by Lee Wood
Then you have the actual town and central area, which includes the retail shopping areas, railway station and hospital. To the north is Milton and to the south is Trumpington. Both are a mixture of private houses with some council housing. To the west is Pickstone which runs along the town side of the River Stern and on the other side of the river is Asbury Park.
Asbury Park started life as an extension of a tiny hamlet called Asbury, hardly a village, consisting of one street called Foundry Road with thirty-two houses built in the thirties to house key people who were employed at the Asbury works. In its time the foundry was one of the main employers. There was a bridge across the river joining it with the town.
During World War II the military took it over to make equipment for the war effort, and one night in 1943 the entire area was bombed by the German Luftwaffe. The result was 224 people lost their lives in the raid and the bridge was destroyed. The foundry closed down when the war ended in 1945 and after that it became a remote place.
There’s plenty of land where the foundry stood and in the boom years of the late seventies when the town looked like it was heading for a new growth period, the council purchased the land and decided to regenerate the area, working together with a number of local developers. They invested heavily in creating what they hoped would be an expanding community with new houses and space for local industry to grow. Work started in 1977 and they built 880 new houses plus a handful of industrial units.
It’s a good location apart from the fact it is on the ‘wrong’ side of the River Stern and therefore separated from the town. However, in their original scheme the council planned to rebuild the bridge and road infrastructure that once linked it directly with the town. Unfortunately, when the recession hit in the early eighties most of the developers went out of business and the council couldn’t afford to build the connecting bridge. Over the years they talked about investing, but things never managed to progress, with each successive council blaming the failure on the previous one. Local politics at its finest!
So, the school and the doctors’ surgery were not completed. It all came to a halt, and in one final attempt to rescue things, the council purchased all the houses they didn’t already own back from the liquidators for a song. However, the cost of building the bridge and adjoining roads was beyond what anyone was prepared to invest.
Nowadays the only route to Asbury Park is by following the road which runs along the town side of the river, through Pickstone to the end of the River Stern and then following the road round to the other side of the river which is a journey time of around twenty-five minutes.
A lot of the elderly people moved out after four deaths from heart attacks when the ambulance couldn’t get there in time as the road is susceptible to flooding at various times of the year. One of the main reasons younger families don’t want to live there is because it was built in a time before broadband and 4G phone masts and nobody wants to live in an area with slow Internet or a decent signal on their mobile phone.
Overall, Trentbridge is not a bad place to live. Crime rates are average and houses are affordable if you compare them to the ridiculous prices people are paying to live in the south of England. In a place like Cambridge, for example, a three-bedroomed semi-detached house can cost between £400,000 and £600,000. Here in Trentbridge new properties can cost anywhere between £120,000 and £170,000 depending on the part of town. Places about a mile out of town towards Cherrywood and the new developments close to the railway station and hospital are the most expensive.
Chapter Twenty-One
DAVE
The motorway is quiet as Dave drives home from the airport. He lives in a luxury apartment complex called Mountview which is set over two levels. It’s located just four streets away from where his mum lives in her self-contained retirement home.
He reaches home at 9.45pm and after opening the front door he picks up the pile of mail his cleaner has placed on the hall table. He makes his way into the kitchen and with the flick of a switch the coffee machine spurts into life. Once it has done its work, he sits down to catch up with the pile of letters.
There is nothing in the mail to warrant his urgent attention: a few bills which his accountant can deal with and a couple of pieces of junk mail.
His first thought is to see how his favourite football team is doing. He’s been a fan of Trentbridge Rovers since he was a kid and started going to matches with his dad. Dave picks up the local free newspaper that’s delivered through his letterbox every week, looks at the back page of the latest issue and sees that they drew 2-2.
He then picks up the previous issue. He doesn’t notice the front page headline which would have given him a clue as to what is about to follow. Instead he turns to the back page and is chuffed to see ‘The Rovers’ thrashed their rivals, Peterborough 4-1. Then he remembers he hasn’t checked his Euro Lotto ticket from the day he left to go on his holiday. He skips back six pages to where he knows the Lotto results are listed every week without fail.
As he reads the numbers one by one he becomes more excited. He doesn’t want to believe what he is reading until he has found his ticket but the numbers seem very familiar.
Being a creature of habit, he knows it will still be in his desk drawer; the second drawer down on the left is the place he always empties the contents of his pockets each evening. The last time he did this was two weeks ago before he went to take the present to his mum.
He’s not very computer savvy but he is by nature a methodical and highly organised person. His desk is where he runs his business empire from so everything has its place.
As he sits on his Herman Miller Aeron executive chair and puts the ticket on the desk next to the newspaper, he carefully checks the numbers and the grin on his face starts to disappear. He doesn’t recognise the numbers on the ticket at all. It doesn’t take him long to realise this is not his ticket, at least not the one he remembers filling out at the convenience store two weeks ago. He’s sure he used his regular numbers.
He turns the newspaper over to check the date on the front cover and makes sure it’s from the week he went on holiday. As he does so, he reads the front-page headline: ‘Local Homeless Man Wins £168 Million Lotto’.
Then it dawns on him; the ‘human piece of crap’ he’d collided with in the shop. He remembers his ticket had slipped from his grasp for a few seconds with his other goods when they both fell to the floor. Could the tickets have got mixed up?
By now, his anger is quickly rising to boiling point. He screams out a massive “ARRGGGH”, before using a torrent of four letter words.
He starts to pace around the room before moving back through to the lounge where he quickly finds a bottle of ‘Jack Daniels’, his favourite whisky. He pours himself a large glass and downs the contents in one, resisting his urge to smash the glass by throwing it across the room.
Then he picks up the keys to his car and makes for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ST MATTHEW’S CHURCH
For a man of the cloth in his mid-fifties, Wendall Bates, the vicar of St Matthew’s Church is very switched on about all matters of the digital world. He’s read about people contacting you pretending to be a police officer or purporting to be from the bank to get your account details and then emptying the account, and therefore the phone call I made earlier asking to make a donation into the church bank account arouses suspicion,
However, I tell him I understand his concerns and perhaps it would be better if I visit the church and make the donation direct.
This is why, three hours later, as I enter I see Wendall standing next to the altar.
“Hello. I’m James Sheldon.”
“Hello. Wendall Bates. It’s nice to meet you.” He gives me a big genuine grin.
“Wendall, I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve witnessed first-hand the wonderful things you do at the church hall and on Parker’s Piece with the mobile tea stall and I’d like to show my appreciation for what you did when
I was in, shall we say, a less-fortunate position.” I put my hand inside my right jacket pocket and pull out a cheque. “I wasn’t sure who to make it out to?” I ask.
“Please make it out to St Matthew’s Church Fund. That would be fine.”
I sit down on one of the pews, take my Parker pen from my inside jacket pocket and add the name to the amount I have already filled in. “I hope this helps with your appeal,” I say as I hand the cheque over.
“We currently need to raise £30,000 for the church roof and any donation helps us enormously,” explains Wendall. He lifts the glasses currently held on a cord and sitting across his chest and looks at the cheque. “I don’t mean to be rude or ungrateful, but I trust this is sincere and not some sort of prank? The cheque is for £30,000, the entire amount we desperately need.”
I give a little laugh. “No, it’s genuine. Before I won the Lotto I was homeless and depended on handouts and when I needed food and drink the kind people associated with this church were on hand to help. This is my way of saying thank you. I just ask one favour and that is my donation remains private. No publicity or details of where it came from.”
“You have my word on that. This is such a relief. Now we can get the work underway. It’s been a big worry for the past few months. God bless you.”
“I think he already has, and now it’s my turn to help others. Thank you for everything your church and the people associated with it are doing for the homeless. From someone who was one of them, I can assure you it really means a lot. I know you get little thanks but deep inside I’m sure every single person you help is truly grateful – although many might not say it. Will you thank all your volunteers for me?”
Wendall promises he will and as I leave I see him kneel down to offer a prayer. I’m just thankful I could answer one of them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
DAVE
Arriving at the convenience store in Market Street where he is convinced he purchased the winning ticket, Dave demands to speak to the manager in such a rough tone that the poor young girl assistant behind the counter quickly picks up the internal phone and calls Ian Townsend, the night-time manager who joins them in the shop.
“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”
“I bought a Euro ticket two weeks ago, the one which won the £168 million and some dirty tramp nicked it from me. I know you have cameras for security. I need to see them so I can get my money.”
“Two weeks ago, you say? That’s a problem, sir. We don’t keep the security tapes for more than a week. They are automatically recorded over at the end of seven days, so we wouldn’t have the footage anymore.”
Standing in a corner at the back of the shop, Dave is in no mood for a reply that includes the word ‘No.’ “Look, you prat. I need those pictures. I don’t care what you have to do to get them, but I’m warning you.” As he says this, Dave grabs hold of the manager’s shirt collar and pulls him forward. “Get me those fucking tapes or there’s gonna be trouble.”
“I… I can’t, sir. As I told you, we don’t keep the tapes that long. The system’s not that sophisticated. I’d love to help you but–”
“Don’t give me that. There’s got to be a way.”
“I… I really can’t help you, sir. I’m sorry. If there was anything I could do…” Ian Townsend cringes as it looks like a punch is coming his way. He relaxes when Dave drops his hold and starts to walk away.
Turning back, he barks, “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, you fucking prat. You’ll be hearing from my solicitors. I’ll fucking ’ave you, you bastard.”
Dave finally leaves the store, to the relief of the members of staff and especially the night manager, who tries to compose himself but is visibly shaken by the experience.
Although Dave has been a career criminal for over thirty years, he’s never actually killed anyone himself, but right now, should anyone cross him, he might do something he could regret. He will find the ‘little shit’ who robbed him and make sure he pays.
Even though it’s close to eleven pm, he decides to go looking for anyone who might know the man who has stolen his winning ticket. He’s seen where the homeless people sit in doorways and beg for money so he walks round to Sidney Street, leaving his car on the wide pavement reserved for disabled drivers.
Walking along the street, Dave’s eyes search every shop doorway for someone who might be homeless and aware of the identity of the man who he has now decided will come to a sticky end once he claims his winnings back.
Finding no sign of anyone who might be able to help, he decides to cut his losses and return home. It’s getting chilly. Tomorrow is another day and he’ll get everything sorted if it’s the last thing he does. He’s been robbed and won’t take things lying down. He doesn’t know that most of the people he’s looking for are to be found at the mobile charity vans dishing out free hot drinks and meals at this time of night.
Dave returns home and pours himself a large Jack Daniels. Taking a big gulp and swallowing it he mutters to himself through gritted teeth, “Tomorrow I’ll find that fucking bastard and tear him limb from fucking limb.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
PETER HOGAN
Peter Hogan, the Town Planning Officer, is someone who can make things happen. If he knows you, and the backhand payment is large enough, there are ways and means he can apply his influence and ensure almost any project will have his backing. This is usually enough to swing the rest of the Planning Committee.
He has told both the committee and council bosses that a group of investors are prepared to pay ten million pounds to take the empty, semi-derelict Asbury Park estate off their hands and redevelop it. He’s told them, in his opinion; this is the best offer they can hope to receive.
There is no reason to think it won’t go ahead.
Peter is currently in league with Dave Rex who has two million of his own money together with a consortium prepared to invest eight million.
Dave is the front man, the money men want to remain anonymous.
With their financial backing, Dave has the ten million pounds he needs to cover the bid put into the council to buy Asbury Park.
In anticipation of this, Dave has set up a company called DR Social Housing Ltd.
This is the plan he worked on at his villa in Spain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JAMES
I’ve been reading an article in the local newspaper about how the council are planning to sell off the run-down area known as Asbury Park Estate, situated on the edge of town, and then I notice a listing from a local estate agent with a house for sale on the edge of that area.
I’ve decided to view the house so I start the ten-minute walk from the Premier Inn down East Road and then across to Regent Street. This is the area of town where the vast majority of local estate agents are located, including the one listing the property I’m interested in.
I walk past several of their competitors until I arrive at number sixty-nine and the location of Regent Estate Agents. I look at all the properties listed in the window display and spot the one I’m looking for.
As I enter, one of the staff members sitting behind a desk rises, and within seconds is greeting me with a warm handshake. “Good morning. I’m Daniel Miller. How can I help you today?”
“Hi, Daniel. I’m looking at the property you have over on Foundry Road on the edge of Asbury Park. Is it possible to arrange a viewing?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could we say two thirty?”
“That’s fine by me. I’ll meet you there on the dot.”
After a brief chat and a warm handshake, Daniel returns to his desk and I walk out into the street.
It’s eleven am and I decide it would be a good idea to head over to the Asbury Park area by lunchtime to see if it fits in with the plans I’ve been hatching over the past few days, but first I need to buy myself a mobile phone. The last one I had was the property of the local police force so I could be on call twenty
-four hours a day.
I walk down to the Phone Superstore located on the High Street and I’m greeted by a young guy who shows me the latest models. Finally, I decide on the new Samsung.
“Your best option is our special eighteen-month contract deal,” states Mr Salesman.
I call him this because he never introduced himself and doesn’t have a name badge. We head over to the counter and I pull out my Coutts & Co credit card.
Getting to the Asbury Park estate from the centre of town is not easy. By car or taxi, it’s a twenty-five-minute journey as you have to go around the River Stern. The 104 bus takes around forty-five minutes. These are only scheduled for once every two hours, but there is an alternative.
The 42 bus goes to Pickstone and takes about ten minutes. I can cross over the pedestrian-only footbridge across the River Stern and then it’s a ten-minute walk along Trentbridge Road to Foundry Road and the Asbury Park estate.
As I’m in no hurry, I decide to take the 42. The bus stop is located outside the main post office on St Andrews Street and I’ve joined the short queue at the bus stop.
After a ten-minute wait, I can see the bus approaching. It’s a green single-decker and it’s on time, which is nice. I pay the one pound twenty fare to Pickstone High Street and sit about halfway along on the driver’s side of the bus.
My fellow passengers are a mixed bunch. Two elderly ladies, probably in their seventies, are sitting in the nearest double seat to the front of the bus, chatting away. There’s a young mother in her mid-twenties sitting next to her buggy on the seat facing sideways, with what looks like a one-year-old baby in a pushchair, and a girl of around five, sitting next to her, holding her hand.
