Trentbridge Tales Box Set

by Lee Wood

  Throughout his chequered past, Dave has had many dealings with solicitors and barristers. He knows they often say you have a strong case until they have been instructed to go ahead and then gradually they don’t seem to offer as much reassurance. He’s not daft. He understands it’s in their interest to get the case started because they won’t lose whichever way the court decides. For them it is a win-win situation. He’s also thinking of alternative ways to recoup his money; this homeless bum needs to be taught the lesson of his life.

  Dave’s first thought is to hire a hit man and have the bum killed. However, as pleasing as this might be, it won’t lead to him getting his hands on the £168 million, or whatever is left of it. Dave figures there should be plenty left, even if ‘the bastard’ has already gone on a spending spree.

  If the only outcome is to torture and murder the bum then Dave might actually enjoy it. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. Or perhaps Dave will have him bumped off after he gets his hands on the money. Yes, that would be perfect. That is what he will do. The bum will meet with a fatal accident.

  But first Dave has to find out all he can about the person who is living off his winnings.

  Chapter Thirty

  PHIL JONES

  Phil Jones, Private Investigator, checks for voicemail messages on his iPhone.

  Today there is only one, a call from someone called Dave Rex. The only person he can recall with that name was someone he had seen in the police files during his time as a serving police detective, although he didn’t ever have any direct dealings with the man. If it were him, why would he be calling?

  “Hello, this is Phil Jones, Private Investigations. I believe you left a message?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I need to get some background info on someone and you come recommended.”

  “Okay. Who is the person in question and what sort of information do you want?”

  “His name is Anthony Sheldon. He’s that tramp who was supposed to have won the Lotto. I want to know everything about his past and where he’s living now.”

  Phil Jones’ heart skips a beat – he’s read about James, or Anthony as the papers had it, winning the Lotto. Still, a job is a job and helps pay the bills.

  Phil pretends he doesn’t know him. “Do you have anything I can go on?”

  “I have a newspaper cutting, but that’s about it. Listen, this man stole my Lotto ticket and has claimed money which is rightfully mine. I want to get background on him for my lawyer, Mark Jackson. He recommended you.”

  “Okay. My fees for this type of work are four hundred pounds a day plus expenses. I can probably get all the info you need by tomorrow, depending on my initial findings. If that’s acceptable, then subject to upfront payment I can get started today.

  “That’s agreed then. I can send you the newspaper cutting and then I’ll wait to hear from you. Remember – I want everything on this guy. All about his past.”

  Phil asks him to email over a copy of what he has but Dave explains he’s not sure how to do this as he doesn’t use computers much. He will get one of his taxi drivers to deliver a copy of the newspaper article to Phil’s office address within the next hour, together with the agreed fee.

  Armed with the details sent to him, Phil starts work.

  Like most private investigators, he doesn’t carry out this work himself. Within the PI industry, small companies undertake this sort of work for a fee. Phil will then charge his client twice the price and pocket the difference.

  The next day, Phil contacts his client armed with a dossier of background information. He arranges to go and see Dave at his home.

  Arriving on time, he is hoping to be offered a cup of coffee but nothing is forthcoming. Instead he can see his client is anxious to learn what he has discovered. “Okay, so this is what we have so far: Born James Anthony Sheldon on seventh of July 1982 in Surbiton, Surrey. When he was four his parents moved to Trentbridge. He seemed to do well at school and achieved good grades, gaining a place at Manchester University to study law. It seems he was always interested in joining the police force and did so shortly after leaving university.”

  “What!” exclaims Dave loudly. “So he’s a bloody rozzer and he steals my money? You can’t trust anyone these days.”

  Phil Jones continues. “He married Miriam Shepherd when he was twenty-six and she was twenty-five. They had two children, a son called Jack and a daughter, Abigail. His career in the police seemed to have been going well. He was promoted to detective inspector in March last year and then on May fourteenth, his wife and two children were killed in a hit and run.”

  Dave suddenly sits straight up. “Hang on a minute. What did you say this guy’s name was?”

  “James Sheldon.” Jones wonders why Dave has gone pale.

  “But the papers called him Anthony?”

  “Yes, but they got that fact wrong.”

  “And he was in the police, you say?”

  “Yes, as I was explaining, he’d just been made Detective Inspector.”

  Dave sits back in his chair, shaking his head and muttering. “That guy, of all the bums it could have been – that guy.”

  Jones decides to continue. “It appears he went to pieces after his wife and kids were killed. His house was repossessed and he became homeless. He just disappeared from sight until a couple of weeks ago and seems to have been living rough until then. He doesn’t have any living family. His parents are both deceased and he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. By all accounts, he was a good police officer. No reports or complaints have been made against him. People I have spoken to say the experience seems to have turned him to religion and he has been a regular at St Matthew’s Church. That’s what I’ve found out so far. Do you want me to keep digging, although I’m not sure what more would be of interest to you?”

  “No, that’s enough of his past. Do you have a current address for him?”

  “Yes, he’s staying at the Premier Inn on Newmarket Road.”

  “Okay. You’ve done a good job.”

  Dave shows Phil Jones to the door and watches as he walks to his car and drives out the front gates, although he is not really taking much in. He is deep in thought. What revenge can he take and how will he get his money back? Try as he might, he cannot seem to come up with the perfect answer. He hopes his lawyer is making progress and has some ideas.

  The receptionist at Curtis, Jackson & Dean recognises Dave’s voice. “I’m sorry, Mr Rex, but Mr Jackson won’t be in today. He’s attending the funeral of an ex-partner of the firm.”

  Dave slams down the phone and shouts at the wall.

  Having given his report to Dave and seeing it probably won’t lead to any further business, Phil Jones searches the directory on his iPhone.

  He finds the number for Detective Inspector Howard Neave and presses connect.

  “Hello, Phil. Haven’t heard from you recently. Are you after another favour already?”

  “Hi, Simon. No, I’m not after a favour this time. I just wanted to pass something onto you in confidence. I was recently hired by someone we both know from a few years back. Do you remember Dave Rex?”

  “Gosh, you’re going back a bit. Yes, I recall that little toe rag. As far as we’re aware he hasn’t been active for years. Is he up to something?”

  “He asked me to get background on someone we both know – James Anthony Sheldon.”

  “Blimey. Why would he want info on James? I read about him winning the lottery, so why the interest?”

  “Not sure really, but from the tone of things not to congratulate him on his win. I just wondered if you wanted to warn James. He was a good lad before the accident with his wife and kids, and I wouldn’t want to see him come to any harm as a result of Mr Rex or his associates.”

  “Thanks, Phil. Let me give it some thought and I’ll decide on the best thing to do. Let me know if you hear anything else, please.”

  “Yep, will do. All the best to the family. Take care.�
�

  Phil Jones had spent thirty years in the police force before he retired and ventured out into the world of private investigation. He is now aged fifty-five.

  He knows who the good guys are and who not to trust. Both Howard Neave and James Sheldon are most definitely good guys in his book. He certainly doesn’t want to see any harm come to James because of someone like Dave Rex.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  JAMES

  The process of establishing a Charitable Trust is a long one. Fortunately, Susan has some previous experience and knows a firm of specialised solicitors called Stoneman’s. One of the partners, Richard Rutherford, has agreed to act on our behalf in setting everything up. It means filling in and returning a constant stream of paperwork, ensuring all the ‘t’s are crossed and all the ‘i’s are dotted, but Susan is extremely good at that sort of thing and gradually everything is starting to fall into place. It helps that I am able to prove that I have significant funds available, and once the trust’s bank account has been opened, I will transfer five million pounds into it.

  So for the past few days we’ve been busy putting every last detail in place. We’ve visited the Asbury Park estate with two local building contractors and a surveyor, and looked at the overall condition of the houses. We are satisfied that all the properties can be made habitable without too many problems and at a reasonable cost.

  Susan has proven to be a staunch ally. We have been working discreetly on our plan and are almost ready to put forward our bid to the council before the deadline. The main reason we are keeping things close to our chest is because in her capacity of working with various charities and housing projects, Susan is aware of the reputation of the Planning Officer, Peter Hogan, and doesn’t want to bring it to his attention until we are ready to submit our bid.

  Our plan is that the estate will be refurbished in stages. We will repair all the houses which have been left to the elements and goodness knows what else. We propose to pay the council to have their teams repair the road surfaces. BT has promised that the entire estate can have the latest level of broadband Internet within six months. We also plan to complete the unfinished doctors’ surgery and school.

  We are lucky in that the houses, originally built in the late seventies and early eighties, were well constructed and finished to a high standard. Over on the business side of the park, there are several buildings which were completed before the money ran out.

  To get the charity foundation off the ground, I have arranged to rent two offices on the first floor from a rental company based in Sidney Street specialising in letting out space by the month. The main office is large and has enough room for up to eight people to work comfortably. It is a bog-standard finish with magnolia walls. The overhead fluorescent lighting makes it bright and the floor is a nondescript grey made up of carpet tiles. The second office is far smaller and solely for my use. Although I will spend most of my time in the main office, it’s a place where I can sit and think on my own when needed.

  A recent visit to a local computer company means we now have a network of computers and printers. I found a local second-hand office furniture company who has supplied us with beech desks, bookcases and four filing cabinets.

  Susan suggested we recruit an experienced office manager who can keep everything running smoothly on a day-to-day basis and after interviewing fifteen people we were lucky enough to find Jill Dean. She stood out above the other candidates, and in the two days she has worked here she has already added a range of plants and items to make the office look friendlier and more inviting.

  Jill is in her mid-thirties, petite, with blonde shoulder-length hair and has previously worked for a local solicitor prior to taking two years’ leave after having her first baby. Jill is such a happy person. She wears short skirts which flaunt her long legs and at the moment she wears knee-length boots. The office is filled with her pleasant perfume, although I couldn’t tell you the name of it. And she certainly knows how to organise an office. Everything down to the last paper clip has its place.

  I’ve also found a nice two-bedroom apartment off Hills Road to rent until the purchase of Foundry Road goes through. It’s only a mile from the town centre so, weather permitting, I can ride into the office on my new bicycle. I’ve bought myself a car too, a two-year-old Ford Mondeo. No need to spend money on a fancy car. Maybe I’ll splash out on a luxury sports car in a few years’ time, but for now the charity is the main focus.

  Susan thinks we should employ someone to handle the PR side of things. She explained that a lot of the work we are planning to do needs to impress many influential people who could help us in the future. Having a good media presence is no bad thing. It could open a lot of doors which otherwise would remain closed. Apparently, it’s what a lot of charities do.

  It will also demonstrate to the council and the planning officer that we are serious about Asbury Park.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  JAMES

  Most days I like to go for a lunchtime walk to clear my head and while I’m out and about, I often notice people from my days on the streets as they sit in doorways and ask for change.

  I know most of them, although a few are new faces. Those who would spend any money on booze or drugs, I give five pounds. If I see any who are trying to help themselves move forward I give them ten pounds. Occasionally I’ll buy them a sandwich or a McDonald’s Meal Deal. Sellers of the Big Issue I give a ten-pound note and tell them to keep the change.

  Little Tony is a young man of around twenty who has been on the streets for about two years. He’s called ‘Little Tony’ because he is exactly five feet tall and looks like Tony Blair, although his real name is Donald Much. He is extremely thin and always wears a bright red hat. He tries his hardest to improve his life, but from time to time he will revert to taking drugs.

  As I stop to chat, Little Tony tells me that Stevie is back in Trentbridge and has been asking after me. Apparently his mum passed away and he’s back from Swansea.

  I wonder if Stevie has taken over my ‘bedsit’ at the rear of The Albion. He’s the only other person who knows about it and he knows George Leeman, the night porter, will look after him if he’s there.

  I walk round to Trinity Street and go in through the front entrance. In the past I would’ve gone down Green Street and round to the back as my appearance would have shocked the guests and front reception staff, but those days are behind me. Now I can walk into any top hotel and know I can afford to stay there. Today, however, I am more interested in seeing if George Leeman is around.

  I go over to the reception desk and ask for him. A young lady, who must be new as I have never seen her before, lifts up the telephone and presses a button.

  “Hello, George. There’s a gentleman in front reception asking for you. He says his name is James Sheldon. Okay, I’ll let him know. Bye.”

  “George says he’ll be down in a minute, if you’d care to take a seat and wait over there.” She points across the entrance way to the comfortable looking seats on the other side.

  “Thank you.”

  Within a minute, George appears and walks over to where I’m seated with his hand extended ready to shake mine and a big smile on his face.

  “Hello, Mr Sheldon. Nice to see you. What brings you back to The Albion?”

  “Hello, George. I was wondering if Stevie, the Welsh lad, is now occupying my suite out the back.”

  “As a matter of fact, he is. He arrived last night but I’m not sure he’s there at the moment. Probably catch him this evening or I can pass on a message for you.”

  “Yes, if you could ask him to pop round and see me at this address?” I hand him one of my newly printed business cards.

  “I heard you’re starting a charity. Nice to see someone putting something back into society instead of all the greed. Unlike this place. We heard last week they’re going to sell the site to a developer. We’ll all be out of our jobs in a few weeks.”

  I gasp. “You’re joking. That
’s terrible. Has the deal gone through yet, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so, but it won’t take long. Mr Atkins, the General Manager, was most upset. He would know. Do you want me to ask him?”

  “Yes please, George.”

  George goes over to reception and speaks to the young lady and I see her pick up the phone and talk to someone. George walks back. “I told him who you are and he’s going to come out and have a chat – that is if you’ve got the time?”

  “Yes, George. Not a problem. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  In my days of enjoying the Albion’s amenities, the general manager was not someone I had ever come across. A worried-looking man in his early fifties appeared.

  “Hello, I’m Jonathan Atkins. George here told me what you’ve done for him and young Ronnie, so I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Hello, Jonathan. George tells me the hotel is for sale. Do you know if it has actually been sold yet?”

  “No. As far as I’m aware the deal takes place next Tuesday.”

  “Can I ask you one question? As it currently stands, is the hotel making money? Is it profitable?”

  “Actually, it is. It doesn’t make a fortune, but it’s definitely in the black and with some investment it could make a lot more.”

  “In that case, I only have two more questions. One, would you be happy for me to buy it and keep running it as a hotel? And two, if so, who do I speak to?”

  Both George and Jonathan Atkins stand in silence, taking in what they’ve just heard. Then Jonathan speaks. “I think I can say on behalf of all the staff that we would love to have you as the new owner. They are going to shut down the hotel and turn the place into luxury apartments. We would all lose our jobs and none of us want that as it’s such a nice place to work. To answer your second question, you’ll need to speak to January’s Estate Agents who are handling the deal. Ask for Mr Robert January.”