by Lee Wood
It’s been eighteen months since everything I cared about was taken from me. Not a single day goes by where I don’t remember it all. What the hell does a homeless man need with all that money? The truth is I didn’t expect to win. I got carried away in the moment. Maybe I wanted to just win enough to get off the streets and have a little bit left over? But £168 million! What the hell do I do with it? I could give most of it to charity. I just hope the Lotto people will be able to advise me.
After my phone conversation to the Lotto people, I leave the library in a daze and it’s only four pm. Do I tell anyone? Who can I tell? Stevie’s back in Swansea and I don’t have his contact details.
The migraine is getting worse. I think I’ll go back to the Albion and try to get some sleep, but it won’t be dark for a couple of hours and I’m not sure what I’ll find there as I never go back until the evenings, long after the top management have gone home. I don’t want to get found out or cause any trouble. Still, I’ll make an exception today as my head feels like someone’s hitting it from the inside with a sledgehammer.
I may be a Lotto millionaire but at this precise moment, I can’t even afford to buy some Nurofen. I’m meeting with the Lotto people in the morning, so this time tomorrow I’ll be a multi-millionaire.
What can possibly go wrong?
Chapter Twelve
THE LOTTO WIN
The local newspaper carries the headline ‘Local Homeless Man Wins £168 Million Lotto’ and a photo of me holding up a giant cheque, surrounded by scantily clad women and people showering me with champagne.
The Lotto people persuaded me to go public. I do so on the understanding that the newspapers won’t be given details about the death of my wife and kids and my background as a police officer. Fortunately they don’t seem interested in that. All the newspapers want is the story of my life on the streets and then winning the Lotto.
I tell them about being homeless for the last ten months: wearing worn-out clothes and shoes stuffed with cardboard to cover a hole. They love the quote I give them about wearing a new brand of deodorant called ‘Smellalot’ and me saying, “Last time I looked it wasn’t a brand you’ll find in Hugo Boss or behind the men’s counter at John Lewis or Boots.” This goes down really well.
The main thing they want is the rags-to-riches story; photos of where I used to sit ‘begging for pennies’, as they put it. They take photos of me doing it and then further photos with me holding bundles of cash.
Serious journalism this is not. They don’t check their facts and even get my name slightly wrong. Instead of James Sheldon, they say my name is Anthony Sheldon, which it is, but Anthony is my middle name. Don’t let the facts get in the way. Good news stories sell newspapers. That’s all they want.
I think these people live in a different world to normal people. For them, everything needs to be blown out of all proportion. They are only happy when you make it bigger and brighter. For example, you don’t get the giant cheque you see in the photos. That’s just for the big PR publicity campaign in front of the cameras for the benefit of the newspapers and TV. The money is actually transferred directly into your bank account. My bank account had been closed when the house was repossessed. So one of the team from the Lotto Company comes with me to Lloyds Bank who seem very happy to open a new account for me when they hear how much I’ve won.
It’s been two weeks. By now, the initial excitement of my win has died down and is no longer the main topic of conversation in the town or making front-page news.
With the removal of my scraggy beard, my new clothes, an expensive new hairstyle, a good leisurely shower and the prescription glasses I need but couldn’t afford, my appearance is totally different. I can walk down the street and no one recognises me or hassles me.
I no longer think all of this is a dream from which I am about to wake up. I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams but I have no one to share it with.
The Lotto people gave me a letter from their CEO congratulating me on becoming their biggest ever prize winner as I held the only winning ticket for their prize draw of £168,548,030. I carry the letter with me, and unfold and read it about six times a day. I still have to pinch myself.
Nobody needs this much money. My thinking is, if I give away £150 million, keep eighteen million and spend eight million on… well, anything I need, that will still leave ten million. If I live for the next forty years, that’s £5,000 a week. How would you spend more than that?
And £150 million could help a lot of people.
But how?
That’s the part of the plan I’m still working on.
Chapter Thirteen
JAMES
I decide to book into a Premier Inn hotel for a week, rather than the Albion, as no one here knows me and I can be left to think about what the future holds without well-intentioned people offering all sorts of advice.
So, I’m sitting in the hotel restaurant where I’ve just ordered a hamburger with chips and a drink of lemonade. I’ve got a notebook from an earlier visit to Rymans and I’m determined to come up with ideas to give away £150 million. My stomach is not used to eating a large meal so I decide not to order a dessert. The waitress brings over the bill for me to sign. As I’m a guest at the hotel, it will go onto my account. I ask her what made her decide on a career in hotels. She tells me it’s a stopgap before she goes to university.
“I’m planning to study Business Management and Human Resources at Nottingham Trent Uni,” she tells me.
As she walks away to serve another guest my thoughts turn to my life before becoming homeless. I’ve witnessed the unfairness of life. My dad was one in a million. When he was on early shift he’d meet me from school and take me to the park. He’d play with me and my mates on the swings and buy us all an ice cream and set up goal posts for football. He’d be referee and was always fair.
Then, one day when I expected to see him outside school he wasn’t there. I walked home on my own and he told me he’d been made redundant. I wasn’t sure what that was. I was only ten. It seemed a large American company had recently taken over the factory where he worked with the promise of keeping it open, but then they closed it down.
We lived in a nice house with a lovely garden. Our next-door neighbours were a policeman and his family. The son, Oliver, and I were friends. He would tell me about the things his dad did in his job. I guess that’s where my interest began.
Back then, I would use my pocket money to buy books on real life crime detection procedures, which today, borne out of an awareness from TV programmes, you would call CSI and forensics. It was then I learned about my local library. All the books I couldn’t afford to buy, I could borrow from the library. It was a revelation. I guess it all spurred me on to work hard at school and I eventually won a place at university.
Then one day, a removal lorry arrived and we moved into a first floor flat on a not-very-nice council estate. Mum said that Dad had tried to find a job but times were hard. Losing our lovely home affected him more than he let on. He felt he was a failure who couldn’t provide for his family.
A year later he started drinking and getting violent with us. One day, he got so drunk he fell down a flight of stairs. From then on it was just Mum and I. A week after that, I started a new school and every day I had to walk past our old house.
I joined the police service straight from university. It’s all I had ever wanted to do from the age of ten. In my rank of detective sergeant, before my promotion I was dealing with cases such as murder, attempted murder, and gang-related major crime. My team was responsible for keeping a lot of nasty people off the streets.
However, it’s nothing like the TV shows. One investigation can take months of painstaking work, especially where street gangs are concerned, and they threaten the families of anyone who is likely to grass on them. For the most part the people I worked with were all good coppers. There were a couple I suspected of being corrupt but I had no proof, and simply tried to avoid them whenever I could.
It didn’t pay to make enemies so I was pleasant, but never went for a drink with them. They did not ask me to, and likewise I didn’t ask them either.
During your daily duties as a senior detective, you never know who you are going to meet and you always have to look the part of authority. Nothing does that better than a nice suit, good quality shoes, fresh breath, and Tom Ford Orchid Soleil Eau de Parfum fragrance for men.
I did my bit in the force for better or for worse, but now that life is behind me. Things move on.
By ten pm I’m back in my room at the Premier Inn, sitting at the desk at the end of the king-size Hypnos bed, and finishing off my masterplan.
I allow myself one last ‘self-doubt’ that this is a dream and decide that enough is enough.
God has chosen me to do something with my life and I am not about to let him down.
Chapter Fourteen
PETER HOGAN
Nearly two years ago, Wilson’s petrol station on Mill Road closed down and the council gave permission for a mosque to be built in its place. The change drastically affected the income of the shops in this area, including Dave Rex’s takeaway kebab shop. He found a better location, but it didn’t have the relevant planning permission as a food outlet, and he was aware that several people had applied for a change of use in the last three years and been unsuccessful.
However, Dave had an ace up his sleeve – and like in any poker game, it helps if you know your opponents’ cards. Two weeks previously he’d noticed the Head of the Council Planning Committee emerging from the apartment of one of the Eastern European call girls he controlled. He found out from his girl ‘Rema’ that the man was a regular punter, visiting every Thursday evening.
When the situation required it, Dave could turn on the charm. So, the following week he greeted Rema’s regular punter outside her apartment, told him that Rema wasn’t feeling well, took him to another apartment and introduced him to ‘Monique’.
The moment forty-eight-year-old Peter Hogan saw her, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Comparing this blonde bombshell to Rema was like offering someone a Victoria Sponge personally baked by Mary Berry when their usual treat was a stale rock cake.
“Monique only deals with my special clients,” explained Dave, noticing the lust in Peter’s eyes. He knew this punter would be willing to pay, whatever the price, but it wasn’t his cash Dave was after. He had other plans in mind.
An hour later, Peter emerged from the apartment; satisfied from head to toe; he’d never known a woman with so much passion.
Dave allowed Hogan two more visits to Monique before he approached him again. “I was wondering if you might be able to offer me some advice as to how to get my planning change of use approved. I recently put in an application for 202 Mill Road for use as a takeaway kebab shop.” Dave remained silent about the secretly taken photos. Use them as a last resort, he thought.
Peter had immediately got the gist of Dave’s talk. “I suppose, given that Mill Road seems to be an up and coming area, I’m sure I can have a word and get my colleagues to look at your application in a sympathetic way.”
Five weeks later, Dave’s plans got the approval needed from the council.
After that, Dave made sure Monique always had time for Hogan and got closer to him by taking him to a special ‘Members Only’ gentleman’s club as his guest. His reasoning for becoming friendly was, ‘You just never know when having someone it this position could come in handy.’
Unknown to Dave, Peter was having similar thoughts. There were certain deals and favours done inside the council walls that if leaked could end a lot of careers and mean jail sentences for those involved. Peter and a couple of associates needed someone to take care of ‘a little problem’ involving the police, who were about to commence investigating a couple of allegations.
Peter could sense Dave might just be the person they needed. He had a meeting with his two associates and it was agreed that he would approach Dave and see if something could be arranged.
As it turned out, Dave was only too happy to help. He didn’t disclose anything but he knew two Albanians who, if the money was right, would be prepared to undertake ‘removal’ tasks. Dave had put work their way before and they always delivered. The price for hiring the two was £10,000. Dave decided that he would cover this and offer it as a favour. Someone in his debt inside the council was worth far more, especially as he’d seen what Peter had been able to arrange regarding 202 Mill Road.
The problem to be eliminated was a keen, young, soon-to-be promoted Detective Sergeant starting an investigation into the council. Dave knew that if anything happened to the detective they would look into the cases he was working on, or about to work on. Therefore his action had to be something which would get the DS of the way without direct comeback and the best way was to do this was for something to happen to someone close to him.
Along with the two Albanians, Dave had arranged for a little ‘accident’ which would distract the detective from starting the investigation. With him out of the way, the investigation could be handed over to Detective Inspector Howard Neave who was prepared to ensure the allegations were never proven and nothing would come of the matter.
It all went according to plan. DI Sheldon had a breakdown, they say. He left the police force and disappeared. Good riddance! Dave had thought triumphantly.
Chapter Fifteen
DAVE
During one of his meetings with Vladimir, the Russian boss, some weeks previously, Dave asked for advice on ways to launder the considerable amount of cash his illegal activities were now generating.
“Dave, my friend, we deal with a lot of people in the same situation, and I’ll give you the same advice: invest in property.”
As the two men chatted further, Dave remembered an article he’d seen in The Guardian about the government imposing caps on the amount of welfare benefits, forcing councils in London to rehouse people outside the capital.
The current maximum amount of housing benefit in London was set at £340 a week. The article stated that Camden Council in North London had started moving families out to places as far away as Birmingham and Bradford in a bid to save money. This was enabling private landlords to make a small fortune by offering sub-standard low cost housing.
Dave also recalled a recent conversation with Peter Hogan, head of the local Planning Committee. Peter had mentioned that the council in Trentbridge was drawing up plans to sell off the run-down Asbury Park council estate.
Dave thought that if he could buy it for a low price, he could make a lot of money from renting the houses out to London councils, and Peter Hogan would be in a unique position to help him. Maybe with a cash incentive some strings could be pulled. If not, he still had the explicit photos of Peter with Monique, one of Dave’s call girls, taken two years previously.
During his two-week break, Dave has decided this is what he is going to do, and he ponders over the finer details as he drives his black Mercedes AMG out of the airport car park and starts the two-hour journey back to Trentbridge.
Over the past few years, Dave has managed to wash enough cash to have £500,000 purporting to have come from legitimate businesses sitting in bank accounts, On top of this, he has one and a half million stashed away in cash and in foreign bank accounts, but with each week that goes by his illegal enterprises continue to bring in large quantities of cash which he needs to hide. A nice problem to have but nonetheless still a problem: you can’t exactly stash it under your bed. So where do you hide a growing mountain of tens of thousands of pounds in cash every month?
Chapter Sixteen
JAMES
I head down to breakfast at seven thirty am as I have a busy day ahead of me.
With advice and help from the Lotto organisation, I have a string of appointments with legal people and financial advisors this morning, to ensure my newfound fortune is safe, and I don’t go on a massive spending spree buying yachts and private aeroplanes, or blow my brains out from the exce
ss brought about by sudden wealth of this scale.
At these meetings, we agree that I’ll put most of the money into short-term investment plans which will pay interest. I’ll have two bank accounts; one with Lloyds and the other with Coutts & Co who are the bankers for Her Majesty the Queen. If it’s good enough for royalty, then that’s fine by me. I’ve always respected the Royal Family. The Lotto people suggest I leave five million pounds in each of my current accounts.
By the time all the meetings and appointments are concluded, it is five twenty pm.
By five forty-five, I’m standing on Sidney Street where I’ve spent the previous ten months of my life begging for small change. The difference is, this time I’m not here sitting on the ground with my hat in front of me begging for pennies.
There’s someone I used to see go past around this time of day and I’m anxious to have a word with him, so I’m standing in a doorway I know well, smartly dressed rather than in the threadbare clothes I previously had to endure. My new shoes are shiny and comfortable. These ones will certainly not let in water as the previous ones did.
I watch all the people rushing home from work. Suddenly I see a person I recognise and I step forward. “Excuse me, miss. I’m very sorry to bother you, but in the past I’ve seen you walking along here with a young man who usually wears grey trousers and a tan jacket.”
She stops. Previously she would probably have rushed away, but now I look respectable, and the smile on my face helps. It should do, one of the appointments today was for an orthodontist who charged me £300 for a half hour session to make my teeth look healthy again.
