by Lee Wood
Many businesses have shown an interest in the facilities and BT has kept their promise so the entire area now has fast broadband access. One of the giant phone companies has installed a mast and now everyone around can receive a good signal on their mobiles.
I invited my wife’s parents to come and see the estate and they have given me their blessing, especially when they saw the three roads named after their beloved daughter and grandchildren.
Susan is now training a young lady to take over the running of the charity when she retires. She’ll keeping working with us but on a part-time basis.
I am looking forward to seeing the families move in and watch the area come back to life, just as Susan and I planned along with the help of Stevie, whom I miss dearly.
The opening ceremony turns out to be the biggest event in Trentbridge for many years. Most of the staff from The Albion Hotel turn up.
As to what’s next in my life, I really have no idea. All I know is – giving away money to deserving people gives me a great deal of pleasure and I intend to go on doing so until the money runs out. I’ve still got the Ford Mondeo and I’ve moved into the house at twenty-seven Foundry Road.
The Albion is doing very well and young Ronnie Brown is training to become a trainee assistant Manager.
I bumped into Martin Hammond recently. The good news is he and his wife are expecting a baby. They still live on Ramsden Square.
I’ve also bumped into Julia from January’s Estate Agents, looking as stunning as ever but we’ve only ever said ‘hello’. I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone but my beautiful Miriam.
Whenever I want to feel close to her I go onto YouTube and search for When I Call by Ghost Dance. It was a record we heard at a disco at university that became ‘our song’: Three minutes and thirty seconds of pure joy and a tune as beautiful as she is. Listening to the haunting melody brings her back to me.
However, there could be a new lady in my life soon. I went to Birmingham the other day and popped into the Ferrari car showroom and saw a brand new 488GTB. She’s a beauty and I just might bring her home to live with me!
I know there’s no chance of getting reinstated into the police force, so I’ve been talking to Phil Jones, the private investigator. We might start working together.
I walked along Market Street and past Tindall’s convenience store yesterday. One thing I’m sure of, I won’t be buying another Lotto ticket, but it shouldn’t stop you from trying. Who knows?
You could be the next Mr (or Mrs) Lucky.
The End
Book Two
Lucky Break
Lee Wood
http://leewoodauthor.com
The Trentbridge Tales series
Book One: MR LUCKY
Book Two: LUCKY BREAK
Book Three: DEAD LUCKY
Book Four: THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS
Chapter One
2013 - THE HONG KONG SCAM
Someone was watching Harold Croft.
He thought he had been clever and no one had noticed as he rummaged through the box of old tat labelled ‘Property of Burlington House’ and discovered the letter from Christie’s Auction House of London dated seventh of July 1963. The paper had their crest at the top and was clearly old. Harold knew this from the dried brown stains and the fact he could feel the indents of the characters made by a typewriter in the days long before computers and desktop printers.
He had seen the letter when it dropped out from the centre of the rolled-up painting that made up part of the box’s contents. After reading it Harold glanced round to make sure no one was watching, and as inconspicuously as possible, placed the letter into his pocket. He couldn’t run the risk of anyone else seeing it.
He looked all around to check he had got away with it but failed to notice Peter Moore with his back to him using the reflection of the large centre mirror on the Edwardian style wardrobe to spy on his every move.
It hadn’t been his intention to bid on a box of what looked like worthless junk, which he was now convinced, included a genuine masterpiece. He had originally come to the pre-auction viewing to check out a job lot of tools he couldn’t afford to buy new. But decided while he was here he might as well kill some time and have a look around.
Seeing him take the letter, Peter was convinced Harold would bid on Lot 135 which was described in the catalogue as ‘Box of miscellaneous items from a country house’.
The auction catalogue had put the estimated price at between ten and twenty pounds. Peter had a good idea Harold would end up bidding considerably more.
He knew this because of the letter Harold had taken. It was addressed to Lord Cunningham, Burlington House, Old Priory Lane, Bucksholt, Norfolk, and read:
Dear Lord Cunningham
Thank you for allowing our expert to visit your lovely home and examine the painting of the lady in the pink dress. I can now report that it is indeed an original by the artist Giovanni Boldini painted in 1898 and regarded as a work of great importance and therefore of considerable value.
I understand you are not thinking of selling at the moment. However, should you allow the painting to be sold at some point in the future I can assure you our auction house, with our list of buyers from around the world, would be able to obtain the very highest price for you.
Yours sincerely,
Anton De-Bonneville.
Unfortunately, Harold wasn’t aware the letter had been made to look old by a process Peter learned over the years involving staining the paper with a solution of cold tea.
The painting of the lady in pink, to which the letter referred, rather than being one hundred and fifteen years old, was actually less than one month old and had been copied from a photo of the original painting.
Peter had found a small art studio in Shenzhen just north of Hong Kong who boasted they could supply museum quality hand-painted copies of masterpieces so perfect they could fool virtually anyone except a real expert. $80 might not get you much in the west, but in the Far East, it provided a talented artist with enough to feed their family for more than a week.
So Peter was ordering paintings made to look like old masters and having them shipped over and selling them at local auctions.
It was a scam he had been running for several months at various auction houses. Bidders thought they had stumbled across an old master in a box of items from a country house clearance. At the auctions, Peter placed bids against them in order to get the price up. Then when the price was right, he stopped bidding.
One hour later, as his latest ‘victim’ stood waiting for Lot 135 to come up, Peter positioned himself close by and pretended to be speaking on his mobile, slightly whispering to give the impression he didn’t want to be overheard but with enough volume that he could be. He wanted to remove any last doubts Harold might have.
“Yes, I’ve seen it in a box from Burlington House. I’m certain it’s genuine. I remember seeing it there years ago. The old bugger must have passed away, and nobody has recognised it as an original. The estimate said ten to twenty pounds. Yes, I’ve got enough cash to bid up to £500 but not a penny more, that’s all I can afford. I know, it’s worth a bloody fortune.”
Peter noticed when he said his limit was £500 Harold grinned. If he had been hesitating because he wasn’t sure, that should convince him. After all, in Harold’s eyes, someone else had now recognised the painting as being genuine. Peter was sure he had done enough that Harold would want it. At any cost!
The bidding on Lot 135 started at ten pounds with a bid from Harold. The auctioneer looked round for further bids, but none seemed to be forthcoming. He searched the room a second time and just when Harold thought he had won Peter put up his hand and watched as Harold’s face dropped.
Harold looked round to see who was bidding against him and seeing Peter, gave him a stare as cold as ice and mumbled to himself, “Okay mate, if you want a fight you’ve picked the wrong person. I know how much you can afford.”
As Harold Croft wal
ked out of the auction room carrying the box marked Lot 135, he looked extremely pleased with himself. He had been the successful bidder at £520. With the addition of a buyer’s premium, his bank account was £598 poorer. Buying the box of items had taken virtually every penny he had, but it would be worth it when he sold the painting for a fortune. The job lot of tools he had come to buy could wait. He had needed them to secure a contract that would give him the money to pay the mortgage company at the end of the month to stop them from taking legal action, but he could probably afford to pay the whole mortgage off in full once he sold the painting.
As Harold reached the exit, he noticed Peter standing close by. He couldn’t resist so he stopped and leaned over. “Better luck next time, mate.” He looked surprised when Peter gave him a big grin but then didn’t give it more than a moment’s thought.
Two days later, one of the art experts at Christie’s was scratching his head. He had just had to disappoint the third person in two months who’d arrived with a painting that was obviously a copy and a letter purporting to be from the early 1960s from an Anton De-Bonneville who, according to their records, had never worked for the auction house.
Harold left the plush reception area and walked onto the cold pavement outside. In those few seconds, all his dreams came crashing down, but the main thought on his mind was whatever would he say to the mortgage company now he had spent every penny he had on a painting that had turned out to be worthless.
And the contract he had needed the tools for – that he had turned down – had gone to someone else.
All he wanted to do now was find the nearest pub and drown his sorrows.
It wasn’t going to make him a fortune but Peter’s latest scam was keeping his head above water.
Harold would never know he was the latest victim in a long line of people conned by Peter with his ‘Hong King Scam’, though he doubted it would be of any consolation if he ever discovered the truth.
Together with the income from his tiny antiques shop in Dulwich in south London, Peter was making a reasonable living, but he was always looking for ways to make more.
He had been running the scam for ten months, and it had had a good run but perhaps now was a good time to call it a day and move on to something else. A couple of the auction houses were starting to catch on and it wouldn’t be long before word got around. It would be better for Peter to stop before they banned him from attending.
Besides, Christmas was approaching and maybe now was a good time to come up with a new plan. Yes. If he could come up with a fresh idea then maybe 2014 would be the year he finally made his fortune.
All he needed was that one lucky break.
Chapter Two
FRIDAY 18TH MAY 2018
The car radio was blasting out Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain. Diane Dempsey was singing along at the top of her voice. It was 5.45 am., half an hour after sunrise, and she was on her way to work at the Albion Hotel.
As Diane’s seven-year-old silver Nissan Micra made its final turn into the hotel staff car park, she turned down the radio and parked neatly between the guidelines in her usual spot.
Diane checked her uniform, making sure to straighten the badge marked ‘Assistant Manager’. It was a job that most days she really enjoyed.
After letting herself into the front of the hotel, Diane walked to the office behind the reception desk and turned off the alarm system that covered the ground floor area of the hotel.
Normally the night porter George Leeman, whose shift finished at six am., was there to greet her with a cheery ‘hello’ and a big smile. But he had been off with flu for the past four days.
So the previous night, the doors of the hotel had been locked at eleven pm. after the bar shut. Any guests who wanted to stay out later could have requested a night key. None had been given out.
Diane lifted the kettle that sat on top of the grey three-drawer filing cabinet, poured in enough fresh water for one cup and hit the ‘on’ switch, checking the little red light under the handle had come on.
Everyone at work was always telling Diane she was the most methodical person they’d ever met. It was a skill she was proud of. So the very first thing she did was check her schedule and ‘to do’ list.
The first item was to look for local slimming classes. She didn’t mind being five feet three and still felt quite attractive for a forty-five-year-old. She would like to have been a little lighter.
There was a lot of sitting around at a desk with her job. It wasn't the fault of her love for Chocolate Hobnobs. At least that was what she told herself.
With the kettle switched on and the tea bag placed in her favourite mug, Diane picked up her clipboard and report sheet and started her daily inspection tour of the hotel.
She had perfected her schedule to the minute. By the time she returned, the boiling water in the kettle would be ready for her to pour into the mug for her first cup of green tea of the day. Then she would have time to sit down, enjoy a cuppa, check her emails, and have a few minutes to relax before unlocking the front entrance to let in the three kitchen staff due to start their shift at six-thirty.
That week she was in charge of the entire hotel. The manager Jonathan Atkins was five days into his two-week holiday and sunning himself on a beach in Cyprus according to his Facebook page.
The Albion Hotel had been a landmark in the heart of Trentbridge for as long as most people could remember. Located on Trinity Street meant it sat on a prime location in the centre of town. Built in the 1930s, the outside facade reeked of pre-war high society. It even had its own car park. But time had taken its toll, and without major investment, the building had begun to show its age. Following a falling out between the family owners the previous year, it had been put up for sale, and it looked like a developer would come in and turn it into luxury apartments, meaning all the staff would be laid off.
However, at the last minute, a new buyer had come to the rescue: James Sheldon.
James had been a police detective when his wife and two young children were killed in a hit and run. He turned to drink and almost drank himself into oblivion. After eight months, the building society repossessed his house. He found shelter behind the Albion and was looked after by a few members of staff. Then, by a stroke of luck, he became the biggest winner of the Lotto ever, scooping £168 million. To return the favour to the people who had helped him when he was homeless he bought the hotel to save them from losing their jobs. It cost him £21 million, but he could afford it.
He brought in a specialist hotel refurbishment company and invested a further £3 million to retain the character of the hotel while updating the décor and improving the outdated facilities. After the refurbishment and modernisation had been completed, the place had become the smartest hotel for miles and regained its stature as the best meeting place in Trentbridge.
It was now a luxury four-star hotel complete with twenty-nine bedrooms and one de-luxe room named the Trinity Suite spread across the first floor, after the road it overlooked, a large restaurant that regularly hosted weddings and functions, plus an Orangery, a coffee lounge and bar. With easy access to the motorway just two miles away, it attracted a wide range of visitors.
When Diane took over as assistant manager a little over two years earlier, the first thing she did was to introduce a daily report sheet. First job of the day, if you saw a problem, no matter how small, from stained table linen to missing soap in the toilets, it got written down on the form.
As she left the office, she turned her mobile to silent so as not to disturb any guests on her daily patrol of the first floor hallways.
So far everything was going according to plan. She had made notes of the table with the wobbly leg and the light bulb that needed replacing in the gents toilet. Just the upstairs corridors left to check. She could almost taste the hot brew and maybe today cut down to two biscuits rather than her usual four. She knew she had the willpower. After all, she gave up smoking three months earlier. If she could do t
hat she can certainly shed a few pounds.
Diane silently made her way along the two corridors that made up the first-floor. For a second she thought she heard a dog bark, but couldn’t quite make out where it came from and dismissed it when she didn’t hear it again. As she made her final sweep along the front hallway, she noticed the door to the Trinity Suite was slightly open.
After knocking and saying a hushed “hello”, she tentatively pushed the door fully open. Initially, she saw nothing amiss. The curtains were closed but the bright morning sunshine peered in through a small gap illuminating the space, the bed looked like it had either been carefully made or unslept in, then she noticed a towel on the floor, half hidden by the contour of the L-shaped room, which led to the bathroom. Instinctively, she went over to straighten it at the same time as she sensed a metallic tang in the air. As she reached the towel and peered towards the door of the bathroom her eyes widened as they came across the man lying face down. A large knife protruded from his back. Then she saw the blood pooled around him, lurid in the early morning light highlighted from the bright sheen of the bathroom’s powerful spotlights.
She gasped for air, almost blacking out, stepping backwards, her left hand reaching into her pocket for her mobile.
Downstairs the water in the kettle would go cold before Diane got her first cup of green tea today.
