French Fried: one man's move to France with too many animals and an identity thief

by Chris Dolley

  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 discovering 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 a false bank account 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.

  oOo

  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, they 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 the 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 Englishmen – personal problems, can’t talk about it, enough said.

  oOo

  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.

  Passports and Wandering Irish Con-Men

  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 the
ory 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 hour’s 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 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 very good.

  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 real 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? Our investment bond was in both our names – wouldn’t it have been more sensible to open a joint account?

  Unless there was only one person setting up that account.

  “Did they get the account changed to a joint one?”

  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 added 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 Investment 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 out ’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 at someone 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.

  oOo

  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 specialties – 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 frien
d 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 out from 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.

  oOo

  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.