Scammed

SCAMMED

Ron Chudley

For my sons, Hugh and Ben.

T
he 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.

I
n 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.”