“You could ask the manager. He’ll have his address. All I know is he lives on Ramsden Square, but I don’t know the number. The manager will be there tomorrow. It’s the Norwood Building Society on the High Street.”
I could wait until tomorrow and speak with Martin’s manager, but I sure as hell don’t have anything better to do so I walk around the corner into Drummer Street, which is the main bus station of the town, and over to the taxi rank.
“Ramsden Square, please.”
It takes a little over ten minutes and the taxi turns into Ramsden Square.
“Which number?” enquires the driver.
“Just drop me on the corner here,” I reply. I pay the fare with a twenty-pound note and let him keep the change. “Here goes nothing,” I say to myself as I walk up the path to the first house, number twelve.
I knock at the door. “Hello. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for the house of a young man called Martin who worked at the Norwood Building Society. Can you help me?”
“No, never ’eard of ’im,” comes the reply and the door is slammed in my face.
I’ve done this sort of thing before in my days as a detective and know you don’t try every door so I walk down for ten houses and knock at number thirty-two. All the even numbers are on the same side of the road. This time a lady answers. “I’m not sure, but I think he lives at number forty-eight. You could try there.”
I thank her and walk down a further eight houses until I reach number forty-eight and ring the bell.
A young lady comes to the door.
“Hello. I hope I’ve got the right house. I’m looking for Martin who works, sorry, worked, at the Norwood Building Society on the High Street. A lady down the street told me he lives here.”
“I’m Martin’s wife,” she replies. “He’s popped down to the shop and should be back in a couple of minutes. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“He gave me some money and I’d like to pay him back.”
Before she can answer, I hear footsteps behind me and the young man I now know as Martin appears.
“Martin,” his wife says, “this man says you lent him some money and he wants to pay it back.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t recognise you as a customer of the building society and any money you may have borrowed should be repaid to them. Unfortunately I was made redundant and I don’t work there anymore. I can give you the name of the person to contact if you’d like.”
“You may not be aware, but you gave me some money personally and I’ve come to repay you, with interest. Can I take a minute of your time, please?”
“I guess that will be all right, but I’m not sure how I can help you.” Martin is obviously puzzled and wants to get to the bottom of the matter. “Please come in. We’ll talk about it over a cup of tea.”
We go into a small but very well-presented front room. It is obvious that although it hasn’t cost a lot to decorate and furnish they have taste, and care about their home.
“Please sit down,” says Martin, gesturing to a single chair next to the settee.
“You don’t recognise me, do you?” I ask.
“No, I’m very sorry. I’m usually good with faces, but I don’t recognise you at all.” As he speaks, he’s leaning forward on the sofa. “Could you please explain what this is all about?”
Martin’s wife brings the tea through with a plate of assorted biscuits and sits down on the sofa beside her husband.
“For the past ten months, I’ve been sitting in a doorway on Sidney Street, cold, hungry and homeless. On several occasions when you passed by, you were kind enough to bring me sandwiches, hot coffee, and usually put fifty pence into my hat. A couple of weeks ago, you gave me two pounds and suggested I spend it on a Lotto ticket because it could be my lucky day.”
“Yes, I vaguely remember,” replies Martin.
“I did what you suggested and my numbers came up. I won the Lotto, and so I’ve come to pay you back the two pounds plus a little interest on the money, and to thank you for your kindness. Can I ask what your surname is?”
“It’s Hammond.”
I fill in his name, Martin Hammond, above the amount I’ve already written out and hand him the cheque.
He looks at me, looks at the cheque, and then back at me. After a pause of a few seconds in which his mouth drops open, he says, “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” I reply. “Haven’t you seen the news of the homeless man who won the Lotto? That was me. Without you I wouldn’t have won a penny so I figure it’s only fair.”
Still looking at me, Martin hands the cheque to his wife who turns her eyes from Martin to the cheque.
“It says two million pounds,” she says.
“That’s correct. Two pounds paid back with interest – and gratitude.”
“Is this for real?” asks Martin.
“I wouldn’t kid you. I guarantee this is genuine and you can pay it in tomorrow. I’ll phone the bank in the morning and tell them to expect it.”
“I don’t know what to say, except thank you, thank you so much,” says Martin as his wife begins to cry.
“You don’t know what this means to us,” she says.
“Oh, I think I do,” I reply, “and I want you to enjoy every single penny of it. Don’t go wild. Invest it wisely for your family.”
They both hug me and I leave with a tear in my eye and a warm feeling in my heart.
If this is how good it feels to give money away I think I’m going to be doing a lot more of it from now on.
I’ll start tomorrow – I have two other people I want to thank.
Chapter Seventeen
DAVE
Once a
