter and they would slit your throat without a moment’s hesitation, yet at the same time they are friendly and polite. He considers this to be an admirable quality.
It is obvious to Dave that they are simply part of an operation one step up the chain from him. He often wonders how high it goes and who is actually at the top, but even he is not stupid enough to try to find out.
Eight years ago, when he first started buying drugs from them, the deals were £10,000 every two weeks. Over time, the amount he buys has increased and is now £30,000 each time.
After the exchange, Dave leaves the motel coffee bar and gets into a separate car from Kenny Green his second-in-command. His associate will take the drugs to the lock-up and meet him when he arrives. This way he won’t get caught with the drugs if the police happen to stop and search the car. Once he has the new supply, it is simply a case of phoning his customers and taking orders.
None of Dave’s customers are street dealers as these tend to get caught easily by the police. Dave supplies the middlemen who in turn supply the street dealers, unware of his existence. Most of the street dealers are users themselves so totally unreliable. Junkies, who if they are desperate enough would stab you for the price of a fix.
Three years ago, when Dave arrived at the Milton Motel handover, he was shocked to find Vladimir taking the place of one of the usual Russians. Dave wasn’t sure what was going on and couldn’t hide the fear on his face. Vladimir was quick to hold out his hand and smile as if to reassure him.
“I have a proposition for you. We could help you expand your business. We have lots of nice girls who we can offer to you for £500 a week. You could make your money back in a couple of days. If you don’t have experience in setting up an escort agency we can send people to help you. And perks of the trade, you get free. You can double or even triple your money, easy. Ten girls working can make you £5,000 a week. You want to think about it and let my people know next time?”
Dave was relieved this was the reason for the unexpected appearance of the Russian boss. He told Vladimir that he would definitely think about it, but in his mind he was pretty certain his answer was going to be yes. He’d heard about the amount of money to be made from these Eastern European girls, and the freebies would also be good. They would probably be used to the kinds of things which turned him on; things that prevented him from getting a regular girlfriend.
Two weeks later, as the next deal went down, Dave passed on the message that he was interested in Vladimir’s new proposal. The two Russians smiled.
“I think you make good decision. I tell boss when we get back to London,” one of them told him.
Within six weeks, Dave had his own ‘escort agency’ up and running, starting with ten girls as Vladimir suggested. The deal was that the first month was free and after this he would pay £500 a week per girl. Within hours of setting up, the phones had begun to ring. The Russians had added the girls’ details to a string of escort and private massage websites covering every region of the country which directed clients in Dave’s area to the girls.
Dave had found two cheap three-bedroomed houses. He put two single beds in both of the large bedrooms and one in the small bedroom for the girls to stay in when they weren’t working. Their work would all be done in either hotels or at their clients’ addresses.
Many customers became regular clients, and demand grew as word spread. Dave then put his best girls into their own apartments to do in-calls as well as out-calls with the cost of the rent being deducted from the girls’ share of the take. Dave learnt to watch out for girls who lied about the number of clients and kept some of the fees for themselves. They got dealt with in such a brutal way that word quickly got round and the others were too terrified to risk it.
In the three years since adding the girls’ escorting activities to his drug dealing, Dave constantly has to consider ways in which he can turn the cash into ‘legitimate’ income.
Having large sums of cash sitting around sounds good, but with all the checks banks have to carry out, you can’t simply pay it into your account or buy cars or property without a lot of awkward questions being asked.
Chapter Ten
JAMES
The noise from people starting to go about their daily business awakens me. I carefully begin to put my ‘bed’ back into the recess behind the refuse bins, so no one in the hotel management notices it and orders its removal or realises what’s going on. I can understand why non-paying guests are not so welcome.
My second priority of the day is to visit a local toilet. I won’t go into detail! Every Wednesday morning, usually between eight and nine, I try to sneak into St. Paul’s hostel and make use of their shower and washroom facilities.
If I’m able to time it for when the staff are changing shifts and busy with all the residents’ problems, I can be in and out in less than half an hour and no one is any the wiser. You might be surprised to learn that the facilities are not used to their full capacity because some of the residents are not very fussy about their personal hygiene. I take my own soap and use it as shampoo. I also have my own towel. I guess I still have some standards. My parents, God bless them, taught me well.
The residents of St. Paul’s are asked to leave by nine thirty am, so they tend to congregate around a couple of benches on a large roundabout in the centre of an area called Mitcham’s Corner. The name comes from ‘Mitcham’s’, a small independent department store which started business in 1909 and lasted until 1977. It was like a smaller version of the store in the TV series Are You Being Served.
After the department store closed, it became a sports shop, but nowadays it’s a furniture store. A group of up to ten regulars hang out by the benches: eight men and two women who spend all day chatting and drinking. They buy cans of beer from the small shop run by Mr Miah and his wife.
There is a public toilet nearby but it costs twenty pence to use. Being homeless you notice all sorts of opportunities and the group know about a dead-end alley, where refuse bins are stored between the organic farm shop and Barclays Bank. The back of this alley is ideal for use as a free toilet, especially useful after you’ve had a few cans and been caught short.
After I’ve managed to sneak in and have a shower in the hostel, next on my list is to find something to eat.
Thankfully, there are various charity and church organisations run for the homeless on different days of the week. On a Wednesday, my favourite place is St Matthew’s Church Hall where I can savour one of Emily’s homemade cakes washed down by a lovely cup of tea with three sugars.
On rainy days like today, after my free food and cuppa I usually head for the local library. Not the main town centre library as I prefer the one in Ascham Road. I walk along Milton Road and turn to walk the twenty yards up Ascham Road. The entrance consists of a huge grey stone surround which dwarfs the double door entrance. It must be twenty feet high and on either side of it are rows of three windows.
The library is small, but friendly and warm. Before mid-afternoon when the mums bring in their kids after schoo
l it is usually almost empty apart from a few people coming in to return books and choose new ones. As you walk in through the automatic doors, the entire area in front of you is filled with all manner of books. The ‘counter’ is located just to the right, and further along is an enclosed area for the children’s section. I always turn left as this is the side for the reference section area where anyone can sit and read a variety of the daily newspapers and current issues of a wide selection of magazines.
The librarian is an old-school type. Her name is Miss Heffer and she has time for everyone. She is also extremely knowledgeable on most subjects and is like a walking encyclopaedia of reference material and local history. She is a small lady, probably close to retirement age, who it seems has never been married. The rumour is her fiancé died trying to save someone in a fire two weeks before their wedding day and she never recovered from it. She wears thick-rimmed glasses which appear to be too heavy for her nose as they constantly slip down. Her brown hair is short, neat and stylish.
I came to this library when I was growing up and it is also the one I used to bring my kids to. That’s why I like coming here. It evokes fond memories.
Miss Heffer is aware that I was a police officer and what had happened to my family. She also knows my current situation. Without an address, I’m not eligible for a library card so she keeps the books I’m reading behind the counter until my next visit. My current book is Too Close for Comfort by Adam Croft. It’s extremely gripping and I’m about a third of the way through it.
I walk over to the rack where the daily newspapers are on display and look at the headlines for something to grab my attention. I settle on The Daily Mail. I’ll save reading my novel for later. As I walk over to my ‘favourite seat’ by the window, I see Miss Heffer and wave politely, and she returns it with a lovely and genuine smile. It’s something I treasure, as my years of detective experience have taught me when someone is genuine.
I sit down and look around before I start to read. There are only three other people in the library, two who have returned books and are busy choosing new ones. The third person is a few feet away from me using the photocopier located next to the row of three computers. I glance away from what is going on and read.
I notice the front page is the usual story covering the latest row between the two main political parties. The inside pages are a range of articles detailing the misery going on around the world. Mixed in is a group of columnists, each one more than ready to force their own opinion onto whoever is prepared to read their rants.
I spend as much time as I possibly can reading the newspaper, but the level of interest I can muster means it only takes me twenty minutes to reach the back cover. If I was interested in reading the adverts for sea cruise holidays the time would probably double. Next I decide to read The Sun newspaper. I often do the Sudoku puzzle as it’s a way of passing some time.
I’m just about to return it to the rack when I remember the Lotto ticket I have in the back pocket of my trousers. I placed it in this pocket because I’m certain it doesn’t have any holes and furthermore it is secured by a button. On the rare occasion I have something important to keep, this is the pocket I use.
I find the results section of the newspaper and pull the Lotto ticket from its place. I check the numbers but they don’t match any of the numbers the newspaper has as the winning ones. My finger is still on the line of numbers in the newspaper when I see Miss Heffer bringing over my current book.
She happens to notice what I’m doing and tells me, “You’re checking the wrong section. Those are the National Lottery numbers. The ticket you’re holding is for the Euro Lotto.”
“I didn’t realise there are two different Lotto’s,” I answer. “It’s just someone said it could be my lucky day, so I thought it was worth a go.”
“Someone has to win,” she replies with a smile. “You could be Mr Lucky today.”
Chapter Eleven
JAMES
As she walks back to her desk, I check the numbers on the Euro Lotto. One by one, they seem to be identical. I double-check them. I triple check. I even check them a fourth time. They match every time.
My hands shake and I stand up and accidentally knock against a bookcase, causing several books to fall to the floor.
Within a few seconds, Miss Heffer appears. “Are you unwell?”
“Eh, eh,” is all I can utter. “Can you check these numbers for me?” I ask in a whispered voice, so as not to attract attention from the girl still using the photocopier. Fortunately her back is turned and the copier is humming away.
Miss Heffer runs her finger along the line of numbers on my ticket as she carefully checks them off. She then looks at the date on my ticket to make sure it is the same as the one printed in the newspaper.
After what seems like an hour, she says in a soft voice, “According to the evidence I can see here, you have just won the Euro Lotto. Congratulations.”
“What do I do?” I ask.
“You contact the Lotto Company and stake your claim, but before you do, you need to put your details on the back to prove it’s your ticket.”
“I’ll get you a pen,” she says.
When she returns, I follow her instructions and put my name and signature on the back of the ticket where it says “Sign Your Ticket, Make It Yours.”
“I’ve just been on their website and I think the best thing you can do is to phone and tell them you have a winning ticket,” says Miss Heffer.
“But I don’t have access to a phone.”
“Under the circumstances I think it would be all right if you use the telephone we have in the staff room annexe. Here’s the number you need to dial,” and with that she hands me a piece of paper with a telephone number neatly written down.
She leads me across the library to a door with a glass-panelled top section, keys a set of numbers into a security pad to the right of the door and turns the handle.
It’s a fairly large room consisting of a small kitchen area on the right-hand side. On the left is a small office with a beech desk and a large corkboard on the wall above it. On the corner of the desk is a blue telephone.
“Dial nine for an outside line and then the number I’ve given you,” she tells me, “and good luck!” She then walks out, closing the door softly behind her.
My first thought is to go back and check all the numbers again, but I know I’ve already done this. Once more won’t change things.
I sit at the desk, my nerves on edge. My stomach’s fluttering and the palms of my hands are covered in sweat. What if I’ve got it all wrong? It would be embarrassing to come back to the library and it’s one of my best places to pass the long hours of the day.
A good two minutes pass and I’m thinking “should I or shouldn’t I?” Finally I pick up the phone, dial nine and one by one slowly press each number listed on the sheet of paper.
A female voice answers after three rings.
“Hello. I’m umm, err, not sure. I’ve checked the numbers several times and they seem correct. I think I’ve, err, won the Euro Lotto.”
“Congratulations! However, I just need to go over a few details with you.” The lady on the phone is calm and collected. She sounds like this happens on a regular basis.
I give her all the information she asks for.
“I just need to check a few extra things,” she says. “Can you give me a phone number where I can contact you in about an hour?”
“Can you hang on a minute? I don’t have a phone.”
I find Miss Heffer and explain the situation.
She neatly writes down a phone number on a small piece of paper and hands it to me. “Tell them to call you back on this number. You can wait here until they ring.”
After Miss Heffer keys the numbers into the entry pad, I go back to the desk and pick up the phone. “I’ve got a number where you can call me back.” I give her the phone number and once the call has ended I sit down at the desk. I put my head in my hands as I’m really
not sure what to do.
Twenty-two minutes later, the phone rings.
The woman, who identifies herself as Jane, tells me she needs to ask me some more questions, including where and when I bought the ticket. I tell her that I still have the shop receipt and she sounds pleased. However, she does advise me that she cannot confirm my win until the company co-ordinator has had the opportunity to confirm all I have told her, although she can see no problem at this stage.
She then tells me the company will be sending one of their counsellors to help and advise me about what happens next. And at this point, she asks for my address. I call in Miss Heffer and they work out a time to meet me at the library. She says I can make further use of the staff room and no one will disturb us.
I’m a fairly logical person but it’s still hard to believe this is happening. Have I really won the Lotto? I’m not even sure why I bought a ticket in the first place. What was I thinking?
I need time to get my head around this. I could really do with a stiff drink right now. I tell myself not to get over-excited, just in case.
But she told me. I know she did. I heard her say it. Jane from the Lotto Company told me. She said I hold the only winning ticket and it’s the biggest amount in the company’s history. Jane told me I’d won £168,548,030. I couldn’t quite take it in so I wrote down the amount.
Surely this sort of thing doesn’t happen to someone like me. I don’t deserve to win.
Oh God. If only Miriam were here, and Jack and Abi. It’s not fair. It’s really not fair.
Jane said the people from the company are on their way to see me. What people? What do they want? My head’s spinning. I can feel one of my migraine headaches coming on. Believe it or not, winning £168 million is stressful.
Even when I had a family, I would only do the Lotto on the odd occasion. Winning enough to pay off the mortgage was about as much as I could imagine. Like most people, I guess I was thinking, If only.
