Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  SCAMMED

  Ron Chudley

  For my sons, Hugh and Ben.

  PROLOGUE

  The phone rang at 9:30 AM, half an hour after the man had gone to work. That was a good thing, since his wife discovered that the call involved financial matters, and her husband hated to waste time and creative energy on such dull stuff: what he called business gobbledygook. The cultured phone voice greeted her politely, checked her identity carefully, then gravely stated his business.

  “This is William Fitzherbert. I am Inspector of Accounts for Inter Island Trust, where you are a valued customer. I’m phoning to give you a very serious warning.”

  “Goodness, Mr. Fitzherbert. What have I done?”

  “No, no, I’m sorry,” Fitzherbert said hastily. “You’ve done nothing wrong. This is a warning about a serious danger to your account.”

  But he would not tell her the problem immediately. As a protection for herself, and proof of his authenticity, he gave her a phone number, urging her to call back immediately. When she dialed, a businesslike woman’s voice said, “Inter Island Trust Crisis Centre.” Mentioning her call from Mr. Fitzherbert, she was put through immediately. “Thank you, Mrs. Lothian,” Fitzherbert said. “Now you have proof of who I am and we can proceed. If all of our customers are as prompt as you, we’ll foil these criminals.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said breathlessly. “What criminals? What’s going on?”

  Frankly and concisely, he told her. Hackers had broken into the bank’s main computer during the night, stealing a vast amount of customer information: account numbers, passwords and security codes. To prevent the thieves from plundering these accounts, it was vital that they be frozen immediately. To expedite matters, the crisis centre needed details of customers’ codes and passwords so that their accounts could be protected. She was told not to worry: as soon as the necessary information was provided, her account would be secured. But, since the crisis centre had a huge job on their hands, working to protect all their customers, she was urged to be quick.

  Flustered, feeling shocked, excited and not a little self-important, the woman did as she was bid. It was lucky, she thought. Had it been her husband who’d taken the call, he’d have fumed and argued, as he always did, wasting valuable time. Neither of them was any great shakes with finances, but at least she didn’t feel that these things were beneath her. If it hadn’t been for her, after all, they probably wouldn’t even have the savings she was now helping to protect. So, when she’d provided the requested information, she felt not only relieved but quite proud.

  The last thing that the thoughtful Mr. Fitzherbert did was make a polite request. Luckily, she was one of the first to be protected, but since it was going to take a considerable effort to contact everyone, she’d be doing her fellow customers a service if she didn’t take up any more of the bank’s time till the task was done. Also, so as not to start a panic, she was asked to keep this matter to herself. Could she hold out for a few days without accessing her account? Good. Next week she should visit her branch, set up a new password, and everything would be as before: crisis averted and no damage done. With a quiet sincerity that made the woman feel relieved and safe, Mr. Fitzherbert thanked her and wished her a good day.

  After some thought, she concluded it was best not to bother her husband with the tale of their narrow escape. No matter that the crisis had been dealt with, just hearing about it would make him furious; when confronted by things he considered trivial—meaning just about everything outside his own interests—her husband could make life very difficult.

  Her children were grown and important and a long way away. They were not easy to talk to, and the family dynamics were difficult enough as it was. So she decided to say nothing to anyone. She’d done her duty and that was enough.

  In the following days, even with the bother of having to do without her bank card—she had to put some things, including food, on VISA, which she loathed—she continued to feel relieved and fortunate. If it hadn’t been for the prompt action of Mr. Fitzherbert, where on Earth would they have ended up? This feeling lasted right up to the morning when, finally, she visited her branch of Inter Island Trust.

  “You must have been terribly busy,” she said to the nice girl at the wicket. “Is the trouble over? I hope I’m not bothering you too soon.”

  It was only when the puzzled cashier took her card and checked her account that the bleak truth emerged: the cupboard was bare. Upward of twenty thousand dollars had vanished into thin air.

  ONE

  In the accountancy business, April is a month of mayhem. As the income tax deadline approaches, life rises to a pitch of barely concealed hysteria. Even the advent of electronic filing seems to have made little difference. People simply wait that much longer to deliver their bundles of receipts, expecting harried accountants to decipher, calculate and wrestle them into acceptable scenarios and deliver them miraculously into the ether on time.

  Greg Lothian was long past surprise at this state of affairs. After fifteen years as an accountant, a person would have to be brain-damaged to expect otherwise. Of course, his orderly mind still marvelled at the messiness of his clients’ lives, but the end-of-year workload didn’t bother him. He liked nothing better than to be alone with his calculator and computer, turning chaos into safe and sensible order. Since wrangling numbers gave him the kind of satisfaction that others derived from playing sports or watching TV, the occupation—and the overtime hours he accumulated—suited him very well. For Greg, April was usually a pleasant time, so it was with annoyance as well as dismay that he watched this one turn into disaster.

  Right at the start he did something unbelievably foolish: stopping for gas on a weekend trip from his home in Victoria up-island to Nanaimo, he somehow left his wallet behind. Minutes later he realized the blunder and hurried back, but the precious article had vanished. The counter clerk didn’t have it. No one had seen it, which meant it must have become the reward for some low-life. The Nanaimo trip had to be nixed. Greg drove straight home—minus his driver’s licence, which made him queasy—and got on the phone immediately, cancelling his credit cards. It was Monday morning before he could warn his bank. Then he lost another valuable hour replacing his licence.

  Arriving home that evening, he met with yet another vexation: a notice reminding him that the lease on his apartment was due for renewal and announcing a substantial rent increase. No matter that the old charge had been very reasonable and that the new one wouldn’t exactly break him; Greg was annoyed. All the more so because, other than going through the bother of finding new accommodation, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Then, on April 28, just as activity at the office was nearing a climax, came the news about his father. The tyrannical old man, whom Greg had not seen since a blow-up at Christmas, had somehow managed to break his hip. But what was truly embarrassing was the way Greg found out: his mother phoned his sister in Vancouver, but didn’t call him, telling Jill that she didn’t want to bother her son at his busy time of the year. Needless to say, Jill had called immediately, tearing a strip off him, as if being kept in the dark had been his idea. In fact, neither of them found their parents easy to understand, let alone cope with, so pretending that he had received special favour in not being told about his dad was ludicrous. Naturally he’d do everything he could to help, Greg told his sister. What did she think?

  As soon as he’d dealt with Jill, he called his mother, trying not to show his frustration. She hadn’t meant to set his sibling on him, he knew. She was just always trying to placate everyone, which was why she’d never been able to stand up to the old man. “Hi, Mum, I just heard from Jill what happened. I’m sorry. How is Dad?”

  “Oh, as well as can be expected. Thank you for calling, dear.”


  “Well, of course I’m calling! Mum, just because I’m busy doesn’t mean . . . Never mind. About Dad—did he fall?”

  “Yes, but it was something that should never . . .” his mother began, then broke off.

  Greg realized she was crying. “Come on, Mum, don’t worry. It’s just his hip, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “They fix stuff like that all the time. It’s routine. Dad’ll be hopping about again in no time.”

  “I know, dear. That’s not really why I’m upset.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “It’s about what caused it to happen. You see, he got in this awful rage, because of something stupid I did.”

  “Mum, Dad’s been blowing his top ever since I can remember. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  She sighed bitterly. “This time it truly was my fault.”

  How often had he heard that tune? Whatever displeased Walter Lothian was always held to be someone else’s fault, and his wife had bought into that fiction from the beginning. What she was, Greg had belatedly come to understand, was an ego enabler, not only worshipping her husband and his paintings, but taking personal responsibility for anything that might intrude upon his precious creative process. “Okay, Mum, if you say so,” he said. Then, changing the subject, “So—where is he, Cowichan District Hospital?”

  “No, dear. Victoria General.”

  “Really? Why did they bring him all the way down here?”

  “I don’t know. Something about waiting times, I think. They’re going to operate in the morning.”

  Greg was in his apartment. At this time in the evening, it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to reach the local hospital. “Well, since he’s down here, it’s not too late for me to go and see him.”

  “That’s sweet of you, dear,” his mother replied, “but I don’t think there’d be much point tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s quite heavily sedated. That’s why I left him and came back home. Tomorrow I’m going in first thing. The doctor said they’ll need to put in pins when they set the hip, but it’s supposed to be all over by noon. Why don’t you come in the afternoon? He’ll be awake then, and I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

  Greg felt frustrated all over again. Had she already forgotten why she hadn’t called him in the first place? From now till midnight the day after tomorrow, he would barely have time to go to the bathroom. His parents had little respect for Greg’s mundane occupation. His mother never admitted it, but his dad had always made his feelings abundantly clear: Greg’s lack of artistic talent was a family embarrassment. Though that had never prevented them from using him as a tame tax accountant. “I’m afraid I’m badly tied up tomorrow,” he said patiently. “Tax time—remember?”

  “Oh, yes—you’re a busy man, I know.”

  That reminded him of something he’d been intending to call her about; the packet of receipts and T4 forms she usually mailed him hadn’t arrived, meaning he was going to be late filing their taxes. Since they usually got a rebate these days, it hardly mattered. The carelessness bothered him, but now didn’t seem the time to bring it up.

  “Daddy will be probably home in a couple of days,” his mother was saying. “So don’t you worry. When you have time, perhaps you can come up and visit him here.”

  She didn’t say “finally,” but then she wouldn’t. She was so used to heavy scenes with Walter, she’d probably forgotten the one at Christmas that had made him so angry. He’d been putting off seeing his father ever since, and now, with the old man in hospital, he was irritated to find himself feeling guilty. “All right, Mum,” he said abruptly. “I’m on my way.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Tonight! I’ll go see Dad tonight.”

  “But I told you—he’s . . .”

  “Mum, we both know it takes a lot more than sedation to shut him up for long. If he’s awake, I can—I don’t know—wish him luck or something. If not, at least you’ll know I tried.”

  • • •

  Ten minutes later he was in his Prius, driving north out of town. At 7:30 PM, the sky was clear, with a hint of afterglow over the Sooke Hills. An earlier shower had left the Island Highway damp, but the traffic was light and he quickly reached the Helmcken Road turnoff, which led to the Victoria General Hospital.

  Directed to a nurses’ station on the second floor of the plain, modern building, Greg identified himself and asked to see his dad. The desk nurse, an attractive but harried-looking young woman, eyed his solemn business suit, then reiterated his mother’s warning. “He’s probably asleep, Mr. Lothian.” Was he mistaken, or was there a hint of relief in her voice? “But I guess you could look in for just a minute.”

  She pointed to a room at the end of the corridor. Walking as quietly as his stiff shoes would allow, Greg went down the hall and stopped in the doorway. The solitary bed in the room contained an old man, gaunt and pale, with a high forehead and a cascade of gray hair, lying very still. An IV line snaked down to one sinewy arm. The other lay across his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically.

  A moment later, Walter Lothian’s eyes snapped open. Evidently he recognized his son right away; the particular nuance of impatience in those dark, angry eyes was all too familiar. “Greg.” The thin lips mouthed, though making no sound.

  Greg edged into the room, eyes fixed upon his father. Up close, he could see that pain and irritation were muscling their way through a considerable degree of sedation. Anyone else would probably have been unconscious, but not this old warrior. “Hello, Dad,” Greg said. “Sorry about what happened. How are you feeling?”

  Walter Lothian’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, eloquently expressing his opinion of that banality. His free arm indicated a water glass on the bedside table, a gesture both feeble and commanding. Greg lifted the container and held it out. For all his care, a few drops spilled on the white stubble of his father’s jaw, causing the reaching lips to take time out for a muttered imprecation. For the millionth time, Greg wondered how someone whose life’s work involved the creation of beauty could be such a full-time curmudgeon. But he apologized as usual, better positioning the glass, and Walter drank. That done, he beckoned his son nearer. Hesitantly, Greg leaned in. “What is it, Dad?”

  Walter took a slow, noisy breath. When words arrived, they were like a whisper from another room, but icily clear. “Your mother . . .”

  “Mum? Yes, Dad, she’s very worried about you.”

  “Shut up! Listen!”

  “What . . . ?”

  “It’s not me she’s worried about. The stupid idiot is scared for herself—about what I’ll have to say—when I get out of here.”

  Greg could only stare. Despite the sedation, his father’s pallid complexion was growing flushed. A heart monitor, unnoticed till now, began a strident bleat. “Dad!” Greg said in consternation, reaching out a hand and not knowing where to put it. “What are you talking about?”

  “Foolish woman!” the old man spat, his voice growing in volume and intensity. “Senile, crazy old bitch! She’s just lucky I did break my hip. Otherwise I might have wrung her neck.”

  Greg stepped back in dismay. There was a flurry at the door and a nurse appeared. She took in the yipping monitor and the patient’s wrathful expression, then swung on Greg. “What’s going on?” she snapped. “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing at all!” Greg stammered.

  The nurse bustled across to the old man’s bed. “I told you to look in on your father, Mr. Lothian,” she said over her shoulder, “not get him all riled up. Don’t you know he’s got an operation in the morning?”

  Speechless with fury, Greg said nothing. Having dismissed him, the nurse was fussing around the patient, muttering a small litany of soothing admonitions.

  At this point, all Greg wanted was to be gone. He retreated to the door, but paused and looked back. His father seemed to have calmed somewhat, but his furious gaze was still fixed upo
n Greg, making him feel confused, irrationally ashamed and about nine years old.

  “Damn you, old man,” he muttered, and stalked out of the hospital.

  TWO

  Greg’s first client arrived at ten the next morning, though he had been in the office since eight, working on what seemed liked a never-diminishing pile of returns. The routine of interspersing interviews with preparatory work was a distracting nuisance this late in the month, since 90 per cent of the discussions were unnecessary. It was almost a rule of thumb that the later clients left their meetings, the more they wanted to chat, a fact of life that Greg normally took in stride. But by the afternoon of this particular April 29, when he eventually forced himself to take a break, he was feeling more than ordinarily frazzled.

  The underlying reason wasn’t hard to understand. Last night’s hospital visit had left a sour taste, filling his sleep with a jumble of unsettling dreams. He’d woken feeling irritable and depressed, a state which, despite the hectic nature of his day, remained in the background like a dull toothache. Since there was no question of taking time out for lunch, he’d picked up a sandwich on his way in to work. The phone rang, but he ignored it. There was no room for more appointments, which the girl at the front desk knew perfectly well. Any other business could just go into his voice mail. The ringing stopped, but almost immediately resumed. He began to get annoyed; reception must understand he was too busy for calls. He lifted the phone to tell them so, but got a surprise: there was the sound of sobbing on the line and then his mother’s voice said, “Is that you, Greg?”

  Guiltily, he realized that despite being angered by the visit to his father, he’d given little thought to what the old man was going through today. His mother’s crying might have alerted him that something was amiss, but last night she’d also wept, about something quite silly, so his first reaction was impatience. “Yes, Mum, it’s me. Calm down. Are you at the hospital?”