|
Kai Update
|
May. 17th, 2008 @ 03:27 pm
|
|---|
Thank you for all the healing vibes and virtual hugs.
Kai managed a full body stretch this morning but is still not interested in food. We tried to tempt him with various meats and scrambled eggs but he turned his nose away. So it's back to feeding him by syringe every two hours - that's a syringe sans needle which we use to squirt creamy gloop onto his tongue. A long fraught process which isn't popular with cat or human. His next appointment with the vet is on Tuesday morning.
As to the cause of his injury we're not sure. At first we thought it must be another cat but cat fights tend to be very loud, yowly affairs and we heard nothing that night. And we're people who sleep with the window open and who are trained to leap out of bed at the first yowl of a cat fight. Click here for one of our more memorable cat fight adventures.
The vet thinks it might be a mink or polecat as the attack was so vicious and the teeth so sharp.
As a precaution we decided it would be wiser to keep our other cat - Xena - in at night. But cat's called Xena don't take to being grounded too well and Tuesday night she broke out by unlocking the cat door. Then she didn't come home for breakfast the next day. So you can imagine the state we were in on Wednesday morning. We had a listless Kai still bleeding from his operation the previous day and no Xena.
She waited until the evening and then strolled in as though nothing had happened. We locked the cat door again that night and placed a heavy box in front of it. She broke out - galloping away on horseback and ululating wildly. Cats!
Of course, now we've relented and leave the cat door unlocked, she stays in all night. Cats are contrary beings:)
Now I'm off to watch Pompey win the cup.
|
|
Nous Sommes Anglais: Chapter Thirteen (Headers and Handwriting)
|
Jul. 20th, 2007 @ 10:46 am
|
|---|
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)
|
|
Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Five (Robots destroy the British Consulate)
|
May. 16th, 2007 @ 09:52 am
|
|---|
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 I discover they somehow forged my passport...
You would think that someone ringing to report a passport fraud would be accorded a modicum of priority.
I know I did.
But I couldn't get through.
I could not believe it. The Passport Office had automated their switchboard. Some genius had decided to remove all humans from external contact and replace them with a series of messages.
None of which told you what to do if attempting to report a fraud.
I pressed 'one.' I pressed 'two.' I listened. Nothing. No 'other' option, no press this number if you want to speak to a human.
I could not believe it. Who was I supposed to ring? All the telephone numbers suggested on my 'Essential Information for UK Passport Holders' booklet refused to speak to me - they were all hiding behind a line of robots!
Incredulity was too mild a word to describe my feelings as I scanned all thirty-two pages of the Passport Agency booklet. Lots of useful information about safety and customs and two pages of useless telephone numbers!
But there was a section on what to do if you lost your passport abroad.
The British Consulate!
They were supposed to be informed in case of loss.
And they could issue an emergency document to get you home.
And use to open a bank account in Spain?
I was definitely enjoying myself. This was fun. Detection, problem solving ... why hadn't I been robbed earlier?
I tracked down the number of the British Consulate in the appendices of my Living in France bible, tapped in the numbers and … found it had changed.
Which is when I remembered that Paris numbers had changed recently to ten digits or was it eleven? I couldn't remember the exact details but what was a missing couple of digits to a great detective? I'd extemporise. Find a few examples of current Paris numbers and make a guess.
I spoke to a fax machine at the British Embassy.
Never an engaging conversation. I probably set off three international incidents and cancelled a couple of licenses to kill.
But I was not beaten. Weren't there consulates in the regions? I'd look them up in the local directory. Amazingly, I found one. The British Consulate, Toulouse.
I got through immediately. Obviously robots hadn't yet reached South-West France.
"I am destroyed," said the female voice on the other end of the line.
Perhaps robots had reached South-West France.
"Er ... hello?" I ventured.
"The silly girl. She destroy me. I find nothing today," she continued, in a distracted and heavily accented English. She sounded Eastern European and what the hell was she talking about?
"Hello? How I help?" she asked.
I explained about a passport being used to set up a false bank account in Spain and asked what happened when the Consulate issued an emergency passport.
She said she didn't know; there was a Passport Section in Paris that dealt with all that, but it would be a waste of time phoning Paris because no one would answer. Switchboard like that. Many lazy girls. She did have a number for someone in the Passport Section but then some silly girl had come in yesterday and destroyed her filing system. She would find nothing today. Perhaps never. She was destroyed, her files were destroyed, all was destroyed.
It's comforting to know that whatever your situation, there is always someone worse off.
Another call came in and she asked me to hold. I could hear much muttering, shuffling of paper and half a conversation in French.
And then 'I have it!' came screaming down the receiver. "Why she put it there?"
I couldn't hazard a guess. Who could tell with silly girls? They come in, destroy you, then disappear.
But I had a name at the Passport Section - Ian Morris - and a number to reach him on.
(next instalment: Mincemeat Men)
|
|
Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Four (Another shock, Another passport)
|
May. 9th, 2007 @ 01:17 pm
|
|---|
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 my estate agent has given me a lead - a wandering Irish con man called Peter Kennedy...
I phoned Andy almost immediately. After all, doesn't 'in strictest confidence' mean ‘pass it on as soon as possible’? And besides, this was evidence in a crime. And a lead that could be followed.
Andy said he'd inform the Irish police and they'd check up on Peter Kennedy. And he had other contacts he could use as well.
Which sounded interesting. Were these underworld informers? Barmen in hotels, who'd only answer questions when presented with a ten dollar bill?
"Have the gendarmes visited the hotel yet?"
Sadly not, I told him. At least as far as I knew. I wasn't sure if they were going to get back to me or Jean-Pierre. I'd check tomorrow if I hadn't heard by then. And pray they'd phoned Jean-Pierre in the meantime - I had zero faith in my ability to make myself understood by the gendarmes.
"Did your estate agent say anything about Peter Kennedy being involved in personal finance?"
No, other than fraud. Which I suppose could be loosely termed as very personal finance.
"Do you know any accountants or financial planners locally?" He was off again. Obviously he'd given up on doctors and was now moving through the rest of the professional classes.
"No," I replied, waiting for the follow-up on bankers, solicitors and veterinary practitioners.
I think he must have realised at this point the obtuse nature of his questioning. "You see," he explained, "I'm sure we're dealing with someone who knows the Financial Services Act intimately. This man is not an amateur."
And it wasn't easy to set up bank accounts nowadays, he continued. Most countries had anti money-laundering legislation. Spain was certain to be a signatory to all the international conventions.
Which made me think. How did someone manage to set up a bank account without identification? If governments were so hot against money laundering these days, how did he do it?
"He'd need a passport or a recognised identity card. Some banks insist on a banker's reference as well."
Which is what I'd thought. Credit Agricole had insisted on both our passports.
So how was this account in Spain opened?
I went back and had a look at the bank account fax. Reading and re-reading all the details. Chasing down every word and number.
Which is when I noticed the line of numbers underneath my name on the account. It wasn't a good copy - probably a fax of a photocopy of a photocopy. But I could make out the letters HIF - or was it MIF - followed by ten digits. And it wasn't the account number.
But there was something vaguely familiar about those numbers.
I'd seen them before ... recently.
My passport!
I shot out of the settee and nearly collided with the door in my haste to check. I dug out my passport and threw it open. The last nine digits on the Spanish bank account were my passport number.
I was totally thrown. Up until noticing the passport number, everything could be traced back to Dublin. It was an inside job. They had our bond details, our address, our signatures, the cancellation form. Everything.
But they'd never had my passport number.
Crime suddenly stepped a thousand miles closer. My passport had never left the house - except when I had it in my hand.
Did that mean someone had broken into our house?
Peter Kennedy?
It was a very fraught ten minutes that followed as the two of us brain-stormed the ramifications. We'd have to get the locks changed. Dare we leave the house unattended? How had someone broken in with Gypsy in the house? Had they waited until we'd all gone off in the car? Was the house being watched?
And why had the Spanish bank added a tenth digit to my passport number?
I looked at it again. It had a leading six. Why?
Perhaps it wasn't my passport?
Clearly nine digits out of ten were too much of a coincidence but was there another explanation? One that didn't involve anyone breaking into our house?
More brain-storming.
What happens when someone loses a passport? Could someone claim they were me and that my passport had been lost or stolen? Would the Passport Office believe them - especially if they had a doctor witness their signature on the claim form?
And would the re-issued document have the same number as the original - but with an extra digit, a leading six to show it was a re-issue?
I'd seen enough plausible faxes in the previous hour to know that whoever was impersonating me would be capable of fooling a Passport Office.
So I rang the Passport Office.
(next instalment: Robots destroy the British Consulate)
|
|
Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Three (The Wandering Irish Con-Man)
|
May. 1st, 2007 @ 04:13 pm
|
|---|
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. At last I have copies of all the correspondence sent and received by my impersonator. One contains details of the bank account he'd set up in Spain - an account in my name...
The last page of our bundle was the Pergonini letter.
The doctor’s stamp looked completely wrong. Shelagh dug out a letter we had with our doctor's stamp on it. They weren't remotely similar. One was full of information - address, telephone number, diplomas and specialities - and one had 'by appointment'. What was the point in having a stamp like that? It had to be a fake.
And the signature was unintelligible. I knew doctors were supposed to have notoriously bad handwriting but this was an elongated cross followed by a dot. Somehow all nine letters of Pergonini had been compressed into a broad vertical bar which had then been struck through in a final flourish.
Our deliberations were interrupted at that point by the phone.
It was David Jarvis, our estate agent. Had we received the fax yet? I told him we had and that we were just sifting through it.
"I think I may be able to help you," he said.
"Oh? How?"
"I couldn't help but read some of the letters and ... this will have to be strictly confidential but I think I might be able to spread some light on the matter."
This was a surprise. I'd had a week full of surprises and thought myself well beyond the point where there was anything surprising left in the world.
But here was another one.
"Have you ever heard of Peter Kennedy?" he continued.
"No."
"You realise this is in the strictest confidence. I don't want anyone to know I told you."
Fair enough.
He then proceeded to explain that Peter Kennedy was a former associate of his. They'd worked together in Castlenau. He was a family friend of the previous owners of our house and helped with the sale - receiving half the commission in the process. It was also possible - if not likely - that he still had a key.
He was now living in the Gers, David thought. Which is why he felt compelled to ring. He'd heard Peter was under investigation by the gendarmes in Gimont. And there was apparently another case in the Tarn involving an English couple where Peter Kennedy's name had cropped up. £60,000 had gone missing there.
And Peter Kennedy was Irish.
This was becoming more convoluted with every twist. I thought I'd had the crime nicely compartmentalised. It was an inside job at Mutual Friendly's Dublin office. A nameless male accomplice hopped on a ferry to France and drove around Boulogne and the Spanish border, setting up bank accounts and false addresses.
But here was someone with a link to our house. Was it really possible that someone at the Dublin office would have a friend who just happened to have a key to our house? Wasn't that taking coincidence too far?
We chatted a while about the faxes and how incredible everything seemed. I told him I couldn't believe that anyone had been taken in by the forged signatures. They changed with every letter.
"Oh, I don't know,” he said. “I thought they were rather good."
Perhaps I was overly suspicious, but I couldn't help thinking I detected a defensive note in his voice. As though he'd forged the signatures and didn't like his prowess being questioned.
I was definitely becoming paranoid.
But I fished his envelope from out of our bin.
And checked the postmark. Tuesday. Posted at Masseube at 17:15. Very strange for someone who was rushing to meet the last post on Monday.
And Masseube was nowhere near his office in Castlenau. Masseube was in the Gers. Close to Gimont and Boulogne sur Save.
(next instalment: Another shock, Another passport)
|
|
Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Two (Dear Big Nose)
|
Apr. 24th, 2007 @ 09:24 am
|
|---|
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. At last I have copies of all the correspondence sent and received by my impersonator. One contains details of the bank account he'd set up in Spain - an account in my name...
"Did they get the account changed to a joint one?"
What? Shelagh's voice came out of nowhere. I was so engrossed, I'd almost forgotten she was there.
"What did you say?"
"Did they get the account changed to a joint one? Like they said there." She pointed at the third paragraph.
"If they did add my name to the account, how did they do it?"
Which made me think. How did they manage to open a bank account in my name? Don't you have to have identification?
Shelagh flipped us onto the next page before I could explore further. It was the telephone message taken from Eastleigh and Howard's switchboard. It was dated May 16th, 10:40am. It mentioned Ralph's 'objectionable' letter. I was becoming quite interested in this 'objectionable' letter - what on earth had it said?
The rest of the message stressed my desire not to be contacted by letter or phone - which must have been a considerable worry to my impersonator. He'd have had no idea how well the people at Eastleigh and Howard knew me.
The next page contained Ralph's long-awaited letter.
Dear Big Nose, it began ... Well, not exactly. In fact it was fairly mild. It noted the fact that they'd only just learnt (May 5th) from Mutual Friendly about the cancellation and was surprised we hadn't had the common courtesy to inform them directly.
What was interesting was the next page. It was a faxed reply to the 'objectionable' letter, dated 16th May. The same day as the irate telephone call. But by the time 'I' sent the fax, I'd apparently cooled down.
It was addressed to Simon.
Thank you for the portfolio update you sent me in early April. You will have learnt that I have since had to cancel the Mutual Friendly European Personal Bond Fund. I do not wish to enter in to any discussion about this, either by telephone or post as I have been completely swamped by a personal problem which was impossible to foresee.
We fully appreciate the work you put in to the package and plan further investments at the end of July 1995. We will be in touch with you then so that neither you nor your firm will lose out as a result of our changed circumstances. Meanwhile, the house being far from finished we are taking a holiday in Spain, as of tomorrow, for four weeks.
Rest assured, we will contact you during July to discuss an investment which I will then be in a position to undertake.
The letter ended with yet another variation on my signature. The best yet.
I re-read the first paragraph. How did 'I' know that Eastleigh and Howard sent me a portfolio update in early April. Had I received one in early April? I rushed into the study to check my files. I couldn't find one.
And why suddenly start calling the Insurance Bond the European Personal Bond Fund? I'd never seen it referred to as that. Had I?
I re-checked my file. I found a couple of European Bonds and one reference to a Pooled Fund Bond. But no Personal Bond Fund.
Was I being pedantic?
I didn't think so. It had to be important to dissect every sentence to try and find out what was known and when, in order to find the 'who'. If I could find something that only one person could possibly know then I had them.
I checked the date of the letter again - the 16th of May - in reply to a letter sent on the 5th of May. Was that significant? If the person was staying at the hotel, they would have received the letter when? About the 10th? Why wait until the 16th before replying? Especially as the phone call didn't sound planned. You don't plan to ring up and have a go in the morning then pen a reasoned letter in the afternoon. No, the phone call smacked of panic.
And the letter of damage limitation - did I overdo it on the phone, should I have said something different?
Which probably meant that Ralph's letter was not seen until the 16th. And that 'I' was no longer staying at the hotel.
The letters were being forwarded.
Or collected?
(next instalment: The Wandering Irish Con-Man)
|
|
Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part One (The Fax)
|
Apr. 17th, 2007 @ 02:10 pm
|
|---|
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)
|
|
Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Five (Another Letter and the Personal Hygiene of our Car)
|
Apr. 5th, 2007 @ 04:35 pm
|
|---|
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)
|
|
Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Four (A New and Unexpected Clue)
|
Mar. 29th, 2007 @ 11:41 am
|
|---|
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)
|
|
Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Three (Dilithium Crystals all over the Roundabout)
|
Mar. 22nd, 2007 @ 02:18 pm
|
|---|
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 in the midst of everything we have to get our car serviced - including something which sounded very much like a warp coil....
We had to go through with it. Being robbed was one thing but having a dodgy warp coil was something far, far worse.
John, my brother-in-law, came over just before half eight as arranged. I think he wanted to hear the latest instalment of the Crime of the Century. He'd follow us in and then drive us back.
Off we set with the car playing up as usual - I’m sure it knew it was going to the garage. Certainly its behaviour was reminiscent of Gypsy en route to the vet - plenty of complaining and digging in of tyres. About halfway there the engine cut out, just as I was pulling out at a junction. I quickly restarted the car - I was getting pretty quick with all the practice - and was just slipping into gear when.... Crash! A thumping noise and the car lurched forward.
The warp coil!
Shit!
I looked at Shelagh and I could tell she was thinking the same thing - of all the times for the warp coil to blow, it had to be on the way to the garage! Why couldn't it wait another ten minutes?
I tentatively tried the engine again - ever the optimist - and was relieved to hear it start. Perhaps it wasn't irretrievable after all? We limped off the junction and found a patch of ground where we could park safely. John pulled in behind us.
I wearily pushed open the door and was in the process of struggling with the bonnet when I heard John apologising.
What?
"Sorry, I thought you'd pulled out. I took my eye off the road for a while and..."
And ran into the back of us.
My first traffic accident. Years and years of safe driving behind me and then my brother-in-law smashes into the back of me while I'm stationary at a road junction.
But at least it wasn't the warp coil.
Which at that moment was a considerable plus.
We surveyed the slightly crumpled back bumper, the smashed tail lights and the boot which no longer fastened. Minor damage. Nothing compared with ringing up a garage and fighting to make yourself understood in halting French - please come and collect the car, the warp engine's blown and there's dilithium crystals all over the roundabout.
So, we resumed our journey. We toyed with idea of adding the damage to the list of things to be looked at by the garage but quickly dismissed the idea. They'd probably say it was too expensive. And John was confident he could knock everything back into shape himself.
We left the car at the garage and arranged to return at four.
(next instalment: A New and Unexpected Clue)
|
|
Fraud and Warp Coils: Part Two (Citroen have Warp technology?)
|
Mar. 16th, 2007 @ 02:52 pm
|
|---|
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 in the midst of everything we have to get our car serviced...
I scanned the Yellow Pages again. This time looking to see what services they did advertise. Perhaps they didn't use révision any more? Perhaps they'd anglicised it to le service as they'd done with le parking and le shopping?
I found plenty of garages offering 'service' - but when I checked the dictionary I found this could mean after sales service. But I also noticed the word entretien appearing again and again in the ads. I looked that up in our dictionary and found ... car service. I could not believe it! I checked the dictionary again for 'car service' and found révision - no mention of entretien at all. My faith in our dictionary crashed. What good was it if they didn't cross-reference all the terms? Were we really supposed to check through all the French words just in case there was another word for the one we wanted?
But we did have a new word and with it a new lead.
The next day we decided to take a detour from our normal shopping route and cruise the main road outside St. Gaudens where all the big garages and car dealers were. With any luck we'd find one offering entretiens for Citroens.
We soon found one offering entretiens pour tous marques. At last! Armed with our revised script, we entered.
"Do you service cars?" seemed on the superfluous side as an opening question at a garage specialising in nothing but the servicing of cars, so we skipped that one and went onto the next.
"How much does it cost to service a Citroen AX?"
"What kind of service?" came the reply, or words to that general effect.
The conversation was wavering but still on script.
"A full service," I countered.
"Non. " He shook his head.
This was not the right answer. 'Non' could only be used on questions one, three, eight and nine. I knew - I had the script. And would have pointed out his error if he hadn't then asked me how many kilometres we'd driven.
A glimmer of hope. He may have started ad libbing but he'd asked me a question I knew the answer to - 160,000. And I could see the way back on script. Obviously he wanted to know how many kilometres the car had done to determine the type of service required.
He then asked me how many kilometres were on the clock when we'd bought it? This was not so good. Why would he want to know that?
"155,000?" I answered dubiously, anxiously fingering the script trying to spot the next likely question.
Which was unintelligible. Equally so when he repeated it slowly. I looked at Shelagh and she looked at me. And then both of us looked back at the mechanic.
Who started speaking very quickly and waving his arms. We caught odd phrases, enough to know that something was très important and somehow the mileage was the key. It sounded like 'warp coil'.
"Did he just say warp coil?" I asked Shelagh.
"That's what I thought," she answered, relieved, I think, by the fact that she hadn't been the one to raise the question. We might not know much about the internal combustion engine but we knew all about warp coils. But did Citroen really have warp technology?
We turned to face the mechanic with renewed respect.
He was still in the throws of trying to explain what would happen if the warp coil failed while we were driving. But he didn't need to. We'd watched enough Star Trek to know that the warp engines would have to be taken off-line and the moment that happened a Romulan warbird would de-cloak off the starboard bow.
So, we definitely had to have the warp coil looked at. We nodded sagely.
He liked that. Expensive but necessary, he said.
"How expensive?" I asked.
"Perhaps 500 francs." And then he asked us what else needed servicing.
Not again!
"A full service?" I repeated, determined to claw the conversation back on script.
"Non, too expensive," he replied.
I couldn't help but wonder what kind of garage we’d walked into. I'd been so used to hearing reports in England about garages overcharging and performing unnecessary work, that I couldn't conceive of one turning down work on the grounds that it would cost too much.
I turned to our back-up list. After our last encounter at a garage, we'd prepared a list of car parts we'd like looking at - just in case.
I opened with vidange.
"Oui," he nodded.
Good start. "Brakes," I continued.
"Non, too expensive."
What? How could checking the brakes be too expensive! He then went on to explain he'd have to take the wheels off and if the brakes were Ok it would be a waste of time.
"Were there any problems with the brakes?" he continued.
Not really but...
He said he'd give them a road test if we wanted but nothing else unless he found a problem.
We struggled through the rest of our list. Meeting more nons and shakes than ouis and nods. Perhaps the French only serviced their cars when something fell off.
But we booked our rendez-vous. Nine o'clock, Tuesday. Today.
(next instalment: Dilithium Crystals all over the Roundabout)
|
|
Fraud and Warp Coils: Part One (A New Way to Service Your Car)
|
Mar. 8th, 2007 @ 03:06 pm
|
|---|
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 I remember that back in March a garage in Boulogne sur Save had had Shelagh's passport for a month...
I wasn't sure if I was sinking into paranoia or just belatedly suspicious. People impersonate us, stay at a hotel in Boulogne sur Save, claim to use passports to verify their identities. All this happening sometime in April and May. And in March, Shelagh's passport spends the month holidaying at a nearby garage.
Coincidence?
I rolled out of bed; my mind besieged by conspiracies and lurking doppelgangers.
But today was a new day and I threw back the curtains to greet it. The sun was shining, the sky was blue…
And a dustman was relieving himself against our fence post.
It must be Tuesday.
And we had a car to service.
We had considered, very briefly, ringing up the garage to postpone, but we'd had so much trouble arranging it in the first place we didn't dare cancel.
And our car did need servicing - or perhaps, counselling would have been a better word - it didn't like the wet, didn't like the cold and you couldn't do a thing with it in the mornings.
Ten minutes into a journey and it was fine but those first ten minutes - well, it wasn't natural. Whatever combination of choke I tried - in, out or yanked over my shoulder - it was wrong, and the car would stall. Usually as I was trying to pull out into a major road.
Which led us to the conclusion that with winter approaching perhaps it would be a good time to have the car serviced.
Easier said than done.
As usual.
We'd looked up 'car service' in the dictionary and found the word révision. Ok, so far, but as soon as we checked the Yellow Pages and the garage ads in the local paper - nothing. The word révision was mysteriously absent. Didn't they do car services in France? Or was it taken for granted and they didn't feel the need to advertise?
We decided to try the local garage. Or what we assumed to be the local garage. It had CITROEN written in large letters above the door but we'd never seen any signs of life within. And the pile of cars outside never seemed to change.
But it was close by and we could walk home if we needed to leave the car there for any length of time.
We had the conversation mapped out as usual. We'd ask, "can you service our car?" and then, according to their oui or non, we'd either leave or move onto our next question. After all, what else was there you could say about a car service?
Apparently, quite a lot.
We stood in front of the garage, expectantly waiting for the oui or non, our slip of paper ready to provide the next line of dialogue, and out came several sentences devoid of ouis, nons or anything else we recognised. After requests to speak lentement and our by now mandatory prefix of nous sommes Anglais, we realised he was asking us what needed servicing.
We pointed to the car.
He asked us what part of the car.
"What part of the car?"
"Oui."
I looked at our script. Besides the part where he said 'oui', I was lost. Were we really being asked to give a list of all the parts we wanted checking?
I tried to get back on script with an attempt to ask for a full service. But this was met with a blank stare.
Out came the dictionary and a frantic search for terms like oil change and brakes and spark plugs and whatever else we could scavenge from memories not attuned to the internal workings of the motor car. Was this some kind of test to see if we merited his attention?
He seemed to like vidange, the French for oil change, but nothing else. And he'd do that for two hundred Francs.
We decided to make a tactical withdrawal and regroup back at the house with the dictionary and Yellow Pages. We didn't fancy the idea of having the car serviced one piece at a time - a vidange here and a spark plug there.
(next instalment: Citroen have Warp technology?)
|
|
Pergonini MD: Part Three (The Estate Agent, The Fax and The Garage)
|
Feb. 27th, 2007 @ 03:38 pm
|
|---|
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)
|
|
Pergonini MD: Part Two (Pergonini MD)
|
Feb. 22nd, 2007 @ 03:32 pm
|
|---|
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've just found out that our forged signatures were apparently witnessed by a Dr. Pergonini...
What? This was getting more and more bizarre. First, there was the hotel fifteen miles away at Boulogne sur Save. Now, there's a doctor involved. At Aurignac ... five miles away.
I asked for the name again. I could check the phone directory. It wouldn't be difficult to see if he existed.
Simon read out the full name. It was stamped on the letter. The signature was illegible but the stamp said: G.PERGONINI M.D Sur Rendez-Vous 31420 AURIGNAC.
There was no address, 31420 was the post code for Aurignac, so that was no help. And there was no telephone number. Odd for a doctor's stamp.
Even odder were the letters MD - it may stand for doctor of medicine in English but it meant nothing in French. Doctors called themselves docteur - that's all.
And Sur Rendez-Vous just meant 'by appointment'.
I began to wonder what else this letter said.
Simon read it out. It was a fax to Elaine Varley dated 30th May.
Having found my husband's reply to your fax less than complete, here are our witnessed signatures in approval of your payment to my husband's account with Banca Zaragoza. We would prefer payment by bank draft or transfer and are sending the necessary documents to the bank to convert the account to both our names.
We have written to our solicitor asking him to forward to you all documentation concerning this investment, and would ask that any correspondence you send us be by normal mail, your last letter having taken a fortnight to reach us.
Thank you for your assistance.
And at the bottom of the letter, underneath our forged signatures was the line - I confirm the identity, having seen passports, of the two persons who sign this letter. G.PERGONINI M.D.
So, on the 30th May, someone writes to Elaine Varley saying they've written to their solicitor asking for the bond's documentation to be forwarded, and on the 9th June someone writes to us asking for that same documentation to be sent to Elaine Varley. It fitted.
And would that explain why she wasn't surprised to hear from me? Having already requested the originals in some earlier letter?
And how many earlier letters were there? What did they say? I needed to see them. Could I have copies?
"Have you got a fax?"
I hadn't, which meant a delay of at least four working days for the post to arrive. And I couldn't wait four days - the suspense would kill me.
And then I remembered our estate agent. He had a fax ... and I might have the number.
(next instalment: The Estate Agent, the Fax and the Garage)
|
|
Pergonini MD: Part One (MFI Special Services)
|
Feb. 15th, 2007 @ 01:30 pm
|
|---|
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 French police think it's an Irish crime and can't help us until Thursday. Now it's Monday...
Monday arrived with a flurry of activity. There were people to phone, people to fax, news to disseminate. We grabbed a very quick breakfast and rushed into St Gaudens with our much-honed letter to Mutual Friendly.
And the two suspicious pages from Elaine Varley.
It cost us £20 to fax eight pages. I was astonished and quickly added it to the money we were owed.
Someone would pay.
Back home, we waited ... and waited.
Surely Dublin would have received the fax by now? We'd asked them to ring us as soon as it arrived.
Approaching midday I could wait no longer. I picked up the phone and asked to speak to Trevor Graham, the Administrative Director.
He wasn't available. He was in an important meeting.
About my letter, hopefully.
I left a message and rung off. I'd have to wait until after dinner.
Two seconds after I put the phone down, it rang.
I stared at the receiver. Was this suspicious? I phone Dublin and someone rings me back immediately?
"Hello," I said warily.
"Mr Dolley? My name's Andy Chatfield, I work for Special Services. Trevor Graham asked me to call."
"Special Services?" I know I'd asked for the police to be involved but I didn't think I'd be talking to MI5.
"Yes, Mutual Friendly International Special Services."
MFI Special Services? It didn't have quite the same ring as MI5.
"I've read your letter and I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's convenient?"
By all means. I was still intrigued as to how he managed to phone so quickly after I'd rung Dublin. Was he there at the time, but wanted to phone back to make sure I was who I said I was?
Or was I becoming paranoid?
"Have you been to the doctor recently?"
This was not a question I'd been expecting. Was it in code? Should I fetch Jean-Pierre and ask if he still had his code book? Are there two British airmen hiding in our outhouse?
"Er ... no?" I replied, waiting, breath well and truly baited for the next question.
"Do you know any doctors in Aurignac?"
"No."
"Does your wife know any doctors ... socially perhaps?"
I placed my hand over the receiver and turned to Shelagh who was standing alongside.
"He wants to know if you know any doctors ... socially."
"Who?"
I was beginning to wonder that myself. Why this fascination with doctors? And was he really who he said he was?
"No, she doesn't," I replied, thinking that about wrapped it up on the doctor front.
"Neither of you have any friends who are doctors or know anyone who'd sign MD after their name?"
I could not believe this.
"Why do you ask?"
He didn't want to say. Apparently it was early in the investigation and it was important that answers were uncoloured by context.
But he did provide me with one very important fact. The letter from Elaine Varley was a fake. The letterhead was not genuine and it wasn't Elaine's signature.
I phoned Simon almost straight away. I wanted to verify this Andy Chatfield. And MFI Special Services. Should I expect a phone call from B&Q?
Apparently not. MFI was the parent organisation of various Mutual Friendly companies in the UK and Europe. And there was such a person as Andy Chatfield who did work for Special Services who were indeed carrying out their own internal investigation.
But what on earth caused his obsession with doctors? Was he a hypochondriac? I wanted my context well and truly coloured
"Ah, I think I might know why he asked that," said Simon.
At last. I couldn't think of one sensible suggestion.
"I've got the letter here. Let me see ... Yes. Your signatures were witnessed by a Dr. Pergonini of Aurignac."
(next instalment: Pergonini MD)
|
|
|
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
chrisdolley's journal