Unkindness of Strangers: how I was robbed
Trader Faulkner, 91, was touched by the offer of a free lift – until he was mugged by reality and found himself £500 out of pocket
Iwas recently walking along the Cromwell Road in London, on my way to the chiropodist to have my nails cut. As a 91-year-old writer and retired actor, I’m no longer competent to do that job myself, owing to a stroke I suffered 18 years ago.
I was about to cross the road when a dark, low-slung limousine pulled up beside me. The front passenger window came down and the smartly dressed driver asked, in clear unaccented English, ‘Didn’t I use to serve you when I worked as a waiter at Carluccio’s?’
Carluccio’s, located just off the Kensington High Street, was a restaurant I frequented often long ago (so he might well have served me), but still I was taken aback by the man’s sudden recognition.
‘You always wore red,’ he went on, ‘just as you are now. But today your beret is blue. Can I give you a lift to wherever you’re heading?’
I gave him the address of the clinic, just off Flood Street.
‘Jump in,’ he told me. ‘I’ll get you there in about seven minutes. Then I’ll wait and take you back to your flat afterwards.’ ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘No problem. I’m free till four.’ I climbed in beside him and he drove me to the clinic. I had my toenails trimmed, and 40 minutes later I found the man, as promised, awaiting me beside his car. He drove me to Lexham Gardens. During the drive, he told me he was engaged to be married and needed £20 to buy his fiancée an engagement present. He asked if I might lend it to him, promising he would repay the loan in two days’ time. Considering his generosity in driving me to and from my appointment, and put at ease by his educated accent and elegant suit and tie, I agreed. We arrived at my building, he parked the car outside and we climbed out.
‘Wait,’ he said, turning towards the car boot. ‘I have something for you.’ Out of the boot he drew several men’s suits – all in dark fabric, all apparently brand-new, with the tailor’s stitching still binding the pockets
closed. ‘These are new,’ he told me. ‘I’m sure you can use them.’
We climbed the 98 stairs to my top-floor flat (there is no lift), with him carrying the suits over one arm. When I unlocked the flat, the man threw the suits down onto the sofa. I turned to go into my bedroom to get the money for him and was surprised to see he was following me.
The day before, the son of my old friend Liz (who had recently died) had kindly given me a cheque for £500. I had been to the bank and cashed the cheque. In the man’s presence, I opened the envelope of cash, counted out £20 and was about to replace the envelope in its drawer – when the man snatched it from me. Turning, he dashed immediately to the front door, opened it and bounded down the stairs.
I gave chase, but the man – being tall and long-legged – was out of the door and down the 98 stairs like a racehorse at full gallop. On my way out of my front door, I grabbed a wooden banderilla – the pointed stick used by horsemen in the corrida to wound and aggravate the bull – I always kept behind the door for this sort of occasion. But to no avail: with him aged about 35 to my 91, he left me far behind, reached his car and raced back towards the Cromwell Road and out of sight.
Returning, breathless, to the flat I immediately called the police, who arrived at my front door 20 minutes later – three constables in uniform, two men and one woman. They listened patiently to my story, taking notes from time to time, but showed littl little sign of any real sympathy or eagerness to catch the culprit.
The greatest shock of that eventful afternoon was their apparent complete indifference to and complacency about a most traumatic experience. To my surprise, they merely glanced at the suits (still lying where they had been thrown, on my sofa), took down my description of the man and left.
Since that day, I have telephoned the police station several times to find out whether there has been any news or developments with the case. Each time, I have been told there is nothing new to report; that no advances have been made in finding the man. The suits I have kept, folded carefully into a small suitcase stored under my guest-room bed. Oddly, the police have shown not the slightest interest in them.
All this happened on 2nd January this year. Since then, there has been no further word.
Surely this was one of the strangest robberies on record. It’s also taught me a firm and lasting lesson: never trust smart, well-spoken chauffeurs bearing gifts!