Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (6 page)

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?

Tracey stood on
the pavement and waved goodbye, as her parents’ car trundled off down the road.
When the old Rover reached the end of the street it swung right, instead of left,
which took them in the opposite direction to Heathrow. Something was wrong.
Tracey dismissed the mistake, aware that they could correct their error long
before they reached the motorway.

Once Chris and
Sue had joined the motorway, they followed the signs for Dover. The two of them
became more and more nervous as each minute passed, aware that there was now no
turning back. Only Stamps seemed to be enjoying the adventure as he stared out
of the back window wagging his tail.

Once again, Mr.
Appleyard
and Mrs. Brewer went over their plan. When
they reached the docks, Sue would jump out of the car and join the queue of
foot passengers waiting to board, while Chris drove the Rover up the car ramp
and on to the ferry. They agreed not to meet again until the boat had docked in
Calais and Chris had driven on to the dockside.

Sue stood at
the bottom of the gangway and waited nervously at the back of the queue as she
watched their Rover edge toward the entrance of the hold.

Her heart raced
when she saw a customs officer double-check Chris’s passport, and invite him to
step out of the car and stand to one side. She had to stop herself from running
across so she could overhear their conversation–she couldn’t risk it now they
were no longer married.

“Good morning,
Mr.
Appleyard
,” said the customs officer, and then
added after looking in the back of the car, “were you hoping to take the dog
abroad with you?”

“Oh yes,”
replied Chris. “We never travel anywhere without Stamps.”

The customs
official studied Mr.
Appleyard’s
passport more
carefully. “But you don’t have the necessary documents to take a dog abroad
with you.”

Chris felt
beads of sweat running down his forehead.
Stamps’s
papers were still attached to the passport of Mr. Haskins, which he had left in
the safe back at
Cleethorpes
.

“Oh hell,” said
Chris. “I must have left them at home.”

“Bad luck, sir.
I hope you don’t have far to travel because
there isn’t another ferry until this time tomorrow.”

Chris glanced
helplessly across at his wife, before climbing back into the car.

He looked down
at Stamps, who was sleeping soundly on the back seat, oblivious to the problem
he was causing. Chris swung the car round and joined an overwrought Sue, who
was waiting impatiently to find out why he hadn’t been allowed to board. Once
Chris had explained the problem, all she said was, “We can’t risk returning to
Cleethorpes
.”

“I agree,” said
Chris, “we’ll have to go back to Ashford, and hope we can find a vet that’s
open on a bank holiday.”

“That wasn’t
part of our plan,” said Sue.

“I know,” said
Chris, “but I’m not willing to leave Stamps behind.” Sue nodded in agreement.

Chris swung the
Rover onto the main road, and began the journey back to Ashford. Mr. and Mrs.
Haskins arrived just in time to join their daughter for lunch.

Tracey was
delighted that her parents were able to spend a couple more days with her, but
she still couldn’t understand why they weren’t willing to leave Stamps with
her; after all, it wasn’t as if they were going away for the rest of their
lives.

Chris and Sue spent
another uncommunicative day and a further sleepless night in Ashford. A duffel
bag containing a quarter of a million pounds was tucked under the bed.

On Monday a
local vet kindly agreed to give Stamps all the necessary injections. He then
attached a certificate to Mr.
Appleyard’s
passport,
but not in time for them to catch the last ferry.

The Haskins
didn’t sleep a wink on the Monday night, and by the time the street lights went
out the following morning, they both knew they could no longer go through with
it. They lay awake, preparing a new plan–in English.

Chris and Sue
finally left their daughter after breakfast the following morning.

They drove to
the end of the road and this time, to Tracey’s relief, turned left, not right,
and headed back in the direction of
Cleethorpes
. By
the time they’d swept past the Heathrow exit, their revised plan was in place.

‘The moment we
arrive home,” said Sue, “we’ll put all the money back in the safe.”

“How will we
explain having that amount of cash, when the Post Office accountant carries out
his annual audit next month?” asked Chris.

“By the time
they get around to checking what’s left in the safe, as long as we don’t apply
for any more money, we should have been able to dispose of most of the cash
simply by carrying out our regular transactions.”

“What about the
postal orders that we’ve already cashed?”

“There’s still
enough cash left in the safe to cover them,” Sue reminded her husband.

“But the scratch cards and the lottery tickets?”

“We’ll have to
make up the difference from our own money–that way they’ll end up none the
wiser.”

“I agree,” said
Chris, sounding relieved for the first time in days, and then he remembered the
passports.

“We’ll destroy
them,” said Sue, “as soon as we get home.”

By the time the
Haskins had crossed the Lincolnshire border, they had made up their minds to
continue running the post office, despite its diminished status.

Sue had already
come up with several ideas for extra items they could sell over the counter,
while making the best of what was left of their franchise.

A smile settled
on Sue’s lips when Chris finally turned into Victoria Crescent, a smile that
was quickly removed when she saw the flashing blue lights.

When the old
Rover came to a halt, a dozen policemen surrounded the car.

“Oh shit,” said
Sue. Extreme language for the chairman of the Mothers’ Union, thought Chris,
but on balance, he had to agree with her.

Mr. and Mrs.
Haskins were arrested on the evening of 29 December. They were driven to
Cleethorpes
police station and placed in separate interview
rooms.

There was no
need for the local police to conduct a good cop, bad cop routine, as both of
them confessed immediately.

They spent the
night in separate cells, and the following morning they were charged with the
theft of £250,000, being the property of the Post Office, and obtaining, by
deception, four passports.

They pleaded
guilty to both charges.

Sue Haskins was
released from
Moreton
Hall after serving four months
of her sentence. Chris joined her a year later.

While he was in
prison Chris worked on another plan. However, when he was released Britannia
Finance didn’t feel able to back him. To be fair, Mr.
Tremaine
had retired.

Mr. and Mrs.
Haskins sold their property on Victoria Crescent for £100,000. A week later
they climbed into their ancient Rover and drove off to Dover, where they
boarded the ferry after presenting the correct passports. Once they had found a
suitable location on the seafront in
Albufeira
, they
opened a
fishand
-chip shop. Haskins’ hasn’t caught on
with the locals yet, but with a hundred thousand Brits visiting the Algarve
every year, there’s proved to be no shortage of customers.

I was among
those who risked a small investment in the new enterprise, and I am happy to
report that I have recouped every penny with interest.
Funny
old world.
But then as Mr. Justice Gray observed, Mr. and Mrs. Haskins
were not criminals.

Only one footnote.
Stamps died while Sue and Chris were in
prison.

T
he Italians are the only
race I know who have
the ability to serve without
appearing subservient. The French will happily spill sauce all over your
favorite tie, with no hint of an apology, at the same time cursing you in their
native tongue. The Chinese don’t speak to you at all, and the Greeks think nothing
of leaving you alone for an hour before they even offer you a menu. The
Americans are at pains to let you know that they aren’t really waiters at all,
but out-of-work actors, who then proceed to recite the specials on the menu as
if performing for an audition. The English are quite likely to engage you in a
long conversation, leaving an impression that you ought to be having dinner
with them, rather than your guest, and as for the Germans... well, when did you
last eat at a German restaurant?