It’s a bright sunny afternoon and George Saunders is walking his Yorkshire terrier on the regular route he takes that includes Tennis Court Road. It’s the same route he’s walked with his dog for the past ten months.
It’s his first day back after a week away. He has been visiting with his wife’s relatives. He can’t really stand them but it makes for a quiet life.
Suddenly ‘Skittles’ runs off through a gap in the wire fencing. George is certain the gap hadn’t been there the week before.
It is the site of the old car workshop that closed down years ago.
He calls out to the dog but gets no response. He pushes the wire aside, so he can fit through and goes in search of his dog. It appears ‘Skittles’ has been attracted after someone dropped a Pizza and the dog sniffed it and off he went.
As George puts the dog on the lead and goes to walk away, he notices the white Mercedes and what appears to him like dried blood on the bonnet and down the side.
As a retired paramedic, he knows the difference between dried blood and tomato ketchup or anything else. Dried blood starts to change colour after about an hour and within twenty-four hours becomes a dark brown. He thinks it strange the vehicle is parked there and takes a note of the registration number.
The first two letters are the same as his car and it jolts his memory of the police appeal he watched on TV about two hours ago.
He recalls they mentioned a white Mercedes but he can’t remember the complete details. George decides it is worth a call to the police. However, for his own safety he will make the call once he and ‘Skittles’ are a reasonable distance away.
The call goes through to the incident room and the officer who takes the call decides it is a credible lead and immediately contacts the detective in charge of the kidnapping case.
Within twenty minutes the building is surrounded by armed police officers.
The police team cuts a larger hole through the wire fence running alongside the building and where the dog walker indicated he had entered.
Round the other side of the building is a gate. One police officer climbs over and opens it from the inside. They see a door leading into the building. On the count of three, a metal battering ram hits the door with all the power the officer can muster.
The door is knocked off its hinges, with slivers of wood exploding in all directions. Four officers run in shouting “Police” at the top of their voices.
There is no-one in the main area. Two officers check the small office on their left. The room is empty.
The other two officers go right and make their way through to the final section.
They see smoke rising from what looks like a vehicle inspection pit. It seems there was a fire here a short time ago. They notice the empty metal jerry can lying on its side close by. But it’s the smell that gets them. It is the haunting smell every experienced firefighter and paramedic knows only too well. The smell of death! Burnt flesh. No-one ever forgets their first time.
What little they can make out of the sight greeting their eyes are two piles of black matter that vaguely resemble human shapes. The remains of two bodies recently set alight. With the kidnapping deadline passed, it seems the police have found the two girls, but sadly too late to save them.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Even though it has been a few days since the ‘suicide incident’ on the railway tracks, Mick Winner’s departing words keep going round in James Sheldon’s head.
“Have you considered getting a companion? A dog can be a great comfort. Think about it.”
He is on the website of a local charity ‘adogforlife.co.uk’.
The website shows the faces of all sorts of breeds of dogs with the message ‘We only consider offering dogs to people after an initial home review. This is to ensure that when you visit us, you meet dogs who are a good match for your circumstances, level of experience and preferences.
There is a phone number. James picks up the phone and dials.
After a ten-minute chat, an appointment is arranged for someone to visit him at home the following day at 11am.
The following morning James is busy cleaning his house from top to bottom. It’s only for a dog, he thinks. “Why am I going to all this trouble?”
Four years ago, James had been a police detective with a wife Miriam and two children, Jack and Abigail. After they were killed in a hit-and-run, James turned to alcohol to numb the pain.
After eight months of him drinking away the mortgage payments, the building society repossessed the house and he found himself homeless.
Then a stranger gave him £2 and suggested he buy a Lotto ticket. James did and won £168 million. He pulled himself together and put the money to good use, setting up a charity in the name of his family. MJA Housing Foundation.
Although he is still worth over £50 million, James lives in a modest three-bedroom semi-detached house with a 100-foot garden at twenty-seven Foundry Road on the edge of the Asbury Park estate.
The asking price when he bought the house two years ago was £56,000. James offered forty-eight and it was accepted. The only extravagance James has allowed himself since winning the Lotto is a brand new Ferrari 488GTB. However, for everyday use, he uses a two-year-old Vauxhall Insignia.
James had only been expecting one person but a man and a lady knock at his door exactly at eleven.
He invites them in and after introductions, offers them a choice of tea, coffee or water. They both choose the water and James gives them a tour of his house.
“You have
