Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Five (Another Letter and the Personal Hygiene of our Car)
To recap: it's September 1995. We'd just survived eight months in France and then this happened. Someone stole my identity and grabbed our life savings. Now we're waiting for a fax of all the forged correspondence to arrive...

I was still thinking unfriendly thoughts about Ms. Varley when the next call came. It was Simon, our financial adviser, had the fax arrived? I explained it had and it hadn't. He said he'd talked with David Jarvis yesterday afternoon and re-transmitted the fax.

And he had some good news. Mutual Friendly had assured him they would make sure we didn't lose out. And although they hadn't committed anything in writing, seemed to be accepting everything I'd asked for in my letter.

I knew I should have asked for the Porsche!

The conversation swung back to crime. I think he was becoming as hooked as I was by the excitement of appearing in your own whodunit. We chatted about the case, I told him about the cancellation form and we swapped suspects.

He mentioned how surprised he'd been when he learnt that we'd cancelled the bond but hadn't suspected a thing. He'd only found out about the cancellation in May - Mutual Friendly having respected our apparent wishes not to tell him.

"In fact, Ralph ... you know Ralph Howard, don't you? One of our directors? He wrote to you at the hotel in May to ask what had happened."

And had received a phone call a week later.

From me.

I was astonished. "Didn’t he recognise my voice?"

"Oh, the man didn’t get through. He just left a message with the switchboard."

"Saying what?"

"Saying that he found Ralph's letter objectionable and that he didn't want to be contacted by phone or letter. He'd be in touch later."

And later that day he was. By fax.

Apparently, I had been swamped by a personal problem and was too upset to talk about it.

Very plausible again. What better way to break off contact between two English males - personal problems, can't talk about it, enough said.


At half past three, John arrived and it was time to fetch the car. Following an uneventful drive in to St. Gaudens - there being nothing suitable to ram - we pulled up outside the garage expecting to see a red Citroen in the yard with its overhauled warp engines gleaming.

But it wasn't there. It was still inside, lurking at the end of the far bay ... with its bonnet up.

Never a good sign.

Our warp engineer of the previous day came running over the moment he saw us. He had a slightly incredulous look on his face. Also not a good sign. What will it be this time - anti-matter containment field misaligned?

No, instead he asked us about water. Did we know there was no water in the engine?

What?

He flapped his arms a few times and shook his head. For one moment I thought he was going to grab me by the shoulders. But instead he ushered us towards the car, muttering incredulities as he went.

He showed us a gaping split in the water hose and then revved the engine a few times to demonstrate the fountain of water that spurted in time to the engine pump.

"Ah," I said, "perhaps that explains the burning smell last week."

"What burning smell?" asked Shelagh.

"The one last week. I thought the bonnet felt hot."

"You didn't say anything."

"I didn't think it was important." Which was true. I'd smelt a slight burning smell when I'd climbed out of the car but hadn't managed to trace it and it had only been the merest whiff.

And who was I to question the personal hygiene of our car?

As we stood staring at the ruptured hose, we realised just how lucky we’d been. Of all the times for a part to fail, I couldn't think of a better time than a day or so before the car was booked in for a service. What with the news that Mutual Friendly had guaranteed our money, perhaps Fate was, at last, beginning to smile on us.

Even if we did have the boot to fix.

But the car wouldn't be ready tonight. It needed a new part and they didn't have one in stock. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.

Perhaps it wasn't so much a smile that Fate bestowed upon us, as a grin.

(next instalment: passports and wandering Irish con-men)