We look forward to continuing our relationship with you.
Yours sincerely,
FinanceDirector
“Does that mean what I think it means?” said Sue after she had read the letter a second time.
“In simple terms, love,” said Chris, “we can never hope to earn back our original investment of two hundred and fifty thousand, even if we go on working for the rest of our lives.”
“Then we’ll have to put the post office up for sale.”
“But who will want to buy it at that price,” asked Chris, “once they discover that the business no longer has category A status?”
“The man from Britannia assured us that once we’d paid off the debt it would be worth a million.”
“Only while the business has a turnover of five hundred thousand and generates a profit of around eighty thousand a year,” said Chris.
“We should take legal advice.”
Chris reluctantly agreed, although he wasn’t in much doubt what his solicitor’s opinion would be. The law, their advocate dutifully advised them, was not on their side, and therefore he wouldn’t recommend them to sue the Post Office, as he couldn’t guarantee the outcome. “You might well win a moral victory,” he said, “but that won’t assist your bank balance.”
The next decision Chris and Sue made was to put the post office on the market as they wanted to find out if anyone would show an interest. Once again Chris’s judgment turned out to be correct: only three couples even bothered to look over the property, and none of them returned for a second viewing once they discovered it was no longer category A status.
“My bet,” said Sue, “is that those officials back at headquarters knew only too well they were going to change our status long before they pocketed our money, but it suited them not to tell us.”
“You may well be right,” said Chris, “but you can be sure of one thing—they won’t have put anything in writing at the time, so we would never be able to prove it.”
“And neither did we.”
“What are you getting at, love?”
“How much have they stolen from us?” demanded Sue.
“Well, if by that you mean our original investment—”
“Our life savings, every penny we’ve earned over the past thirty years, not to mention our pension.”
Chris paused and raised his head, while he made some calculations. “Not including any profit we might have hoped for, once we’d seen our capital returned—”
“Yes, only what they’ve stolen from us,” Sue repeated.
“A little over two hundred and fifty thousand, if you don’t include interest,” said Chris.
“And we have no hope of seeing a penny of that original investment back, even if we were to work for the rest of our lives?”
“That’s about the sum of it, love.”
“Then it’s my intention to retire on January the first.”
“And what are you expecting to live off for the rest of your life?” asked Chris.
“Our original investment.”
“And how do you intend to go about that?”
“By taking advantage of our spotless reputation.”
The End
Chris and Sue rose early the following morning: after all, they had a lot of work to do during the next three months if they hoped to accumulate enough capital to retire by 1 January. Sue warned Chris that meticulous preparation would be needed if her plan was to succeed. He didn’t disagree. They both knew that they couldn’t risk pressing the button until the second Friday in November, when they would have a six-week window of opportunity—Chris’s expression—before “those people back in London” worked out what they were really up to. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of preliminary work to be done in the meantime. To start with, they needed to plan their getaway, even before they set about retrieving any stolen money. Neither considered what they were about to embark on as theft.
Sue unfolded a map of Europe and spread it across the post office counter. They discussed the different alternatives for several days and finally settled on Portugal, which they both considered would be ideal for early retirement. On their many visits to the Algarve they had always returned to Albufeira, the town where they had spent their shortened honeymoon, and revisited on their tenth, twentieth, and many more wedding anniversaries. They had even promised themselves that was where they would retire if they won the lottery.
The next day Sue purchased a tape of Portuguese for Beginners which they played before breakfast every morning, and then spent an hour in the evening, testing out their new skills. They were pleased to discover that over the years they had both picked up more of the language than they realized. Although not fluent, they were certainly not beginners. The two of them quickly moved on to the advanced tapes.
“We won’t be able to use our own passports,” Chris pointed out to his wife while shaving one morning. “We’ll have to consider a change of identity, otherwise the authorities would be on to us in no time.”
“I’ve already thought about that,” said Sue, “and we should take advantage of working in our own post office.”
Chris stopped shaving, and turned to listen to his wife.
“Don’t forget, we already supply all the necessary forms for customers who want to obtain passports.”
Chris didn’t interrupt as Sue went over how she planned to make sure that they could safely leave the country under assumed names.
Chris chuckled. “Perhaps I’ll grow a beard,” he said, putting his razor down.
Over the years, Chris and Sue had made friends with several customers who regularly shopped at the post office. The two of them wrote down on separate sheets of paper the names of all their customers who fulfilled the criteria Sue was looking for. They ended up with a list of two dozen candidates: thirteen women and eleven men. From that moment on, whenever one of the unsuspecting regulars entered the shop, Sue or Chris would strike up a conversation that had only one purpose.
“Going away for Christmas this year, are we, Mrs. Brewer?”
“No, Mrs. Haskins, my son and his wife will be joining us on Christmas Eve so that we can get to know our new granddaughter.”
“How nice for you, Mrs. Brewer,” replied Sue. “Chris and I are thinking of spending Christinas in the States.”
“How exciting,” said Mrs. Brewer. “I’ve never even been abroad,” she admitted, “let alone America.”
Mrs. Brewer had reached the second round, but would not be questioned again until her next visit.
By the end of September, seven other names had joined Mrs. Brewer on the shortlist—four women and three men, all between the ages of fifty-one and fifty-seven, who had only one thing in common: they had never traveled abroad.
The next problem the Haskins faced was filling in an application for a birth certificate. This required far more detailed questioning, and both Sue and Chris quickly backed off whenever one of the shortlisted candidates showed the slightest sign of suspicion. By the beginning of October they were down to the names of four customers who had unwittingly supplied their date of birth, place of birth, mother’s maiden name and father’s first name.
The Haskins’ next visit was to Boots the chemist in St. Peters Avenue, where they took turns to sit in a little cubicle and have several strips of photographs taken at £2.50 a time. Sue then set about completing the necessary application forms for a passport, on behalf of four of her unsuspecting customers. She filled in all the relevant details, while enclosing photographs of herself and Chris, along with a postal order for £42. As the postmaster, Chris was only too happy to pen his real signature on the bottom of each form Sue filled in.
The four application forms were posted to the passport office at Petty France in London on the Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday of the last week in October.
On Wednesday, 11 November the first passport arrived back at Victoria Crescent, addressed to Mr. Reg Appleyard. Two days later, a second appear
ed, for Mrs. Audrey Ramsbottom. The following day Mrs. Betty Brewer’s turned up, and finally, a week later, Mr. Stan Gerrard’s.
Sue had already pointed out to Chris that they would have to leave the country using one set of passports, which they would then need to discard, before they switched to the second pair, but not until they had found somewhere to live in Albufeira.
Chris and Sue continued to practice their Portuguese whenever they were alone in the shop, while informing any regulars that they would be away over the Christmas period as they were planning a trip to America. The inquisitive were rewarded with such details as a week in San Francisco, followed by a few days in Seattle.
By the second week in November, everything was in place to press the button for Operation Money Back Guaranteed.
At nine o’clock on Friday morning Sue made her weekly phone call to headquarters. She entered her personal code before being transferred to forward finance. The only difference this time was that she could hear her heart beating. Sue repeated her code before informing the credit officer how much cash she would require for the following week—an amount large enough to allow her to cover withdrawals for any post office savings accounts, pensions and cashed postal orders. Although an accountant from headquarters always checked the books at the end of every month, considerable leeway was allowed in the run-up to Christmas. A demanding audit was then carried out in January to make sure the books balanced, but neither Chris nor Sue had any intention of being around in January. For the past six years Sue’s books had always balanced, and she was considered by headquarters to be a model manager.
Sue had to check the records to remind herself of the amount she had requested in the same week of the previous year—£40,000, which had turned out to be £800 more than she needed. This year she asked for £60,000, and waited for some comment from the credit officer, but the voice from headquarters sounded neither surprised nor concerned. The full amount was delivered by a security van the following Monday.
During the week Chris and Sue fulfilled all their customers’ obligations; after all, it had never been their intention to shortchange any of their regulars, but they still found themselves with a surplus of £21,000 at the end of week one. They left the cash—used notes only—locked up in the safe, just in case some fastidious official from headquarters decided to carry out a spot-check.
Once Sue had closed the front door at six o’clock and pulled down the blinds, the two of them would only converse in Portuguese, while they spent the rest of the evening filling in postal orders, rubbing out scratch cards and entering lottery numbers, often falling asleep as they worked.
Every morning Chris would rise early and climb into his aging Rover, with Stamps as his only companion. He traveled north, east, south and west—Monday Lincoln, Tuesday Louth, Wednesday Skegness, Thursday Hull and Friday Immingham, where he would cash several postal orders, and also collect his winnings on the scratch cards and lottery tickets, enabling him to supplement their newly acquired savings with an extra few hundred pounds each day.
On the last Friday in November, week two, Sue applied for £70,000 from head office, so that by the following Saturday, they were able to add a further £32,000 to their invisible earnings.
On the first Friday in December, Sue raised the stakes to £80,000, and was surprised to discover that there were still no questions back at headquarters: after all, hadn’t Sue Haskins been manager of the year, with a special commendation from the board? A security van dutifully delivered the full amount in cash early on the Monday morning.
Another week of increased profits allowed Sue Haskins to add a further £39,000 to the pot without any of the other players round the table demanding to see her hand. They were now showing a surplus of well over £100,000, which was stacked up in neat little piles of used notes, resting on top of the four passports buried at the bottom of the safe.
Chris hardly slept at night as he continued to sign countless postal orders, rub out piles of scratch cards and, before going to bed, fill in numerous lottery tickets with endless combinations. By day he visited every post office within a fifty-mile radius, gathering his spoils, but, despite his dedication, by the second week in December Mr. and Mrs. Haskins had only collected just over half the amount required to retrieve the £250,000 they had originally invested.
Sue warned Chris that they would have to take an even bigger risk if they still hoped to acquire the full amount by Christmas Eve.
On the second Friday in December, week four, Sue called the issuing manager at headquarters, and made a request for £115,000.
“You’re having a busy Christmas,” suggested a voice on the other end of the line. First sign of any suspicion, thought Sue, but she had her script well prepared.
“Run off my feet,” Sue told him, “but don’t forget, more people retire to Cleethorpes than any other seaside town in Britain.”
“You learn something new every day,” came back the voice on the other end of the line, before adding, “Don’t worry, the cash will be with you on Monday. Keep up the good work.”
“I will,” promised Sue, and, emboldened by the exchange, requested £140,000 for the final week before Christmas, aware that any sum above £150,000 was always referred back to head office in London.
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 front-door 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 behavior.
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?
Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Page 3
