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

by Chris Dolley

  The fax originated at Villeurbanne?

  I dived for our road Atlas. Villeurbanne, Villeurbanne, I sifted through 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? 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.

  The first question was when did it all begin?

  Looking through our bundle of faxes, it looked like the 10th of April. That was the day the bank account was opened and the cancellation letter signed. But the letter accompanying the cancellation date talked of the 7th of April – Thank you for your letter, received here on 7th April.

  A letter supposedly posted sixteen days earlier.

  Was there any significance to the 7th of April? Was that the day it all began, our house broken into? Or was the date irrelevant? The cancellation letter never sent but intercepted before it left Mutual Friendly on March 22nd?

  I still couldn’t see how anyone other than an employee of Mutual Friendly could know about our bond. Even if David Jarvis or Peter Kennedy had duplicate keys to our house – why target us? We don’t look well off. I can’t stand in a shop doorway for more than five minutes without people giving me money.

  And when could they have broken in?

  We were under virtual house arrest during March and April. Our car was off the road, we had a dog who barked if a butterfly landed in a field three miles away. And we never discussed our finances with anyone.

  Not obvious prey for passing felons.

  Unless...

  Our post box was at the bottom of the drive, fifty yards from the house and out of sight.

  And unlocked.

  We hadn’t given it a second thought. It was unlocked when we moved in, we assumed it was the local practice. And handy for sending letters – we’d leave them in the box and the postman would collect them.

  And there had been a succession of strange cars parked nearby throughout the early spring.

  I remembered commenting on it at the time. We’d see people park, climb out and then wander into the field opposite, looking at the grass. We thought they were mushrooming.

  Were we wrong? Were they waiting for the postman?

  It was all too possible. They could wait until he drove off, walk up to the box, take the letters out, check through them...

  But that still implied a knowledge that there was something worthwhile to look for.

  And a considerable risk. If they were coming every day they’d risk being noticed. And if it was someone we knew they’d risk being recognised.

  I remembered seeing David drive by during March. I was in the far field and saw his car. It was easily recognisable as you rarely see large white BMWs. Most of our neighbours had battered 2CVs or drove tractors.

  I remembered walking back to the house expecting to see him parked outside. But he wasn’t. Instead he’d dropped a letter off at our post box.

  Which meant he knew it was unlocked. But it also showed how easily he and his car stood out. And I’m sure I’d never seen him parked close by.

  Another lock was added to the list of security items to buy at the hardware shop. And wouldn’t it be a good idea to find out if any other post went missing during that period? Get a list from Simon and Andy of everything I should have received and check it against my files.

  My list of actions grew as the day progressed. I’d also need a complete list of all faxes – where they came from and where they were sent. Were there other fax headers like the one from Villeurbanne?

  And was that fax really sent from Villeurbanne? The more I looked at the header the less I was convinced. The top portion looked like an application form. It had a handwritten section with my name and the hotel for the sender’s name and address, followed by Eastleigh and Howard and their fax number as the destination. And this top portion contained the Castlenau Poste stamp.

  The bottom section had the Villeurbanne stamp. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the times were the wrong way round I would have been certain it originated from Castlenau.

  Which could be checked. I could even do it myself. Take the header to the Castlenau Poste and ask them.

  Maybe even ask them if they remembered it being sent?

  And for a description of the man.

  I could feel a Holmesian surge pulsing through my body. I wanted to do it. This was my destiny.

  But it was also a long way. And I’d have to have a script. And what were the chances of making myself understood?

  But there was something I could do. The fax header contained handwriting. I had some handwritten notes from David Jarvis. And I could check the typed letters as well – look for unusual phrases or spelling mistakes, something that could identify the author.

  oOo

  Thirty minutes later it was not looking good for David Jarvis. He used a closed four. So did the unsub. There were also similarities with the way he wrote ‘u’ and ‘g’. But was that conclusive? I didn’t think so.

  I’d also noticed that all the forged letters ended, ’Yours Sincerely’, with a capital ‘S’ for sincerely. Was that common? I didn’t think so. I emptied my correspondence files and checked. David Jarvis used a capital S, I couldn’t find anyone else who did.

  Unfortunately it was a very small sample. Was one out of four admissible in a court of law?

  I was in the process of designing further tests – wasn’t there one you used on Shakespeares? Some program that counted the words in a body of text and checked the size of vocabulary and length of sentences?

  But I was interrupted. Shelagh wanted to know what would happen if someone ran up debts against this false bank account in Spain? Would we be liable?

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  It was illegal in France to write a bad cheque. Do it twice and you were banned from holding a bank account. What the hell would they do in Spain? Throw you to the bulls at Pamplona?

  This added an entirely new dimension to our plight. Anything could be happening with that bank account. It might have loans drawn against it, money laundered through it. Anything.

  Hadn’t I seen something on TV about people having their lives ruined in similar circumstances? People suddenly finding themselves unable to obtain credit, having their house repossessed, finding their names erroneously placed on credit blacklists. All because someone had fraudulently used their name and details, run up debts and then disappeared.

  Was that going to happen to us?

  I rang Andy. He sympathised. It was so frustrating. The English police didn’t want to know even though false British passports were probably involved. The French considered it an Irish crime. The Irish maintained that that hadn’t been proved and it looked distinctly French to them or failing that
Spanish. And the Spanish were on holiday for four weeks!

  The bank was only an hour’s drive away, we could go there ourselves.

  It was tempting.

  Very tempting.

  “It wouldn’t cause you any problems, would it?” I asked. I’d seen so many American police shows where cases were thrown out because of procedural mistakes. I didn’t want to risk anything similar.

  “No, not at all.” He seemed pleased. “If you’re sure you want to do it?”

  I was sure. We had to know what was happening. If nothing else we could freeze the account. And we might be able to find out how it was created. What identification was used? Was it really my passport? Could anyone identify the man who opened it?

  I put the phone down. I’d been deputised.

  Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Missing Toilet

  Shelagh’s eighty-year-old mother, Nan, was arriving on Friday, so we had to put off our excursion into Spain until Monday. But a Great Detective never sleeps. And he never waits until Monday.

  We’d stop off at Castlenau Poste on the way back from Tarbes airport.

  Shelagh disagreed. This was not a good plan. It was going to be tense enough without openly looking for trouble. I could tell she was not looking forward to her mother’s arrival.

  Like many daughters she had a tense relationship with her mother. A tenseness that, like gravity, increased according to the inverse square of the distance between them. On the phone they were fine, in the same room ... the air crackled with potential. Shelagh was the agent for Order – she had routines, she wrote lists, she planned, she liked to be in control. Whereas Nan was the agent for Chaos – someone who despised lists, never planned and had an uncanny ability to wreak havoc with the slightest of touches. It was never intentional. It just happened. She was a catalyst. And Shelagh couldn’t shake the idea that within five minutes of her mother’s arrival, Tarbes airport would be put on emergency alert and five cars would disappear in controlled explosions.

  It wouldn’t happen, of course. But Shelagh was convinced it was only a matter of time. More likely it would be Nan losing one of her bags. Shelagh would be despatched to find it for her. We’d have half the airport turned upside down and then Nan would remember she’d decided not to bring it with her. She’d have a good giggle and walk off in search of the car and Shelagh would quietly tear her hair out by the lost luggage counter.

  It was always like that. Sometimes it was a bag, sometimes an ear-ring. But there was always something. And in less than two hours her plane would be landing.

  We decided not to take Gypsy with us to the airport. There wasn’t really room in the back and dogs, mothers and long car journeys don’t mix too well. Still, if we wanted to return to a house free of any unexpected little additions to the upstairs carpets, we’d have to let her out into the garden before we set off.

  Gypsy is not stupid. She can recognise an imminent car journey when she smells one, and was not going to be left behind. She ran straight for the car door and stayed there, leaving her post only when chased around the car. And then only to take up a new position at the door on the other side.

  “We’ll have to take her,” I conceded.

  “No,” insisted Shelagh. And ran three more laps of the car and executed two wild lunges. All to no avail. Gypsy would be coming with us.

  And it was all my fault.

  I’m never quite sure about the intricacies of attaching blame in family disputes – it’s something that apparently only wives are privy to. I think it’s similar to the ownership of pets. If a pet is well-behaved she’s mine, if she’s bad she’s yours.

  I think I’d just been given custody of Gypsy.

  Forty-five minutes later, the beast in the back seat started to cry. She’s bored. When are we going to stop? And I need to go to the toilet.

  I think dogs and children occupy the same rung on the evolutionary ladder when it comes to long car journeys.

  “You had your chance before we set off,” admonished Shelagh. “But, oh no, you wouldn’t use it, would you?”

  I didn’t think Gypsy understood English that well. But neither did I think it opportune to intervene. Shelagh was tense enough. I think she could sense that somewhere overhead her mother had just forced her way into the cockpit of the nine o’clock from Manchester and was passing around snaps of her neighbour’s cousin’s friend’s brand new baby granddaughter.

  Ten minutes of incessant crying, whimpering and unexpected cold wet noses in the back of the neck later, we gave in. We’d stop at the next lay-by.

  Whereupon Gypsy forgot all about her bladder and decided that pulling paper bags and food wrappers out of rubbish bins was just the sort of thing to take the boredom out of a long car journey.

  All doubts concerning the ownership of Gypsy were promptly removed. She was mine. Always had been. Always would be.

  The last forty minutes of the journey proceeded peacefully. The black dog from hell sat quietly in the back and Shelagh simmered quietly in the front.

  We pulled up outside Tarbes-Lourdes airport with twenty minutes to spare. Plenty of time.

  And soon even more time. The nine o’clock from Manchester had been a figment of our imagination. Most people called it the ten o’clock.

  We had an extra hour at the airport.

  “I asked her to check the times!” cried Shelagh.

  And we’d reminded her that France was an hour ahead. Was she sure that the time she’d given us was the correct local time?

  “Of course,” had come back the reply.

  I calmed Shelagh down and suggested there was nothing we could do but wait so why not make the best of it. It’s easy to be calm and reasonable when it’s someone else’s mother.

  We settled down in the terminal building and waited.

  And watched.

  There were nuns everywhere.

  Strange, since coming to France we’d often commented on the total lack of visible clergy. Every road junction had its religious statue, every hamlet its church ... but we’d never seen a single priest.

  Now we knew why. They were all here en route for Lourdes. The terminal teemed with monks, nuns and all manner of priests.

  If only I’d brought my I-Spy Book of Catholicism with me. There were 500 points in the foyer alone.

  oOo

  Put a family in a car for more than an hour and conversation inevitably turns towards toilets. Who’s been, who hasn’t, who should have, and when.

  Ours was no exception.

  Except for the subtle difference that Shelagh’s mother only conversed about such matters via an interpreter – preferably a telepathic one.

  So when she asked “Are we there yet?” what she really meant was “I am in need of a toilet.”

  Unfortunately the only telepath in the car was big, black and hairy and still sulking after the incident with the waste bin.

  Five minutes later came the next coded query. “Is it much further?”

  Following that came a “How much longer?” and a despondent “Oh.”

  Eventually Shelagh cottoned on to the fact that something was amiss. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  But that was far too direct a question to extract anything other than a “Nothing ... really.”

  I believe teeth are extracted more readily.

  A quick bout of twenty questions ensued. What is it? Are you feeling sick, do you want us to stop?

  And finally. Do you need a toilet?

  Of course it didn’t end there. If a hitchhiker had asked us to stop at the next toilet, nothing more would have been said. But we were family and families needed to know. Why didn’t you go on the plane? I couldn’t. Why not? You know. No, I don’t.

  But at least we were approaching Castlenau, Shelagh could find a toilet while I went to the Poste.

  I entered the outskirts of Castlenau with the words – Why didn’t you go at the airport then? There wasn’t one at the airport! Yes, there was! No, there wasn’t! – ringi
ng in my ears.

  oOo

  It is one thing being a Great Detective in the safety of your armchair but an entirely different matter driving into Moriarty’s back yard.

  I entered the car park at Castlenau in two minds. Do I park out of sight? Round the back, away from the other cars? Or do I park in the front? Where everyone else was.

  Which drew the least attention? To be one of the crowd or on your own? In view or in the shadows?

  I snaked and swerved across the car park as each gambit pushed itself to the fore.

  “What are you doing?” shrieked my front seat passenger. “Watch out for that woman!”

  What woman? Eek!

  I swerved ... and missed her ... just. I could have been playing football – tricky winger sends startled shopper the wrong way then swerves past her at the last second.

  Shelagh was beyond words at that point. Her mouth was open but nothing was coming out.

  Which, on the whole, I regarded as probably for the best.

  It’s not as though the pedestrian had been in any danger. I was only crawling along. But I suppose things always look more frightening from the front passenger’s seat. And visions of shoppers somersaulting over the car bonnet easier to envisage.

  I decided it was probably safer for everyone concerned if I parked around the back.

  However, it was a very bright day and I was momentarily blinded as I left the dazzling sunlight for the deep shadow. My eyes couldn’t adjust in time, I thought I saw something, braked, swerved and finally came to a halt amidst a minor sea of broken glass.

  Oh my God!

  Naturally, I did what any other driver would do when confronted with such a situation.

  I blamed the passenger.

  “Why didn’t you warn me about the glass?”

  “What glass?”

  “That glass.”

  I opened the door and looked out. Masses of it. Little fragments of green. Smashed beer bottles. Heineken, 25cl.

  Even in moments of stress, a Great Detective is still a Great Detective.

  Luckily, nothing was punctured. And a hands and knees search under the car cleared all remaining sizeable shards away from the tyres.