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

by Chris Dolley

We pushed theories back and forth. Nothing ever seemed straightforward in this case. Why not simply add Shelagh’s name to the account? Why complicate matters by drawing up a three-page power of attorney? It seemed so unnecessarily over the top. And it drew in another person – a notaire – someone else who, if they existed, would be a witness.

  Andy had some news as well. He’d heard from the Irish police. Neither David Jarvis nor Peter Kennedy were known to them – no criminal records or nefarious associations – and the same went for the UK police.

  I decided it was time to move down my checklist. What about those fax numbers? And more especially, what number did Mutual Friendly use to contact my alter ego?

  The number began, 62 04. Which meant it wasn’t Villeurbanne. Or the Castlenau Poste. I jotted it down to check out later.

  And the other fax numbers? The ones my impersonator used to send the faxes?

  Andy reeled off a list. The same four numbers repeating themselves - area codes 42 33, 72 34, 78 35 and 62 04. Quite a collection. What did they all say? How many different ways were there to say – I cancel my bond, give me the money?

  Apparently a lot. Andy read out one dated June 9th – the same day I received the request for the bond originals. It was from Shelagh, apologising for the delay in sending the originals but the solicitor had sent them to the old address by mistake. I was driving from Seville to collect them.

  I wondered what I’d done with the horse. And also wondered how my impersonator kept track of all these comings and goings. Did he have a storyboard? Chris is in Seville, buying horses. Shelagh is in Spain on holiday. The solicitor has the originals. The house is being renovated.

  I was almost impressed.

  I said goodbye to Andy and immediately dialled Simon. I might as well get his list of fax numbers while I remembered.

  He had a similar list. The same four numbers cropping up again and again: Villeurbanne and three others.

  Which is when I thought to ask if these other numbers came with header pages – like the Castlenau Poste fax.

  They did.

  Some of them.

  Gradually we constructed the list. 42 33 was the Paris Louvre CTT – a bureau like Villeurbanne used by the Mauvezan Poste for routing its international faxes.

  And the Mauvezan Poste?

  That was the owner of the fax number beginning 62 04, the fax number Mutual Friendly was told to reply to.

  Mauvezan. A town fifteen minutes from Castlenau. A town which just happened to be where David Jarvis banked.

  I remembered him telling me on the first day we met. We were talking about climate and altitude and I remember him saying how he could notice the difference some days when he drove to his bank, Mauvezan being a couple of hundred metres higher than Castlenau.

  I wondered where Peter Kennedy banked?

  Next, I asked Simon for a list of all the letters he’d sent me. I pulled out my own file and we went through them starting in February. There was one missing. Sent on the 29th March. It was a single page headed Mutual Friendly European Personal Bond Fund.

  Why did that name sound familiar?

  I rummaged through my growing list of notes. I’d covered pages of notebooks with numbered items of importance – things to find out, dates and times, fax numbers...

  And names ... there it was – Mutual Friendly European Personal Bond Fund. And underneath I’d written – where did he get this name from, it doesn’t appear anywhere else?

  He’d got the name from Simon’s letter of the 29th. A letter I’d never received.

  And a letter that had never been within a hundred miles of Mutual Friendly and their Dublin office.

  Did that rule out the need for an accomplice inside the insurers?

  Simon wasn’t convinced. It was too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it? If no one knew about the bond, why would anyone target our mail?

  And why hadn’t Elaine Varley questioned me when I rang her about a letter she’d never written? I’m sure I even quoted the date it had been sent.

  “And why did she keep asking for us to release the originals when she knew the case was going to arbitration?”

  “What?” I didn’t know that.

  “Yes, let me see ... there were faxes on the 24th of July, the 26th, the 8th of August ... a phone call on the 24th. And she didn’t ask for the documents to be sent by courier. Which is very strange.”

  Was it? I had no idea how these things were done.

  “It’s the usual procedure. And I know she went on holiday to Spain.”

  Spain? I wondered when? Was it possible she was the woman who was going to withdraw the money from the account? But couldn’t, as Eastleigh and Howard never released the originals?

  I decided to ring Andy again. Had he investigated Elaine Varley as thoroughly as he would have if she hadn’t been an employee?

  I told him about the phone call and the faxes to Eastleigh and Howard.

  He was surprised. He had nothing on file. According to his papers, Elaine Varley had not been in contact with Eastleigh and Howard during July or August.

  Women and Passports

  This was getting even more exciting – every phone call a new revelation, every day a new prime suspect. I wasn’t sure which lead to follow next.

  As I was by the phone I thought I might as well check out this Boulogne notaire, Christian Arnaud. I leafed through the directory, trying to remember if Boulogne sur Save was in the Gers or the Haute Garonne.

  It was in the Haute Garonne.

  And so was Christian Arnaud.

  Arnaud, Christian, notaire – the entry proclaimed.

  Should we go and see him?

  Shelagh didn’t think so. Not yet. First, we needed photographs of David Jarvis and Peter Kennedy. Then we’d have something to show him.

  But how could we obtain a photograph?

  It wasn’t going to be easy. You can’t ring round mutual acquaintances saying, “hello, I’m collecting pictures of David and Peter. Have you got any?” without exciting peoples’ interest. And the possibility of the information getting back to them.

  No, we had to obtain the pictures ourselves. We knew where David Jarvis worked. We knew what time he arrived at his office. We had a camera.

  We even had a telephoto lens.

  What were we waiting for? And if the bank manager identified David Jarvis the case was solved. We wouldn’t need to find anyone else.

  Conversely, if he didn’t identify David Jarvis, wouldn’t that be as good as pointing the finger at Peter Kennedy?

  It was decided. It was too late to do anything today but tomorrow we’d go to Castlenau. He’d told us he always opened his office at ten, we’d be waiting.

  oOo

  In the meantime, there were other leads to follow. The composite passport and the power of attorney – why go to all that trouble?

  We pushed ideas around our heads. Why change the account to allow withdrawal by a woman? Was it something to do with having to produce a valid passport? Was there something a woman could do that a man couldn’t? Something to do with passports?

  Marriage!

  A woman could change her name.

  “But not her first name,” Shelagh quickly pointed out. And what were the chances of having an accomplice called Shelagh?

  Unless there were Australians involved.

  I was told to shut up at that point. This was a serious matter and even if you had an accomplice called Shelagh, you’d still have to produce proof of marriage.

  “Like a marriage license?” I countered. Like the marriage license we’d given David Jarvis to copy? He’d needed it for the house purchase. And he’d taken copies of our birth certificates as well.

  And what would you need to change your name on a passport – a photocopy of a marriage license and a doctor’s signature? David Jarvis could produce both. All he’d have to do was change a few dates and the maiden name, photocopy the result and slap on a Pergonini signature.

  What other checks woul
d the Passport Office make?

  As many as Banca Zaragoza’s head office?

  The more I thought about it, the more ways I could see of validly obtaining a passport under a different name.

  Changing your name by deed poll. How would the Passport Agency handle that?

  Or getting hold of a certified copy of Shelagh’s birth certificate – we’d done it ourselves before coming to France; we’d been told it was necessary as the French insisted on all official documents being less than three months old.

  All we had to do was write to the registrar who issued the original certificate and enclose a cheque for £5.50. No one asked for identification. We could have been anyone.

  And if someone had a photocopy of our birth certificates they’d know the issuing registration districts. All they’d need was £11.00 and they’d have valid birth certificates in both our names.

  And how difficult would it be to alter a date of birth to throw off any Passport Agency duplication checks?

  When you’ve seen a bank account opened with a bad photocopy of your brother-in-law, you begin to take a less than rose-tinted view of the capabilities of eagle-eyed officialdom.

  Nothing would surprise me any more.

  oOo

  So, I phoned Ian Morris at the Embassy. I could tell he was pleased to hear from me by the sudden intake of breath as I mentioned my name.

  “I have some more questions about passports,” I began and told him what we’d found in Spain and roughed out our latest and most plausible theory about how someone called Shelagh – or someone who had changed her name by deed-poll to Shelagh – could obtain my birth certificate for £5.50 and marry someone pretending to be me and then have all the documentation required to obtain a valid passport in my wife’s name.

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  He was – just – but he had the air of a person who would not look unfavourably upon a fire drill within the next three minutes. If not a minor bomb alert. Preferably in the switchboard.

  In the meantime, he reiterated the party line, the passport system was foolproof – even against Pergoninis. I countered with “What about Spain then?” and he informed me that the Passport Office was not Spain.

  So, I switched tack onto the British Visitor’s Passport – could he trace the number for us.

  “It won’t be easy,” he said and went on to explain how the Visitor’s Passports were issued by individual post offices, how there was no central registry and how it would mean writing to Putney and asking them to look through their records.

  I agreed with him that that sounded very onerous indeed – especially the bit about having to write a letter – couldn’t he get someone to help him with the spelling?

  The phone call ended soon after that – I think robots seized control of the switchboard. But it didn’t make much difference; by then I’d realised that any progress we were going to make was not going to come via third parties.

  oOo

  “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Pardon.” I hadn’t noticed Nan coming into the room. I’d been too immersed in detection. Was the missing letter from Eastleigh and Howard significant?

  “A cup of tea,” she repeated.

  “We haven’t got any tea, mum,” answered Shelagh from the other settee. I looked up. I hadn’t noticed her arrival either. I thought I’d been alone. I scanned the lounge for further life forms. A dog and two cats stared back. Where had they all come from? And was this a good sign – the Great Detective being caught unawares by a mass invasion of his consulting rooms?

  “Would you like a coffee?” Shelagh asked her mother.

  “I’d prefer tea.”

  “But we don’t have any.”

  “Ooh, Shelagh, I saw it there the other day!”

  “Where?”

  “In the cupboard.”

  “You can’t have. We haven’t got any.”

  I could tell Nan didn’t believe one word of Shelagh’s denial. And knew from experience exactly what would happen next – all the kitchen cupboards would have to be emptied, their contents checked, suspicious tins opened and traces sent away to Tetley’s for analysis.

  Shelagh would get annoyed, Nan defensive, coffee would be refused and someone would have to climb into the car and drive to the supermarket.

  That someone being me.

  By my reckoning I had about five minutes to solve the riddle of the missing letter before the car keys were thrown in my direction.

  I moved quickly into the study.

  Was the missing letter significant?

  I’d have to wait four or five days to read the contents but was its date important? If the letter was sent on the 29th March it would have arrived about the 5th.

  I checked through our diaries, calendars and note-pads by the phone – what were we doing the week of the 5th? Were we out, did anything strange happen? I checked our bank statements to see if we had made any cashpoint withdrawals and if so from where?

  Then I remembered.

  The Bank Statement!

  The one that went missing!

  Wasn’t that sometime in April?

  I shouted to Shelagh, “you remember that bank statement that went missing?”

  Shelagh couldn’t remember. Or was too immersed in kitchen cabinets to reply.

  “You know! The one that came out of sequence. I was about to write to the bank when it arrived.”

  It had been a month late. Exactly a month late. I remembered now. It had to have been April because I’d been waiting for the statement to check some large withdrawals we’d made in March – I wasn’t sure if I’d written them down correctly.

  I pulled out the statement. It was dated April 5th and it should have arrived a few days later. But it had arrived in May. I hadn’t thought that much about it, I’d assumed the bank had mis-filed it and suddenly noticed it when the next statement was due.

  But if it hadn’t been mislaid?

  Two letters due around the 6th; one never arrives, one turns up a month late.

  Could the Cancellation Form have been a third letter?

  It was pushing the time frame. The Cancellation Form was supposed to have been sent on the 22nd of March. Could it have taken two weeks to arrive? It was possible.

  Which could mean that everything was taken on one day. Probably the 7th as that would tie in with the sentence – Thank you for your letter, received here on 7th April.

  But it was still one hell of a coincidence. One fortuitous trip to our letter box, one haul of letters – which just happened to contain a cancellation form and a valuation.

  Unless they knew it was coming. Which brought Elaine Varley back into the frame.

  Perhaps it was worth another phone call to Andy? Question him again, perhaps push him a bit harder as to why he was so certain that Elaine Varley was guiltless?

  And I could tell him about the missing letter from Eastleigh and Howard.

  So I punched in the now familiar numbers and waited for the explanation. Why couldn’t it have been an inside job masterminded by Elaine Varley?

  “Because it couldn’t,” came the reply, “she’s the one who tipped us off.”

  The Screaming Detective of Castlenau

  “What do you mean, tipped you off?”

  There was a long silence. I could tell he wasn’t entirely happy with the conversation or where it was heading.

  “She alerted us to a ... to a possible situation.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “She was suspicious about your wife’s signature.”

  What? But that must have been back in April? I ... I was lost for words. Why hadn’t anyone contacted us if they thought there was a fraud underway?

  There was a further embarrassed silence.

  “Er ... we thought we were dealing with a ... a different crime.”

  What kind of a different crime?

  And then it hit me. They were only suspicious of Shelagh’s signature.
>
  They thought it was me!

  Husband forges wife’s signature and tries to move all their money from a joint account into his own bank account. Is that why they didn’t try to contact us at our original address – because they thought I’d intercept any letter to Shelagh?

  I dragged a few more facts out of the conversation. They were suspicious but lacking proof. They wanted to wait and see how the situation developed. Ensure the money was destined for a joint account with Shelagh’s name on it. They delayed the process as much as they could but couldn’t act without firm evidence. And were afraid of breaching new financial legislation concerning our right to cancel and receive payment within designated timescales.

  I couldn’t help thinking – if that account in Spain had been in joint names or if I’d had the originals of the bond – the money would have been paid over in June.

  And they would have had three months to make good their escape before we found out.

  Amidst all our bad luck we’d had one huge slice of good.

  But what about the time I phoned Elaine Varley? Why hadn’t she questioned me about the letter I’d said she’d sent?

  “I have the notes here, taken after your call. Talked to Chris Dolley today. Not the same one as before.”

  Which explained why she hadn’t said anything about not sending the letter I’d quoted – she’d been playing me along.

  But why hadn’t anyone reacted to the fact that there were now apparently two of me?

  “We didn’t know what it meant.”

  oOo

  I left the phone, re-entering the now familiar state of mild shock. I’d been a suspect ... the suspect ... in a budding international financial scandal. There was probably a file on me. If not two – one for each Chris Dolley.

  I conveyed my amazing news from the lounge doorway.

  Silence.

  I fell back onto the lounge sofa, still waiting for the chorus of support and general incredulity.

  Silence.

  “Imagine anyone thinking it was me!”

  More silence, a sideways glance from Nan and the hum of five brains recalling past incidents in which I’d featured.

  At least you can always count on the unconditional devotion of your puppy in times of stress. Gypsy stretched her giant legs into a standing position and walked towards me. I reached out to stroke her ... and she ducked down, picked up the dog chew lying by my foot and carried it carefully back to the safety of her bean bag. Life savings were one thing but a chew was personal.