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Nous Sommes Anglais: Chapter Thirteen (Headers and Handwriting)
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Jul. 20th, 2007 @ 10:46 am
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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. And, according to a witness description - that someone might be David Jarvis, our estate agent - the man who I arranged to have all the evidence sent to...
That must have been the reason he'd delayed so long in sending the faxes. He'd been sifting through the bundle and suddenly saw the word CASTLENAU flashing neon-lit back at him - probably alternating with the words 'guilty bastard'.
And it must have been one hell of a shock. It was a header page, not part of the actual fax itself, but a page of A4 with all the details concerning the sender, the destination, everything. I doubt he even knew it had been sent as part of the fax.
He'd have taken one look at it, panicked and spent the next day wondering what to do. He'd have to send something as he knew I was waiting. So he removes the incriminating page and posts the rest.
Then another thought hits him. He'd only bought himself a few days time. Someone's bound to notice the Castlenau post office stamp eventually. So he invents Peter Kennedy; gives him a job in Castlenau - handy for the post office - and keys to our house. Then he sends the missing page.
It fitted.
Case solved - send for the black cap.
Then I looked closer at the page of fax details.
La Poste at Castlenau was not the only stamp. There was another one for Villeurbanne, wherever that was. Both stamps contained a date and time. Both were dated 16th May. But the Castlenau stamp said 17h. Villeurbanne said 14h15.
The fax originated at Villeurbanne?
I dived for our road Atlas. Villeurbanne, Villeurbanne, I sifted though hundreds of French towns beginning with Ville. Until I found it; Villeurbanne, page 70, département 69.
It was a suburb of Lyon.
I checked the telephone code for Lyon - 72 33. Close enough. The fax came from 72 34, Villeurbanne.
Which opened a considerable number of questions. Where did La Poste at Castlenau come into this equation? Was someone trying to make it look as though the faxes were local by routing them via Castlenau? To hide the fact that they were coming from Lyon? Or to frame David Jarvis?
And where were the faxes from Mutual Friendly going to? Villeurbanne? Was someone going to Lyon to collect their faxes or having them sent on elsewhere?
I rang Andy. I had about five minutes-worth of solid facts to impart. He said he'd add David Jarvis to his list of names to check out. But he had some bad news from the Irish Police. They'd asked the Spanish police to investigate the bank account in Bossost and had been told it would be at least four weeks before they could even think about it. They were far too busy.
So much for international co-operation.
In all the excitement I forgot to ask what fax number they'd used to contact my impersonator.
I'd have to save that for next time. Meanwhile, I'd gather everything together and try to construct a time-line of events. There were too many stray faxes and telephone messages running around in my head. I needed to put everything down on paper and impose some sort of structure.
(next instalment: the net closes)
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Nous Sommes Anglais: Chapter Twelve (Mincemeat Men)
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May. 29th, 2007 @ 10:58 am
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By popular demand a whole chapter this time.
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. When I discover a forged passport may have been used to open a bank account in my name in Spain, I ring the Passport Section of the British Embassy...
I think Ian Morris was related to the man who told me I couldn't have wasps in my bedroom in November. I recognised the same fundamentalist understanding of the world; the passport system was set up to prevent fraudulent claims, therefore they couldn't exist. And passport numbers were never re-used or had sixes added to the front.
I tried to explain to him that we were dealing with someone who could produce Pergoninis to witness all manner of official documents and could he check his records to see if any passport applications had been made in my name in the last year.
He didn't sound very interested. I think he would have preferred a robot switchboard to protect him from the public as well. But I wasn't going to be put off. Could he check the status of my passport with the Passport Agency? Had it been reported missing at any time? Had anyone made any changes to it, tried to add a name, anything?
He said he would but I wasn't going to hold my breath.
So, how had my passport number appeared on a Spanish bank account?
I thought of all the people who had taken photocopies of my passport. The bank, the notaire, the mayor, the Sous-Préfecture, the Préfecture. And the countless staff who, presumably, had access to files at all the above.
And our estate agent, David Jarvis.
He'd taken a photocopy of my passport when I'd made the offer on the house.
And if Peter Kennedy had been an associate and shared the commission on the sale, he'd probably have had access to it as well.
Did someone take my details to a forger and have a false passport made up?
It was somewhat of an anti-climax to be re-united with our car later that day - what with all the excitement over forged passports and wandering Irish con-men. But so what if we were looked upon with incredulity as the English couple who drove without water in their engine? What was that compared with the knowledge that maybe half of France owned a photocopy of my passport - probably hanging on their wall certified as a genuine Pergonini!
Thursday morning arrived with a phone call. It was Jean-Pierre. The gendarmes had just phoned. They had a description of our man. Could I come over?
Try to stop me! I was out the door and revving up the warp engines before the receiver settled in its cradle.
This was the breakthrough, I could feel it. I'd almost given up on the gendarmes. And on anyone at the Hôtel du Midi actually remembering someone from five months ago.
I found Jean-Pierre in his office, which was looking even more crammed than it had before. The man was definitely a hoarder. I thought I was bad but here was a master, sitting in an office that had become a sanctuary for every electrical appliance he'd ever owned. There was hardly space for his desk and two chairs, his shiny new computer system stood out like an island of tidiness amidst mountains of chaos and what looked like old toasters. I moved a pile of manuals from a chair by the door and pulled up alongside him.
He was busy copying out the gendarmes' report, translating it into English and adding a pleasing array of print fonts.
I looked over his shoulder. Rapport de la Gendarmerie, it began. Yes, a man had been to the hotel during that period (May-June 95). Yes, he received letters there but no faxes. He was of middle height, blond and minced.
Minced? Was that like a gingerbread man only made of meat? I was being impersonated by a mincemeat man?
God knows what the passport picture looked like!
"Is not right - minced?" asked Jean-Pierre, making squashing gestures with his hands.
I dreaded to think and grabbed for the dictionary. Mince, mince, where was it? Ah, there, mince - thin, slender, slim.
I think I preferred minced - much easier to spot in a line-up.
I read the Rapport further. Elegant appearance, well dressed, looked like a commercial traveller. This was a very good description. I was expecting something along the lines of medium build, two legs, hair.
But this was excellent. And there was more. Youngish man, thirty to forty, very good French but slight accent - English. He said he had family in the area.
English!
But would a Frenchman know the difference between an English and an Irish accent?
Jean-Pierre didn't think so. It would be like me trying to distinguish between a Belgian and a Frenchman. Unless one was Hercule Poirot, I wouldn't have an earthly.
I showed Jean-Pierre the bundle of faxes I'd received and asked him about Pergonini. Had he ever heard of a doctor of that name? Did the stamp look as wrong to him as it did to me?
He shook his head. "No, no, no. There is no Pergonini. It is not name."
This was a very positive assertion. I was amazed. How did he know?
"It is not name," he repeated. "Look I show."
He turned to his Minitel screen and started typing in Pergonini and Aurignac. The system came back with no matches. I was impressed. This was better than the gendarmes. I wondered if it did fax numbers as well?
He extended the search to the département and then to all of France. No Pergoninis. Even if our Pergonini was ex-directory, it was hardly likely that every Pergonini in the entire country was as well.
"It is not name," Jean-Pierre reiterated. "Not Italian. Englishman, he may think it Italian but it is not. Pergoni, yes. Pernini, perhaps. Pergonini, no."
I was even more impressed. An impromptu lesson in Italian genealogy as well. I don't think I'd have been as confident about an English surname.
And I was impressed with the Minitelsystem. If it could search for Pergoninis, it could search for Kennedys too.
We tried the Gers first. No Peter Kennedy. Or any other Kennedy. We tried the Haute Garonne, then the Tarn. Still no luck. Did he even exist?
Or was he ex-directory and in hiding?
We called up the Hôtel du Midi and checked their telephone number against its supposed fax number. It wasn't a conclusive test by any means - line numbers can be carried from département to département - but generally the first four digits of a French telephone number form an area code. The Hotel's was 61 85, the fax was 72 34. Not even close. Very unlikely the fax belonged to the hotel.
Which fitted in with what the gendarmes had found. Letters had been received but no faxes.
I took another look at the Rapport de la Gendarmerie. Medium height, blond, slim, well dressed, fluent French with slight English accent.
And thought.
My God!
David Jarvis to a tee!
And what idiot had sent him all those faxes!
I could not believe it. And I was someone who'd spent most of the last seven days not believing anything. But this! Of all the people in the world to choose, I had to give the fax number of the man who'd sent them all in the first place!
And what must he have thought?
Months of careful planning and suddenly he walks into his office and finds his floor covered in evidence. Perhaps he thought his fax machine had developed a conscience and had entered spontaneous confession mode?
If it was him?
What did Peter Kennedy look like? Had I leapt to a conclusion without proof? And was David's hair blond? I'd have described it as more a mousy brown.
I checked the dictionary again. Blond could also mean fair. Presumably a light mousy brown could fall into that category. I tried to summon up his face. The description gave the suspect as thirty to forty. I'd have put David Jarvis more in the thirty-five to forty-five bracket but he had the kind of face difficult to attach an age too. It'd always struck me as one belonging to a dissolute public schoolboy. A schoolboy who'd spent the last ten years at an all-night party.
Jean-Pierre printed off a couple of copies of the Rapport de la Gendarmerie and I left to tell Shelagh.
And Andy and Simon and everyone else on my list.
I was bursting with news. And bursting to tell people. By the time I pulled up outside our house I was like an incurable gossip after ten years solitary confinement.
But Shelagh met me on the doorstep. The post had arrived. And with it another envelope of faxes from David Jarvis. And a handwritten note, I'm not sure you got all the pages last time - David
I checked the postmark - Castlenau, 17:00, Wednesday. The fax had been sent at 17:15, Monday. A long time to spend decollating and looking for an envelope.
I checked the bundle of faxes; the Pergonini letter, the Spanish bank details, Ralph's Dear Big Nose. They were all there. And so was another page. A copy of a fax header, stamped La Poste, Castlenau.
(next instalment: Headers and Handwriting)
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Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part One (The Fax)
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Apr. 17th, 2007 @ 02:10 pm
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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...
It was Wednesday, the sun was shining and not a dustman in sight.
I spent most of the early morning with one eye on the window, where was the post? Had it arrived yet? Had I blinked and missed it.
Just before ten, I caught a glimpse of yellow car and raced to fetch the post. And there it was, nestling in our boite aux lettres - one thick white envelope with our estate agent's logo on the front. It had arrived.
There were eight pages inside. David must have decollated them for us as they were now separated and stapled together.
The first page was a print-out of the Spanish bank account details. I quickly scanned for the address ... where was it?
Bossost.
Bossost? That sounded familiar. I couldn't recall why at first and continued scanning down the page. It was in Spanish - naturally - but it wasn't difficult to follow. My name was under titulares, my domicilio was given as the Hôtel du Midi in Boulogne S.S. And the date of apertura was given as the 10th of April.
All fairly easy to understand. There were various other numbers printed out. Some I guessed were the Spanish equivalent of bank sorting codes and account numbers. And on the bottom left, almost obscured by the fold in the page caused by the staple, was a handwritten note. An address. 48 San something ... I couldn't quite make it out. But I could the next part.
35540 LES.
Which is when I remembered why Bossost seemed so familiar. I'd been there. To both places, Les and Bossost. They were barely an hour’s drive away, a few miles over the Spanish border. We'd even stopped and walked around the shops. I remembered it clearly. We'd been told about this amazing supermarket at the Tuco fête. Everyone said it stocked the best and cheapest wine for miles. We hadn't been able to find it at first and had combed both Les and Bossost looking for it.
So much for my theory about a cheap flight to the Costas to set up a false bank account. It was all being done by someone staying here. The hotel at Boulogne, the 'doctor' in Aurignac, the bank in Bossost. Everything was within an hours drive of our home.
We quickly turned to the next page. What else would we find?
It was the cancellation form. Signed on the 10th of April, the same day as the bank account was set up.
And the signatures looked very ropey. I turned back to the bank print-out. My signature was on that one as well. Neither looked at all like my real signature.
And Shelagh's wasn't a good match either. If anything both signatures looked as though they'd been written by the same person.
But they weren't entirely random either. I could see that someone must have had sight of our signatures. It wasn't a good attempt ... but it was a copy nonetheless.
The next page was one Simon had read out to us, the letter dated April 10th that must have accompanied the cancellation form. And my signature had changed again.
It was better.
Another page, another signature. Different again and Shelagh's had become embellished with flamboyant loops.
It was a fax to Elaine Varley, dated the 29th May.
Thank you for your fax of 23/5, which we received today.
Regarding our repayment, the account is at present in the name of C Dolley only as it is used for business purposes. Ideally, therefore, we would prefer either a transfer or bank draft in one name only, as per our previous instructions. A cheque payment could well take a month or more to clear.
However, we do not want to delay things so will try to change the account to both names and will accept payment by cheque if there is no other possibility. The original of this letter follows by post and we have asked our solicitor to post you the Policy Documents which he holds.
We look forward to receiving your faxed confirmation that payment has been made in the very near future and thank you for your assistance.
For your records I, Shelagh Dolley, am in complete agreement to payment being made to my husband's account.
This was a very interesting letter. I hadn't registered the fact that the account in Spain was in my name only. Wasn't that a big mistake? We had a joint policy - wouldn't it have been more sensible to open a joint account?
Unless there was only one person setting up the account.
(next instalment: Dear Big Nose)
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Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Five (Another Letter and the Personal Hygiene of our Car)
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Apr. 5th, 2007 @ 04:35 pm
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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)
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Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Four (A New and Unexpected Clue)
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Mar. 29th, 2007 @ 11:41 am
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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 copies of all the forged correspondence to arrive...
Back home, we waited for the poste. About ten, the familiar yellow car wound its way towards us and dropped off our mail at our boite aux lettres at the end of the drive.
But no thick envelope from David Jarvis.
I was disappointed to say the least. I couldn't wait to read the next instalment. Now I'd have to wait until tomorrow.
Which naturally led to a bout of recriminations. Why had we let him put it in the post? Why didn't we drive to Castlenau last night and pick up the fax immediately? Why? Why? Why?
I think we were lapsing back into guilt.
Luckily the phone rang before we could sink any further. It was Andy Chatfield. Perhaps he'd found another medical query?
But no, this time he wanted to know about a cancellation form. Had we received it?
I didn't know. What would it look like?
An A4 piece of paper with the words CANCELLATION FORM prominently displayed.
Well, I did ask. Not that I could remember ever receiving one.
"When would it have arrived?"
"It was sent on the 22nd of March."
I still couldn't remember. I asked Andy to wait while I went through my files. I'd sorted through all the correspondence from Eastleigh and Howard and Mutual Friendly over the weekend. If I'd received a cancellation form it should be there.
I couldn't see one.
I gathered up the file and took it back to the phone. The earliest letter I had from Mutual Friendly was dated April 3rd.
"That would be the Policy Schedules."
It was. I had copies of the Policy Schedules, an initial valuation of the bond and several pages entitled "Your right to change your mind".
"Your right to change your mind?"
"Yes."
"That would have accompanied the cancellation form."
I looked again. The pages weren't dated. It was just four pages of information and disclaimers. I remember glancing through it when it arrived. But I couldn't remember if it had come with a cancellation form or by itself or with another letter.
Neither could I remember when it came - I'd binned the envelope - and filed the contents with all the other bond correspondence.
"You don't remember receiving the cancellation form?"
I didn't. But neither could I be certain that I hadn't.
My eyes drifted down the page in front of me. Your right to change your mind. You have fourteen days from the day you receive this notice in which to change your mind.
So, someone had exercised that right. And, from what Andy now told me, used the proper cancellation form as well. It wasn't just someone finding out our policy number and forging a letter. It was someone taking possession of a document posted to us.
Or making sure it was never sent in the first place?
Which reinforced my inside job theory. They had the bond details, the cancellation form and fourteen days to set up false bank accounts and a new address. Maybe using an accomplice, maybe one person taking a holiday and flitting around Europe. It all fitted.
But not according to Andy. He'd spent the entire weekend in Dublin. Apparently he'd flown over an hour or two after my call on Friday and spent the weekend reviewing the files. He was confident there had been no breach of security at the Dublin office.
Well, he would say that, wouldn't he? He was internal security, and the further he could push the crime away from Mutual Friendly the better.
I was not convinced. If it wasn't organised from Dublin, how did they know about the existence of the bond, the cancellation form and everything else?
And I was far from convinced about Elaine Varley's part in all this. It was her name on the letter trying to make me hand over the originals. It might not have been her signature but that didn't mean she couldn't have found someone else to sign her name.
(next instalment: Another letter and a bad smell)
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Pergonini MD: Part Three (The Estate Agent, The Fax and The Garage)
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Feb. 27th, 2007 @ 03:38 pm
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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 it's Monday and I need a fax number...
I ran into the study. My desk was in its usual mess. Twenty seconds later it entered new levels of untidiness as reams of papers were picked up, shuffled and thrown aside. It had to be here! Somewhere! Where was it?
And then I found it, a letter from the estate agent who’d sold us our house. And there was his fax number on the letterhead. He was only a half hour's drive away and I was sure he wouldn't mind. It was a crisis after all.
I ran back to the phone and gave the details to Simon. He'd fax the papers through immediately.
This was getting quite exciting. Even enjoyable. It was like living in your own whodunit. Everyday a new letter, a new clue, a new twist. It was better than TV.
I rang David Jarvis, our estate agent. I thought I'd better warn him before his fax filled his entire office with forged correspondence.
But he wasn't there. So I left a message on his answerphone.
And then I went straight for the telephone directory - there's no rest for the amateur detective - what was that doctor's name? Pergonini?
I scanned Aurignac for Pergoninis. Nothing. Not even anything close.
I then checked Cassagne just to see if doctors were ex-directory. Ours wasn't, I could see his entry, with médecin after his name. No hint of an MD.
And the name had to be false, didn't it? Otherwise it meant he'd seen our passports - which was impossible, we'd never let them out of our sight.
Had we?
A quick sprint back into the study and a mad search through our box of files. Household Accounts, Insurance, Medical ... Passports! There they were. Both of them, safe and snug. Thank God for that.
Which meant no Pergonini could have seen our passports.
Unless someone used forgeries.
About half past four the phone rang again. It was David, our estate agent. He'd stepped into his office and almost tripped over a box of fax paper that had spewed out from his machine. What had happened? He'd heard my message but was it really true?
I assured him it was and gave him a quick précis of events so far. He was amazed.
And not sure if he'd received the complete fax message. There were pages of my fax interleaved with other faxes all over the place. He'd checked the name on the fax header and rung up Simon to ask for the fax to be re-transmitted. In the meantime, he'd decollate what he could and make sure it went into that evening’s post. We should have it tomorrow. And could we keep him informed? He was intrigued to know how it all turned out.
I replaced the receiver and collapsed onto the settee, wound down my internal detective agency and thought about tomorrow. We had the car booked in for a service. I'd have to get the documentation together and prepare a script.
And then I remembered that other garage. The one we'd bought the car from. The one with the 'Get out of Jail free' cards. They'd had Shelagh's passport for a month. February through March.
A garage in Boulogne sur Save.
(next instalment: Fraud and Warp Coils)
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Crime and Poetry: Part Six (French - A Language for Poets)
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Feb. 8th, 2007 @ 09:55 am
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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. The police, however, wouldn't help us - insisting we came back with someone who spoke better French...
Which is when we thought of Jean-Pierre. He was the only candidate we could think of. Chantal was on holiday, none of the football team spoke English and none of our English friends spoke French any better than we did. There was only Jean-Pierre left.
We'd been introduced to him at the Tuco fête, he was a neighbour of an English couple we'd met and he spoke English ... after a fashion. He'd learnt it from the BBC during the war when he'd been a radio operator with the resistance.
Would he help us?
He was brilliant. We descended upon him and his wife on a Saturday afternoon, unannounced and babbling. And he took us in, plied us with aperitif and converted our rough script into a bright shining work of art. Apparently our words were too cold - too Anglo-Saxon - French was a language for poets. He'd show us how to write a proper police statement.
For one awful moment I thought he was going to make it rhyme. But he didn't. He just made it flow. Converting our simple facts into a statement gendarmes would queue to listen to. For all I know, Gallicizing, 'I was proceeding along the High Street in a north-easterly direction,' into, 'the call of the north-east drew my feet through shop-strewn thoroughfares.'
But what did that matter? If it meant the gendarmes would take us seriously, he could add music.
An hour later he was still composing. We'd moved through into his office and he was typing our statement into his PC and setting up print formats for his laser printer. The man was a perfectionist.
I was only looking for a French-speaking adult I could point to while shouting at the gendarmes, "he speaks French, now go to the hotel!"
But you cannot complain in the face of such dedication.
Unless you're a gendarme.
I don't think they were impressed with the sweeping prose. Or the imaginative use of print fonts.
I think they were too busy searching for the bit about my father's birthday.
At the gendarmerie, first one, then two gendarmes picked up the statement, read it, nodded, shook their heads, muttered and then leapt into animated conversation with Jean-Pierre.
Shelagh and I were lost. Words evaporated around us like scotch mist.
There's something about watching a conversation you can't follow that highlights cultural differences. You have to fall back on non-verbal clues - body language, attitude, volume.
If this had been three English people talking, I'd have classified it as a heated conversation. All flashing eyes, raised tones and vigorous hand movements. I'd have given evens for Jean-Pierre spending the night in the cells.
But this was France. Probably no more than a group of poets discussing the perfidy of the criminal classes.
Which was not what we came for.
I tried to steer the conversation back to the hotel. Could someone please check the fax number? Who's was it? If it wasn't the hotel's, it might be a personal number.
The station sergeant looked at my piece of paper, thought for a while and then pronounced that the fax number indeed belonged to the Hôtel du Midi.
I was amazed. He couldn't have taken more than five seconds. Did he really have all the local fax numbers filed away in his head? Or just those with criminal associations? Was the Hôtel du Midi a hotbed of local crime?
I was so impressed I asked him how he knew it was the hotel's fax number.
"It says so here," he replied and pointed to my piece of paper. Hôtel du Midi, fax number 72 34 60 94.
Brilliant. This was a very trusting policeman. I tried to explain to him that this was my note, I'd written it, I'd copied it down over the phone. It wasn't a sworn affidavit from France Telecom.
But I didn't get very far. Surely there had to be a police central computer where you could enter a fax number to get the subscriber's name and address?
But I was never to find out. My words hit a log jam in the Translation Department. Detection Central were sending down scribbled note after scribbled note and the Translation grey cells were swamped. And complaining. They hadn't had a holiday since February.
And Shelagh's grey cells had come out in sympathy.
And Jean-Pierre's knowledge of English was not as extensive as we'd first thought.
I think he employed a similar method of translation to mine - though subtly shifted - listening for a word he recognised then filling in the rest from various BBC wartime broadcasts.
I have a feeling he suggested the gendarmes visit Boulogne, round up all the Germans and impose a dusk to dawn curfew. I wasn't sure, but at least it would have been something positive.
But police work these days is more concerned with form-filling … and about the victim's details rather than chummy's fax number.
Back came the usual questions. Who was I, what was my address, when was my father's birthday? I could have screamed. There was only one address that was important and that was the hotel in Boulogne sur Save!
As I stood, propped up against the station sergeant's desk, reeling off family birthdays, I could see exactly how the private detective was born. I was feeling decidedly Holmesian myself. I knew what needed to be done but I couldn't find anyone prepared to do it. It was frustrating in the extreme.
From what I could understand from Jean-Pierre, the gendarmes would visit the hotel - sometime in the week when they had the time - but couldn't do any more as it was not a French crime. It was an Irish crime. Definitely. And they'd wait for the Irish police to contact them.
We came away from the gendarmerie feeling exhausted, all nervous energy drained. There was a hotel less than half an hour away. The road outside the gendarmerie led straight to Boulogne sur Save, they wouldn't even have to take a left turn. But no north-westerly call would draw one single step through shop-strewn thoroughfares until the middle of next week.
Aaaarrrgghh!
(next instalment: Pergonini MD)
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