by Annabel Port
The email goes on to reveal that it was abandoned by a diplomat from the United Kingdom who hadn’t wanted to pay the non-inspection fees. Those inspection fees must be astronomical to justify abandoning $4 million or more.
Weirder still, it emerges that my name and email address were on the documents. If I can reconfirm my details and then either pick up the abandoned shipment or arrange for its delivery, I can have it.
There is a catch though. I am ready to assist you in any way I can for you to get back this packages provided you will also give me something out of it (financial gratification).
I’m glad of the information in the brackets. I hadn’t been quite sure what he meant.
I set about writing a reply. First I set up an email account under the name Millicent Frender and with the address of [email protected]. Nobody actually clever would have that as their email address. And [email protected] was already taken.
Then I get ready to write something that is going to lure him into my web. While his name is David Ellis, it appears he shortens it to Dellis.
Dear Dellis,
I need that thing you emailed about. I’m very keen to pick it up. Or arrange for someone to carry it to me.
I’ve moved into a house with no built-in cupboards, so the two metal trunk boxes would be perfect for extra storage space.
Please could you send me a picture (photo or drawing) so that I can see if they’ll look nice stacked up in my living room. The alternative is to put them under my bed.
As I’ll be putting things like a spare duvet, winter jumpers, a badminton racquet, some old vinyl, an unwanted gift and the guest Teasmade in it, could you please ensure they come to me empty, i.e., take the money out.
Hope to hear from you today. As otherwise I’ll see what Argos have.
Lots of love,
Millicent Frender (Mrs)
I hear back in two hours. His response makes me wonder if he’d actually read my email. He writes:
Dear –
And then nothing. Not my name. Followed by,
I got your email and Noted concerning the shipment of your consignment of Trunk Boxes which will take effect within the next 72 hours once the confirmation of relevant documents and clearance of the trunk boxes.
He goes on more about the money, about the denominations and how it’s stacked up. I think Dellis is getting a bit carried away with himself. Then he says other stuff that doesn’t make much sense before asking for $570. But this is the delivery costs, not the financial gratification. I do find myself worrying about his gratification.
I reply with this:
Hi Dellis,
Thank you for your email. But can you confirm that the two metal trunks will be delivered EMPTY? Without the money. I need them to be empty so I can put all my things in. I’m hoping one will be long enough for my ironing board as this is currently just leaning against the wall in the kitchen and looks untidy.
Please let me know.
Many thanks,
Millicent Frender (Mrs)
There’s no reply. I’m worried he’s become suspicious. I really want to confront him, Roger Cook-style, so I do some heavy-duty detective work.
All I’ve got is an email address. A Yahoo one that ends in “.ph”, which indicates it’s from the Philippines. Even though he’d said he was in Atlanta, Georgia. But maybe he’s on holiday and isn’t very good at switching off from work.
There’s more I can discover though, by tracking his IP address. This isn’t easy for me, but eventually I have the exact location where the email was sent from.
It’s not Atlanta. It’s not the Philippines. It’s Lagos in Nigeria: 51% of scam emails come from Nigeria and this one is no exception.
The net is closing in on David Ellis. I know where he is; I just need to confront him. For this, I really need a telephone number. But because I think he’s now suspicious about Millicent Frender, I decide to set up another email address.
My new one is [email protected] and her name is Frail Weakminded. I put in the profile a picture of a frail old lady. As I’m setting up the account I get so into character that I struggle a bit with the verification code. Once it’s ready, I send David Ellis an email.
Dear Dellis,
I cannot thank your kindness enough. That shipment of money will be life-changing. I live in terrible poverty with no friends or family.
I worry a bit now that if I’m in terrible poverty, I wouldn’t have a computer or the Internet, so I add:
I’m at the local library using the Internet.
Please send me your telephone number to discuss shipment.
God bless you.
Frail
While I’m waiting for reply, so that I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket, I decide to try and investigate another email in my spam folder. I see one from a Gareth and Catherine Bull. Their names ring a bell so I read on.
My wife and I won the Euro Millions Lottery of 41 Million British Pounds and we have decided to donate 1.5 million British Pounds to 6 individuals worldwide as our own charity project.
That’s who they are! The EuroMillions winners. The email helpfully gives a link to an interview with Gareth and Catherine Bull that was in the Daily Mail after they won the jackpot. I’m sure that is exactly what the Bulls would do if it was really them writing this email. It goes on,
Your email address was among the emails which were submitted to us by the Google, Inc as a web user, which was used for the draw with an electronic balloting system your email address came out as the 4th lucky beneficiary world wide.
Who knew that Google have this email address randomiser machine? They then ask me to send my full name, mobile number, age and country. Not my bank details yet though.
First of all, I trace the email to New Delhi, India. Then I decide to write a reply that cleverly draws them out and exposes them. That is the plan. What actually happens is I get really carried away.
Gaz and Cathy – I cannot believe how weird this coincidence is. It’s Annabel from the Costa Brava, 1991! We met on holiday and had the best time together.
And now by some random twist of fate my name gets pulled out of the Google randomiser to get some of your money.
What a thrill. Do you remember my husband Shane? What a night we had on the last night. Wink wink!! Unfortunately it seems that one of you gave Shane herpes, but don’t worry, we had a good laugh about it.
What was slightly less funny is I that contracted a baby that night. Yes! Who knows if it’s Shane’s or yours, Gaz?!? We could do a DNA test if you want. I’ve been meaning to get in touch and let you know but life gets in the way, doesn’t it?
Anyway, I most certainly wouldn’t dream of taking any of your money. Keep it to yourself – have fun. Just let me know about the DNA test thing. And if you want any photos of the child (now aged 22).
Well, can’t wait to hear back – can you believe this has happened?!!!
Annabel xxxx
I’m sitting wondering if this was the kind of thing that Roger Cook did in his hard-hitting investigations when I notice that Frail Weakminded has a new email. It’s a reply from David Ellis. With his telephone number.
I dial it straight away but it’s not working. It seems to be missing an international dialling code. I google the first three digits and it does appear to be an Atlanta number. I try it with a USA code and it works. I respect Dellis for this. This is clever, he’s somehow redirected it.
The bad news, though, is it goes to answerphone. I leave a message. I put on an elderly, quavery voice and say, “Hello? David? It’s Frail. I just wanted to speak about the payment. Maybe you could call me.”
I give my work phone number and wait. Nothing. Frail sends him another email saying the number goes to answerphone and leaving the number again for him to call.
Forty-five minutes later he replies. He says he needs the $570 for the “delivery of my consignment to commence”.
I need to speak to him for the confron
tation though. I email back:
I can call you now? Or you call me? Then I make payment.
I wait. Nothing. No response. I write again:
How do I make payment? I’m scared of losing the money.
Nothing. I’m starting to feel like I’m the spammer and he’s the victim.
I don’t hear from him again for another hour. It’s after five o’clock when I do.
He says:
Dear Frail, Thanks for your email, i try call but not going through, this is my direct cell : +404 826 0722 dial the number in this way and call me immediately.
Then he gives me the details of where to wire the $570.
I can’t call him at this time as we’re doing the radio show. I can probably try when the news is on. I write:
I’m just stirring gruel so will call in 15 minutes.
He replies, being quite insistent on the whole wiring thing. It’s like he’s not that fussed about the phone call.
He’s using the expressions, “Guarantee you that you will not loose your fund,” and, “This is real and legit.”
I still can’t call back yet, so I stall him with:
Okay I’m just getting my life savings out from under the mattress.
He replies with:
I assured you that once you send the clearance and delivery fee your consignment will deliver to your doorstep without any problem or more cost okay, I promised you with name of God.
A weird thing is happening now. I’m sort of starting to believe him. He is very convincing. Then I remember the UN Inspection agency and the diplomat who didn’t want to pay the non-inspection fee and how two metal trunks with “$4million or more” inside have been abandoned with only my name and email address on the paperwork. I’m ready to call him.
I dial the number. He answers!
“Hello, David? It’s Frail,” I say in my quavery voice.
“Hello Frail.”
We spend a lot of time now saying, “How are you?” He really does seem to care how I am.
Then he starts going on about the consignment again. I deal the first killer blow.
“I’m a bit confused, my grandson said your IP address means you are in Nigeria.”
“Okay, Madame Frail,” he replies. “So you need to wire the $570.”
“Is this a trick?” I say. My voice is gradually going from little old lady to interrogatory and Roger Cook-like.
“No, no,” he assures me. “Your name was on the consignment paperwork.”
“But you sent the email to lots of people.”
“No, no. You have my office email address, the AOL one.”
I’m no expert but I suspect the United Nations doesn’t use AOL.
I get ready to deal the final killer blow. It’s the moment I’ve been building up to. I need to be fearless here. I completely break cover and confront Dellis. I say, “I think you should stop doing this and do something else.”
Then I hang up.
I think that at this moment, investigative journalism just hit rock bottom.
But maybe Dellis heard those words and thought, Perhaps I should stop doing this and do something else. Maybe he did. And there’s no denying that I exposed an Internet fraudster. Or at the very least, just wasted a little bit of his time.
24
The Challenge:
To bring the spirit of Brazil to the UK
Brazilians seem to be relaxed, happy people who love others and love life. They are spontaneous, free, liberated and unrepressed. They are the exact opposite of me. It’s going to be a big challenge for me to bring the Brazilian spirit to the UK.
I’m struggling to even check if I’m right, as when I google “Brazilian spirit” it just returns endless pages about cachaça, the spirit that’s in caipirinhas, their national cocktail.
I do learn about how chilled out the Brazilians are, though. For one, they have a national cocktail. I also discover online that when they’re waiting for a bus, they’re thinking, The bus might come, the bus might not come.
If I’m waiting for a Tube and it’s more than five minutes away, I’m filled with rage. I don’t think I’m alone.
But I get the opportunity to try out this new mindset very soon. I’m walking to my train station and I’m pretty much there when I see my train coming. I’d normally run to make it. Today, I just keep strolling. Even when I see there’s not another train for six minutes. I’m going through the barriers when it’s leaving. There’s a man behind me. A good few metres behind me so I slow down a bit, then say, “Who cares that we missed that train?”
He makes a “mmm” noise with a smile.
“It’s only six minutes to the next one. If it comes,” I say.
He makes the same noise. It’s like he fears that actual words would encourage me.
“Que sera sera,” I say.
He doesn’t even do the “mmm” this time. He just gives me a weak smile.
There’s no denying though that on a very small scale, I’ve brought the spirit of Brazil to my train station.
Once I’m in town, I decide to continue with this new chilled-out me and start spreading my vibe. I’m so chilled out I’m using the words “chilled out” and “vibe”, when normally if these kinds of words entered my mind I’d bristle with irritation. I can definitely help others and I know where. A traffic jam. People get really angry in those. I’ve seen the film Falling Down so I know this.
I go to Regent Street and immediately see a line of cars. Admittedly it’s more of a stopping at a red-light situation than an actual traffic jam, but people get road rage in all sorts of different situations these days. I can help. I can bring the vibe of Copacabana beach to a congested road in central London.
I’m briefly concerned that nobody has their windows wound down, but it doesn’t stop me.
I knock on a window of a car with an attractive woman in it. She turns to look but makes no moves to wind down the window. That’s okay. As I can shout.
“BE CHILLED, YEAH. NO RUSH!”
I feel bad about two things. Firstly, saying “no rush” when maybe there is a rush. Maybe she’s rushing to an ailing relative’s hospital bedside. Or to give birth. Secondly, I feel bad about saying, “be chilled, yeah”, as I sound like an idiot. Perhaps wisely, she ignores me. There a black cab behind her.
“QUE SERA SERA!” I shout at that driver. He gives me a thumbs up, which is nice. I imagine there’s lots of thumbs up in Brazil. I’m beginning to wonder why anyone would go to Brazil when you can completely recreate the spirit here.
Unfortunately, the traffic jam is easing off now as the light has turned green. But it’s probably not enough for everyone to just be chilled out. There’s probably a bit more to Brazil than that. I need to learn more about their spirit.
I investigate these Brazilians further and I learn a lot. I learn they brush their teeth not just morning and night but after lunch. Maybe their lack of inhibition is down to their fresh breath.
I learn they’ve got a word, “saudade”, that has no English equivalent. It means a strong desire for something that does not exist or is unattainable. How can there not be an English word for this? I live in constant state of saudade. Saudade for happiness and untold wealth and less-bandy legs.
I discover that on escalators in Brazil there are no rules, they don’t wear black to funerals and they eat an avocado like a fruit.
I also learn that when a Brazilian meets someone for the first time, they will always invite them to their home for drinks or dinner. But as it’s common understanding that this never actually happens, the invite is never taken up. This is amazing. All the politeness but none of the suffering of having to cook for someone and clean your toilet before they arrive.
I can definitely try out some of these things. The escalator one will be easy. Yet when it comes to it, on the Tube escalators, I can’t do it. I can walk up the standing side but I can’t stand on the walking side. It’s impossible for me. I can’t be that despised person. In all the thi
ngs I’ve done, I’ve found my limit. I can’t be chaotically Brazilian on an escalator.
It’s okay, I console myself, there are lots of other things on the list. I love the inviting strangers you’ve just met to your home but knowing they’ll never come. The only problem is I don’t tend to meet new people in my everyday life. Then I remember somewhere where everyone is really overfriendly. The clothes shop French Connection. They seem to have a policy that every single member of staff has to greet you and ask if they can help you. If you’re ever lonely, go there.
Today is no different at French Connection. Straight away a lady says hello and asks if I want any help. And because I’m in the Brazilian state of mind, even though I really don’t want any help, I have to say yes. These free-spirited Brazilians say yes to everything.
There’s a pause where she waits for me to say what I want help with. When that doesn’t come, she asks how she can help.
It’s a bit awkward but I have to admit, “I didn’t mean it, sorry.”
To cover the awkwardness, I launch straight into, “But it’s been lovely meeting you. If you ever want to come to my house for dinner or drinks, it’d be great to have you.”
She laughs very, very nervously. When the laugh stops there’s just fear in her eyes. I smile, wander off, look at one item of clothing, then leave. I look at the one thing to appear normal, like I wasn’t just going in there to invite her round my house. I’m not sure it worked.
There’s one more thing left to try. I’ve not yet brought to the UK the crazy Brazilian party spirit. Every day is carnival day in Brazil, I think. I need to bring these wild, chaotic, party times here.
This is a bit more me. I like a party. But only after at least two glasses of wine. Mainly because while sober I can’t dance, look anyone in the eye or kiss anyone on the lips. I’m aware there are three words for this: repressed and drink problem.
