Trentbridge Tales Box Set

by Lee Wood

  Chapter Three

  As Diane stood trying to gather her composure, it took a few seconds before she was able to muster her thoughts. As an avid viewer of the TV show CSI, she knew not to disturb any potential evidence. She carefully moved away from the body and shut the door, trying not to leave her fingerprints on the doorknob.

  She needed to put some distance from what she had just seen. Still shaking, she placed one arm against the wall to steady herself as she hurried down the corridor then holding onto the stair rail before reaching the safety of her office and using her mobile to dial 999.

  “Emergency. Which service?”

  “Police, and send an ambulance please.” Although she was pretty sure things had gone too far for resuscitation.

  Seven minutes after she dialled the number, a police car screeched to a halt with its blue lights flashing and siren blaring. Diane stood at the front entrance of the hotel. In her left hand was one of the cigarettes from her emergency pack. As she took a deep drag and dropped the butt onto the floor, crushing it with her shoe, she glanced at her watch and noted the time was 6.20 am.

  Police Constable Howard Mitchell got out of his vehicle and walked over.

  “I… I was checking the hotel and found someone in the Trinity Suite. He’s lying face down, and there is blood everywhere. Oh, God.”

  She had had the foresight to take the master key from the locked drawer behind reception and was leading the uniformed officer up to the first floor. “I didn’t touch anything. I just closed the door, came down and dialled 999.”

  As they got near to the Trinity Suite, Diane stopped a few feet before reaching it and pointed to the last door on the right of the corridor. “He’s in there. I can’t go back in. I just can’t.”

  PC Howard Mitchell put on a pair of latex gloves as he took the key card from Diane and walked the five steps it needed to reach the Trinity Suite. He knocked firmly on the door. Diane stood still and waited: Did I imagine it? Will he tell me there’s nothing there?

  After a few seconds, Diane watched as PC Mitchell entered the room and seconds later, he carefully walked backwards, it looked like he was trying to re-trace his original steps.

  “You weren’t mistaken. Let’s go downstairs. I need to call for back-up.”

  Diane didn’t know whether to be relieved to know she hadn’t imagined it or upset because someone was dead. A thought flashed through her mind. ‘What effect would this have on the reputation of the hotel?’

  Downstairs next to reception, the PC was on his radio, telling the control room that it was a major crime scene and requesting a senior investigating officer and a SOCO team.

  PC Mitchell explained to Diane, “Other officers will be arriving shortly, but until then no one is allowed to enter or leave. All the staff members who arrive for work must remain outside and all the guests are to stay inside. It’s only routine, but as you discovered the body, the investigating officer will want to talk to you.”

  With the hotel manager away on holiday Diane phoned a number she had been given for the owner, only to be used in an emergency. She thought this qualified.

  “Hello Mr Sheldon, this is Diane Dempsey from the Albion hotel. I’m not sure how to tell you this but one of the guests has been murdered in their room. The police are here but what with Jonathan on holiday I’m really not sure what to do.”

  “Stay calm Diane. The police will handle it. Just co-operate and give them what they ask for. I have every confidence in your ability, as does Jonathan, so I’m sure you’ll manage to cope with everything. Think of it as an executive training exercise. Who discovered the body?”

  “I did. I was doing my daily inspection and the door was open. I thought I’d check if everything was okay and then found him lying there. I was very scared.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you were. I understand what it’s like. Just keep things as normal as possible. Look after the guests as best you can. I’ve got a meeting I can’t get out of this morning but I’ll pop over this afternoon for a brief visit, but as I said, you’re in charge.”

  Over the next few minutes, three members of the hotel staff turned up.

  “What’s going on, Diane? Why the police. What’s happened?” Asked head chef Wayne Hurst.

  The other two members of staff stayed silent, content for Diane to reveal the details.

  “I found a body in one of the rooms. He was lying there with a knife in his back and blood everywhere. Oh God, it was awful. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in a place like Trentbridge.”

  As the police arrived in larger numbers and started their investigation, Diane’s instincts had already kicked in. She realised with her boss away on holiday she was in charge of the hotel and everyone would be looking to her. The determination on her face told everyone she had no intention of letting them down.

  She phoned the various staff members who were due to start work later and informed them what had happened.

  The restaurant staff and some of the waitresses were due to arrive shortly but most of the house maids and bar staff started work later and Diane told them not to come in until she contacted them, explaining to each one what had happened.

  She couldn't answer the main question most of them had. Would they still get paid? That was up to the owner.

  Four miles away Detective Inspector Eden Gold had just finished gulping down a cup of coffee and was all set to walk out of his front door. It was his first day off in over a month. He had a broad smile on his face and he had been looking forward to his fishing trip for weeks. As he heard the phone in his pocket, the smile disappeared.

  Oh, come on. You’ve got to be kidding me. Why today of all days?

  He knew the call would change his plans.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we've had a report of a murder at the Albion Hotel."

  “Shit!”

  Chapter Four

  Peter Moore thought he looked pretty good for his age. Five feet seven inches with a good head of light brown hair, a small dimple in his chin and only slightly overweight with a voice he tried to make sound more upper class than it actually was.

  Home was a two-storey apartment above the family antiques shop. The entrance was via a blue door in a recess to the left of his shop and the greetings card shop next door.

  The shops formed part of a parade in a secondary area of Dulwich in south London. The name above the door said ‘Moore Antiques’.

  The definition of an antique is ‘a collectable object such as a piece of furniture or work of art that has a high value because of its age and quality’. Most of the items for sale in the shop were far from being such.

  Peter’s parents, John and Joan had been general second-hand dealers all their lives, carving out a living from buying and selling cheap tat or genuine antiques when they could find them. At the rear of the shop was a small workshop where John Moore repaired and restored clocks. It never made a lot of money as it could take John two weeks to restore one clock, whereas other restorers usually repaired two or three a week.

  His parents had tried to teach him what they knew about antiques, preparing him for the day he would eventually take over the family business, and he did admire the quality of many items produced in centuries past but his true passion had always been paintings.

  In his last two years of school, a new art teacher had arrived. Before Damian Maelstrom had taken over the art department at Dulwich Secondary Modern, Peter simply knew he liked certain paintings but not why. This new teacher took Peter under his wing and nurtured his love of art, explaining how the great painters worked and developed their skill. Strangely Peter never showed any interest in creating his own.

  That was why he loved to spend his days visiting the many art galleries and museums London had to offer. He would spend hours wandering around places such as the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, the Serpentine Gallery right in the middle of Hyde Park, Somerset House, the lesser-known Whitechapel Gallery and of course, both Tate Britain and Tate Modern.
Gazing in admiration, imagining how an artist had spent weeks applying brush strokes, gradually adding layer after layer until they were happy with the result.

  Peter loved art across every genre. Everything from The Old Masters, the Impressionists, the Post-impressionists, Pre-Raphaelites and much of the abstract contemporary art. He seemed to have the ability to see the beauty and the pain in every artist from Turner to Jackson Pollock.

  Other days he liked to attend art sales at the top auction houses, although he could only afford a copy of the catalogue. He made notes of what items sold for.

  There were days he would spend hours dreaming of the large house he would own with valuable paintings adorning many of the walls.

  In October of 2011, John Moore had died suddenly followed by his wife just four months later.

  As their only child, Peter had inherited the shop and upstairs apartment, the business and after funeral and solicitors costs, the sum of sixty-two thousand pounds.

  Taking over the family business in early 2012 had been a difficult time for Peter. But then he had met Norman Gentle.

  He was seven years younger than Peter. Five feet five tall with a slim tidy figure. He had dark brown hair, nicely tanned skin from regular visits to a salon and a smile that made friends easily.

  When they first met Peter noticed Norman had a habit of slightly tilting his head as he spoke. His manner showed he was proud to be gay but not overtly and he seemed exactly like his surname. It was only later Peter discovered Norman could be the exact opposite if he didn’t get his own way or something upset him.

  He recalled their first meeting in a night club. Norman had looked so out of place. Peter couldn’t resist it.

  “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” he asked with a smile.

  Norman looked round and gave a little grin. “I’m not sure. I feel a bit out of my depth if I’m being honest. I’m new to all of this. I didn’t know what to expect and I’m wondering if this is really for me.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Peter. “I was thinking the same. Look, there is a nice quiet pub not far from here. If you like we could go and have a drink without all the noise?”

  Norman paused for a minute wondering if he could trust this stranger. Then thought ‘why not?’ He had to make a new start somewhere and it was the reason he had come here in the first place.

  “Yes. I think I would like that,” he said, as he put on his coat.

  As they sat at a small table in the corner of the pub, Norman explained about his marriage and about finally realising he was gay. Peter listened in a way nobody had done before and seemed to understand.

  Peter had known he was gay since the age of twelve. Norman, on the other hand, had been a married man for fifteen years. It wasn't until he saw an article in the agony aunt column of a national newspaper of another man in the same situation he fully realised he was gay.

  He had tried to be a good husband but deep down inside he had known there was something wrong. His parents had been very strict and regular churchgoers. He and his wife never had children and he knew she had always wondered why he didn't seem interested in her in a sexual way but she never suspected the real reason. It was only when he watched his first gay videos he realised he was more sexually attracted to men than women.

  Their divorce had been quick and easy and they were still on reasonably good terms although Helen could never believe Norman didn't know he was gay for all of those years.

  Now he finally understood what his body had been trying to tell him but he had chosen to ignore.

  “It feels good to finally be able to talk to someone,” he said, putting down his half-empty glass of wine. My wife never believed me when I told her I didn’t realise that I was gay.”

  Peter nodded. “My parents for all their faults were very supportive, so I guess I was lucky.”

  Within three months Norman had moved into Peter’s apartment and they were sharing the same bed.

  After getting over the shock of losing both parents, Peter soon realised his ambition of becoming wealthy would not be the result of running the so-called Antiques shop. And all the ‘dodgy deals’ he had tried had so far come to nothing.

  Chapter Five

  2014 TO 2016 - ANTIQUE FAIRS

  In October 2013, with his ‘Hong Kong Scam’ coming to an end, Peter Moore decided a new image might help improve his fortunes so he applied to change his name by deed poll to the more upmarket title of Peter Winston-Moore. By January 2014, he had received a passport and credit cards in his new name. Yes, 2014 was definitely going to be the turning point.

  Reading the latest issue of Antiques Trade Gazette, Peter came across an advert offering stalls for rent at an antiques fair being held in Hertfordshire. He contacted the organiser and booked a stall, paying the £100 with his new ‘Peter Winston-Moore’ credit card.

  Two weeks later, Peter found himself standing in a large hall in Hertford along with fifty other antique dealers. The event proved to be financially successful. It wasn’t going to make his fortune but at least he was making enough to pay the bills while he continued his search for that one good idea. As far as Peter was concerned, this was just the next stepping stone. Deep down inside he felt sure he would become rich. It was just a matter of time.

  For the fair he took five of the Hong Kong copies and mixed them in with a handful of paintings he had purchased at various auctions. When people came to his stall he pretended to act dumb and not know anything about the paintings, telling potential buyers he was there in place of a friend who was sick and hadn’t really told him prices. He knew some people would take a photo of a painting they thought might be valuable on their phone and then Google it and then buy it thinking it was valuable. The prices he sold them for didn’t match what he had managed to get at auction but he usually more than tripled his money.

  At each event he would wander round and see what the other stallholders had to offer. Some were friendly and prepared to do him a good deal on the rare occasion he found a painting that the dealer had undervalued, but these were few and far between. Most traders found it hard to find good quality items.

  The ‘success’ of his first venture into antique fairs meant every weekend Peter would be trudging up and down the motorways to virtually every town or city within 200 miles, buying and selling paintings at art and antique fairs.

  Some of the fairs were better organised than others, so after his costs Peter could usually expect to come away with a profit of between £300 and £600. His best to date had been £790. It wasn’t going to make his fortune but it was enough to get by.

  And all the time he was still searching for that one good idea.

  As he travelled the country from fair to fair hoping for his ‘big break’, Norman would be back in London tending the tiny antiques shop below the apartment they shared. As much as he loved being with Peter, he had little interest in travelling and standing in draughty halls attending antique fairs. He much preferred dealing with customers as they came into the south London shop, looked round and stopped to chat or discuss important things. Like the weather.

  Despite Peter’s optimism that 2014 and then 2015 was going to be ‘his year’, both had come and gone and still no new money-making ideas had presented themselves.

  During the first week of March 2016, after a particularly bad day, not helped by being delayed for three hours on the motorway. Peter came home feeling at a very low point,

  “I’ve failed Norman. I’ve tried everything. I promised myself I would be a millionaire by the time I was thirty. When that passed with little change I swore it would be by the time I reached forty. Now look at me. I’ll be fifty next month. It just seems like everything I try turns to dust.

  “Don’t let it upset you lover. It’s just a matter of time. I have faith in you. Just hang in there. Norman said, handing him a glass of his favourite whiskey. Remember, you’ll always have me.”

  The following weekend, Peter had a stall booked
at one of the largest antiques and collectors fairs he had ever attended. It was a two-day event being held in Manchester over the Saturday and Sunday.

  On the first morning, after an initial flurry of activity in the first couple of hours things had quietened down, as they often did, usually until the next ‘rush’ at around lunchtime. Peter wasn’t too concerned as he had sold enough to ensure his costs were already covered but he couldn’t help but notice the stamp and postcard dealer on the next unit seemed to have been the busiest dealer by far. As Peter looked, he could see the stall was extremely well stocked, displaying a wider range of items than he had ever come across with similar dealers.

  Taking advantage of the lull, Peter ventured over to the stamp dealer who was dressed smartly in a grey suit with a crisp white shirt with black hair and a face that seemed to show a permanent smile. He looked to be in his mid-fifties but still with an athletic frame.

  “Hello, I’m Peter from London. Have you attended this fair before?”

  “I’m Martin Young from Runcorn. Yes, I’ve been coming here for three years now.”

  “I wasn’t sure if it would be worthwhile. The cost is three times what I normally pay to attend a fair but I figured nothing ventured.”

  “I shouldn’t worry. The people who come here seem to want to spend money. I’ve always done extremely well. Of course I have built up quite a few regular customers and they tend to come prepared to spend. I’m sure you’ll do fine. If you need any help please feel free to ask.”

  “That’s extremely kind of you. You have a wonderful display. I don’t think I’ve ever seen another dealer with such a wide selection of stamps and postcards.”