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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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Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Five (Robots destroy the British Consulate)
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May. 16th, 2007 @ 09:52 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 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)
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Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Four (Another shock, Another passport)
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May. 9th, 2007 @ 01:17 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 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)
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Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Three (The Wandering Irish Con-Man)
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May. 1st, 2007 @ 04:13 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. 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)
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Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men: Part Two (Dear Big Nose)
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Apr. 24th, 2007 @ 09:24 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. 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)
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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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