My companion, Charlotte, looks distressed by this sad story. But I’m supremely unmoved. “Guildford?” I say, fixing the man with a gimlet eye. “That’s a coincidence. I live in Guildford. If you could hang on for ten minutes I’ll give you a lift to the hospital. Is it Guildford General or St Thomas’s?”
I’ve been the scourge of con men for years. “Show me your official badge,” I say to the bedraggled youth who asks me to buy the tatty copy of the Big Issue he’s clutching to his chest.
“What exactly was your regiment?” I say to the one-legged man wearing an army uniform and a chestful of medals who regularly accosts me in Soho and asks me to put money in an open bucket labelled “For wounded ex-servicemen”.
But then last Saturday morning, my mobile dings, and when I jump out of bed and check, it’s a message from my ex-wife Anna which reads: “I’m writing this with tears in my eyes. I and Family are stranded in (Manila Philippines) we came for a short vacation unfortunately we were mugged and robbed at the park of the hotel where we stayed, all cash, credit card and cell were stolen off us but luckily for us we still have our lives and passport saved. We’ve been to the embassy and the Police here but they’re not helping issues at all and our flight leaves in a few hours from now but we are having problems settling the hotel bills and the hotel manager won’t let us leave until we settle the bills. Can you help us out? Get back to immediately to know the easiest way to get the fund to us. We are all freaked out at the moment. Anna.”
Now what would you expect someone with a reputation for being the scourge of con men to do in such circumstances? It’s obvious really. Such a person would obviously begin by wondering why highly literate Anna had suddenly become inclined to such odd phrases and misplaced capitalisation as in “I and Family”. And any self-respecting scourge would surely have then gone on to puzzle about the refusal of the embassy to help. And our scourge would certainly have then checked with one of Anna’s friends to find out if indeed she’d gone for “a short vacation” in the Philippines.
But what really happened? Within seconds I was texting back saying that I’d do anything to help. How much was needed? Where could I send it to? “Anna” responded promptly. “Thank God we still got our lives. All we need is GBP 1350.” And there followed the news that we should send the money by Western Union to Anna at 47, Simon Street, malate (Manila Philippines).
Quick, quick. Western Union. It took me five minutes to register on the internet and set up the payment. But it wouldn’t go through. “Your limit is £1000,” I was told and advised to go to a Western Union office. There was one in the next street. My wife pulled on her coat and raced round. Filled in all the forms. Texted me to say that all was going well. Anna would be so pleased. I rang to give her personal reassurance. No answer. Rang again. Still no answer. Finally a voice. Her first words were awfully straightforward.
“It’s a con. I’ve just got off the plane in Istanbul. Don’t send any money. All my friends have had the text. Even my old mum. Don’t send anything.” I rang my wife. “Don’t send the money. It’s a scam.” “We’re saved,” she said, “this branch of Western Union is telling me that they only take cash.”
“It was so bloody clever,” I said to my wife over the first drink of the evening. “I mean they obviously hacked into Anna’s phone and got her email contacts and then someone waited until she got on a plane at some airport so that they knew she couldn’t be contacted during the flight. They’d covered all the angles.”
Charlotte was less impressed. “Good heavens,” she said, as I finished the story, “you didn’t fall for that one, did you?” “Good God,” said my producer Alistair, “you didn’t fall for that one, did you?” “Jesus H Christ,” said the man with the small Cotes-du-Rhone next to me in the French House, “you didn’t fall for that one, did you?”
On my way home from the French House I sought out the one-legged army man in Dean Street and slipped him a ten-pound note. He gasped at the size of my donation. “It’s in case you ever need to get to Guildford in a hurry,” I told him.
