When Sue pulled down the blinds at six o’clock on Christmas Eve, both of them were exhausted.
Sue was the first to recover. ‘We haven’t a moment to waste,’ she reminded her husband as she walked across to the bulging safe. She entered the code, pulled open the door and withdrew everything from their current account. She then placed the money on the counter in neat bundles – fifties, twenties, tens and fives – before they set about counting their spoils.
Chris checked the final figure and confirmed that they were £267,300 in credit. They put £17,300 back in the safe, and locked the door. After all, they had never intended to make a profit – that would be stealing. Sue began to put elastic bands around each thousand, while Chris transferred the two hundred and fifty bundles carefully into an old RAF duffel bag. By eight o’clock they were ready to leave. Chris set the alarm, slipped quietly out of the back door and placed the duffel bag in the boot of their Rover, on top of four other cases his wife had packed earlier that morning. Sue joined him in the front of the car, as Chris turned on the ignition.
‘We’ve forgotten something,’ said Sue as she pulled the door closed.
‘Stamps,’ they said in unison. Chris turned off the ignition, got out of the car and returned to the post office. He re-entered the code, switched off the alarm and opened the back door in search of Stamps. He found him fast asleep in the kitchen, reluctant to be enticed out of his warm basket and into the back seat of the car. Didn’t they realize it was Christmas Eve?
Chris reset the alarm and locked the door for a second time.
At eight nineteen p.m. Mr and Mrs Haskins set out on the journey for Ashford in Kent. Sue worked out that they had four clear days before anyone would be aware of their absence. Christmas Day, Boxing Day, Sunday, Monday (a bank holiday), back in theory on Tuesday morning, by which time they would be viewing properties in the Algarve.
The two of them hardly spoke a word on the long journey to Kent, not even in Portuguese. Sue couldn’t believe they’d gone through with it, and Chris was even more surprised that they’d got away with it.
‘We haven’t yet,’ Sue reminded him, ‘not until we drive into Albufeira, and don’t forget, Mr Appleyard, we no longer have the same names.’
‘Living in sin after all these years are we, Mrs Brewer?’
Chris brought the car to a halt outside their daughter’s home just after midnight. Tracey opened the front door to greet her mother, while Chris removed one of the suitcases and the duffel bag from the boot. Tracey had never seen her parents looking so exhausted, and felt they had aged since she’d last seen them in the summer. Perhaps it was just the long journey. Tracey took them through to the kitchen, sat them both down and made them a cup of tea. They hardly spoke, and when Tracey eventually bundled them off to bed, her father wouldn’t allow her to carry the old duffel bag up to the guest bedroom.
Sue woke every time she heard a car come to a halt in the street outside, wondering if it was marked with the bold fluorescent lettering POLICE. Chris waited for the frontdoor bell to ring before someone came bounding up the stairs to drag the duffel bag from under the bed, arrest them and escort them both to the nearest police station.
After a sleepless night they joined Tracey in the kitchen for breakfast.
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Tracey, before kissing them both on the cheek. Neither of them responded. Had they forgotten it was Christmas Day? They both looked embarrassed as they stared at the two wrapped boxes that their daughter had placed on the table. They hadn’t remembered to buy Tracey a Christmas present and resorted to giving her cash, something they hadn’t done since she was a teenager. Tracey hoped that it was nothing more than the Christmas rush, and excitement at the thought of their visit to the States, which had caused such uncharacteristic behaviour.
Boxing Day turned out to be a little better. Sue and Chris appeared more relaxed, although they often lapsed into long silences. After lunch Tracy suggested that they take Stamps for a run across the Downs and get some fresh air. During the long walk one of them would begin a sentence and then fall silent. A few minutes later the other would finish it.
By Sunday morning Tracey felt that they both looked a lot better, even chatting away about their trip to America. But two things puzzled her. When she saw her parents coming down the stairs carrying the duffel bag with Stamps in their wake, she could have sworn they were speaking Portuguese. And why bother to take Stamps to America, when she had already offered to take care of the dog while they were away?
The next surprise came when they set off for Heathrow after breakfast. When her father packed the duffel bag and their suitcase into the boot of the car, she was surprised to see three large bags already in the boot. Why bother with so much luggage when they were only going away for a fortnight?
Tracey stood on the pavement and waved goodbye, as her parents’ car trundled off down the road. When the old Rover reached the end of the street it swung right, instead of left, which took them in the opposite direction to Heathrow. Something was wrong. Tracey dismissed the mistake, aware that they could correct their error long before they reached the motorway.
Once Chris and Sue had joined the motorway, they followed the signs for Dover. The two of them became more and more nervous as each minute passed, aware that there was now no turning back. Only Stamps seemed to be enjoying the adventure as he stared out of the back window wagging his tail.
Once again, Mr Appleyard and Mrs Brewer went over their plan. When they reached the docks, Sue would jump out of the car and join the queue of foot passengers waiting to board, while Chris drove the Rover up the car ramp and on to the ferry. They agreed not to meet again until the boat had docked in Calais and Chris had driven on to the dockside.
Sue stood at the bottom of the gangway and waited nervously at the back of the queue as she watched their Rover edge towards the entrance of the hold. Her heart raced when she saw a customs officer double-check Chris’s passport, and invite him to step out of the car and stand to one side. She had to stop herself from running across so she could overhear their conversation – she couldn’t risk it now they were no longer married.
‘Good morning, Mr Appleyard,’ said the customs officer, and then added after looking in the back of the car, ‘were you hoping to take the dog abroad with you?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Chris. ‘We never travel anywhere without Stamps.’
The customs official studied Mr Appleyard’s passport more carefully. ‘But you don’t have the necessary documents to take a dog abroad with you.’
Chris felt beads of sweat running down his forehead. Stamps’s papers were still attached to the passport of Mr Haskins, which he had left in the safe back at Cleethorpes.
‘Oh hell,’ said Chris. ‘I must have left them at home.’
‘Bad luck, sir. I hope you don’t have far to travel because there isn’t another ferry until this time tomorrow.’
Chris glanced helplessly across at his wife, before climbing back into the car. He looked down at Stamps, who was sleeping soundly on the back seat, oblivious to the problem he was causing. Chris swung the car round and joined an overwrought Sue, who was waiting impatiently to find out why he hadn’t been allowed to board. Once Chris had explained the problem, all she said was, ‘We can’t risk returning to Cleethorpes.’
‘I agree,’ said Chris, ‘we’ll have to go back to Ashford, and hope we can find a vet that’s open on a bank holiday.’
That wasn’t part of our plan,’ said Sue.
‘I know,’ said Chris, ‘but I’m not willing to leave Stamps behind.’ Sue nodded in agreement.
Chris swung the Rover onto the main road, and began the journey back to Ashford. Mr and Mrs Haskins arrived just in time to join their daughter for lunch. Tracey was delighted that her parents were able to spend a couple more days with her, but she still couldn’t understand why they weren’t willing to leave Stamps with her; after all, it wasn’t as if they were going away for the rest of their lives.
Chris and Sue spent another uncommunicative day and a further sleepless night in Ashford. A duffel bag containing a quarter of a million pounds was tucked under the bed.
On Monday a local vet kindly agreed to give Stamps all the necessary injections. He then attached a certificate to Mr Appleyard’s passport, but not in time for them to catch the last ferry.
The Haskins didn’t sleep a wink on the Monday night, and by the time the street lights went out the following morning, they both knew they could no longer go through with it. They lay awake, preparing a new plan – in English.
Chris and Sue finally left their daughter after breakfast the following morning. They drove to the end of the road and this time, to Tracey’s relief, turned left, not right, and headed back in the direction of Cleethorpes. By the time they’d swept past the Heathrow exit, their revised plan was in place.
‘The moment we arrive home,’ said Sue, ‘we’ll put all the money back in the safe.’
‘How will we explain having that amount of cash, when the Post Office accountant carries out his annual audit next month?’ asked Chris.
‘By the time they get around to checking what’s left in the safe, as long as we don’t apply for any more money, we should have been able to dispose of most of the cash simply by carrying out our regular transactions.’
‘What about the postal orders that we’ve already cashed?’
‘There’s still enough cash left in the safe to cover them,’ Sue reminded her husband.
‘But the scratch cards and the lottery tickets?’
‘We’ll have to make up the difference from our own money – that way they’ll end up none the wiser.’
‘I agree,’ said Chris, sounding relieved for the first time in days, and then he remembered the passports.
‘We’ll destroy them,’ said Sue, ‘as soon as we get home.’
By the time the Haskins had crossed the Lincolnshire border, they had made up their minds to continue running the post office, despite its diminished status. Sue had already come up with several ideas for extra items they could sell over the counter, while making the best of what was left of their franchise.
A smile settled on Sue’s lips when Chris finally turned into Victoria Crescent, a smile that was quickly removed when she saw the flashing blue lights. When the old Rover came to a halt, a dozen policemen surrounded the car.
‘Oh shit,’ said Sue. Extreme language for the chairman of the Mothers’ Union, thought Chris, but on balance, he had to agree with her.
Mr and Mrs Haskins were arrested on the evening of 29 December. They were driven to Cleethorpes police station and placed in separate interview rooms. There was no need for the local police to conduct a good cop, bad cop routine, as both of them confessed immediately. They spent the night in separate cells, and the following morning they were charged with the theft of £250,000, being the property of the Post Office, and obtaining, by deception, four passports.
They pleaded guilty to both charges.
Sue Haskins was released from Moreton Hall after serving four months of her sentence. Chris joined her a year later.
While he was in prison Chris worked on another plan. However, when he was released Britannia Finance didn’t feel able to back him. To be fair, Mr Tremaine had retired.
Mr and Mrs Haskins sold their property on Victoria Crescent for £100,000. A week later they climbed into their ancient Rover and drove off to Dover, where they boarded the ferry after presenting the correct passports. Once they had found a suitable location on the seafront in Albufeira, they opened a fish-and-chip shop. Haskins’ hasn’t caught on with the locals yet, but with a hundred thousand Brits visiting the Algarve every year, there’s proved to be no shortage of customers.
I was among those who risked a small investment in the new enterprise, and I am happy to report that I have recouped every penny with interest. Funny old world. But then as Mr Justice Gray observed, Mr and Mrs Haskins were not criminals.
Only one footnote. Stamps died while Sue and Chris were in prison.
THE ITALIANS ARE THE ONLY RACE I know who have the ability to serve without appearing subservient. The French will happily spill sauce all over your favourite tie, with no hint of an apology, at the same time cursing you in their native tongue. The Chinese don’t speak to you at all, and the Greeks think nothing of leaving you alone for an hour before they even offer you a menu. The Americans are at pains to let you know that they aren’t really waiters at all, but out-of-work actors, who then proceed to recite the specials on the menu as if performing for an audition. The English are quite likely to engage you in a long conversation, leaving an impression that you ought to be having dinner with them, rather than your guest, and as for the Germans . . . well, when did you last eat at a German restaurant?
So it is left to the Italians to sweep the board and gather up the crumbs. They combine the charm of the Irish, the culinary expertise of the French and the thoroughness of the Swiss, and despite their ability to produce a bill that never seems to add up, we allow them to go on fleecing us.
This was certainly true of Mario Gambotti.
Mario came from a long line of Florentines who could not sing, paint or play football, so he happily joined his fellow exiles in London, where he began an apprenticeship in the restaurant business.
Whenever I go to his fashionable little restaurant in Fulham for lunch, he somehow manages to hide his disapproval when I order minestrone soup, spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti classico.
‘What an excellent choice, maestro,’ he declares, not bothering to scribble down my order on his pad. Please note ‘maestro’: not my lord, which would be sycophantic, not sir, which would be ridiculous after twenty years of friendship, but maestro, a particularly flattering sobriquet, as I have it on good authority (his wife) that he has never read one of my books.
When I was in attendance at North Sea Camp open prison, Mario wrote to the governor and suggested that he might be allowed to come down one Friday and cook lunch for me. The governor was amused by the request, and wrote a formal reply, explaining that should he grant the boon, it would not only break several penal regulations, but undoubtedly stir the tabloids into a frenzy of headlines. When the governor showed me a copy of his reply, I was surprised to see that he had signed the letter, yours ever, Michael.
‘Are you also a customer of Mario’s?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ replied the governor, ‘but he has been a customer of mine.’
Mario’s can be found on the Fulham Road in Chelsea, and the restaurant’s popularity is due in no small part to his wife, Teresa, who runs the kitchen. Mario always remains front of house. I regularly have lunch there on a Friday, often accompanied by my two sons and their latest girlfriends, who used to change more often than the menu.
Over the years I have become aware that many of the customers are regulars, which leaves an impression that we are all part of an exclusive club, in which it’s almost impossible to book a table unless you are a member. However, the real proof of Mario’s popularity is that the restaurant does not accept credit cards – cheques, cash and account-paying customers are all welcome, but NO CREDIT CARDS is printed in bold letters at the foot of every menu.
During the month of August the establishment is closed, in order for the Gambotti family to return to their native Florence and reunite with all the other Gambottis.
Mario is quintessentially Italian. His red Ferrari can be seen parked outside the restaurant, his yacht – my son James assures me – is moored in Monte Carlo, and his children, Tony, Maria and Roberto, are being educated at St Paul’s, Cheltenham and Summer Fields respectively. After all, it is important that they mix with the sort of people they will be expected to fleece at some time in the future. And whenever I see them at the opera – Verdi and Puccini, never Wagner or Weber – they are always seated in their own box.
So, I hear you ask, how did such a shrewd and intelligent man end up serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure?
Was he involved in some fracas following a football match between Arsenal and Fiorentina? Did he drive over the speed limit once too often in that Ferrari of his? Perhaps he forgot to pay his poll tax? None of the above. He broke an English law with an action that in the land of his forefathers would be considered no more than an acceptable part of everyday life.
Enter Mr Dennis Cartwright, who worked for another of Her Majesty’s establishments.
Mr Cartwright was an inspector with the Inland Revenue. He rarely ate out at a restaurant, and certainly not one as exclusive as Mario’s. Whenever he and his wife Doris ‘went Italian’, it was normally Pizza Express. However, he took a great interest in Mr Gambotti, and in how he could possibly maintain such a lifestyle on the amount he was declaring to his local tax office. After all, the restaurant was showing a profit of a mere £172,000, on a turnover of just over two million. So, after tax, Mr Gambotti was only taking home – Dennis carefully checked the figures – just over £100,000. With a home in Chelsea, three children at private schools and a Ferrari to maintain, not to mention the yacht moored in Monte Carlo, and heaven knows what else in Florence, how did he manage it? Mr Cartwright, a determined man, was determined to find out.
The tax inspector checked all the figures in Mario’s books, and he had to admit they balanced and, what’s more, Mr Gambotti always paid his taxes on time. However, Mr Cartwright wasn’t in any doubt that Mr Gambotti had to be siphoning off large sums of cash, but how? He must have missed something. Cartwright leapt up in the middle of the night and shouted out loud, ‘No credit cards.’ He woke his wife.
The next morning, Cartwright went over the books yet again; he was right. There were no credit-card entries. Although all the cheques were properly accounted for, and all the customers’ accounts tallied, when you considered that there were no credit-card entries, the small amount of cash declared seemed completely out of proportion to the overall takings.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 27