‘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 fish-and-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.
Maestro
The 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 favourite 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?
So it is left to the Italians to sweep the board and gather up the crumbs. They combine the charm of the Irish, the culinary expertise of the French and the thoroughness of the Swiss, and despite their ability to produce a bill that never seems to add up, we allow them to go on fleecing us.
This was certainly true of Mario Gambotti.
Mario came from a long line of Florentines who could not sing, paint or play football, so he happily joined his fellow exiles in London, where he began an apprenticeship in the restaurant business.
Whenever I go to his fashionable little restaurant in Fulham for lunch, he somehow manages to hide his disapproval when I order minestrone soup, spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti classico.
‘What an excellent choice, maestro,’ he declares, not bothering to scribble down my order on his pad. Please note ‘maestro’: not my lord, which would be sycophantic, not sir, which would be ridiculous after twenty years of friendship, but maestro, a particularly flattering sobriquet, as I have it on good authority (his wife) that he has never read one of my books.