Dead at First Sight

4 Monday 24 September

Johnny Fordwater sat in silence in the back of the car during the short drive from Gatwick’s North Terminal to the airport police station, anger rising inside him. He stared at his phone, willing a text to appear from Ingrid. The police had no idea. Of course she existed! He and Ingrid were crazily in love with each other. About to start a new life together. She had been selling up everything in Germany, preparing for her move to be with him in England. He’d had his flat redecorated, with new carpets in some rooms, and he’d worked hard making it feel homely.

The male officer in front of him put his window down as they reached a barrier and held a card against the reader. The barrier rose and they entered a wire-mesh compound containing several police vehicles. They pulled into a bay and the female officer opened the door to let him out.

They walked through the September warmth, the male officer having a quick vape on the way, and entered a nondescript two-storey building that smelled of old linoleum. They went up a flight of stairs, along a drab corridor past several notices stuck to the wall and into a small, functional, windowless room with two chairs on either side of a metal table. A CCTV camera, mounted high on one wall, was aimed down at them.

‘Would you like something to drink, Mr Fordwater?’ Velvet Wilde asked. ‘Tea or coffee?’

He felt sick with worry. Numb. He didn’t know what he wanted. ‘Just some water, please.’

As the two police officers left the room, he checked his phone again. Then again. There was clearly a terrible mistake here. Had Ingrid missed the flight? There could have been any number of reasons. Most likely the road to the airport closed because of an accident, or something of that nature. He texted her again. Perhaps the police were mistaken and she was still in the baggage area, waiting for her luggage? Or filling in a lost-baggage claim?

No reply.

He dialled her number.

All he got was a message in German which he did not understand. But it sounded like there was some kind of a problem with the number.

Was the network down? Had she lost her phone? Had the battery died?

The woman officer, DC Wilde — he remembered her name — came back in, followed by her colleague. She placed a plastic beaker of water on the table in front of him. He thanked her. ‘Mr Fordwater, would you be comfortable if my colleague, DS Potting, and I recorded this conversation?’ she asked.

‘Sure, why not,’ he said, bleakly.

‘We met you at the airport as a result of a phone call from your sister, Angela, and we believe you have been targeted in a fraud case that we are investigating. You may remember my colleague DC Helen Searle coming to see you a couple of months ago. She was concerned that you were a possible victim of an internet scam, but you disagreed,’ she said. ‘We believe the situation now has changed and want to ask you a number of questions. It will be easier to have those on record, so thank you for agreeing to us recording it.’

The two officers sat down opposite him. She pressed a button on a control panel and tilted her head up towards the camera. ‘The time is 8.10 p.m., Monday, September 24th. DC Wilde and DS Potting interviewing Mr John Charles Fordwater.’

She gave him a look of reassurance. Johnny didn’t touch his water.

Potting began, ‘Mr Fordwater, can I ask how you first met Ingrid Ostermann?’

He blushed. ‘Online, on a German dating site.’

‘When was that?’

‘Almost a year ago.’

‘Does October 22nd sound right?’

‘Honestly? I don’t remember. Perhaps, yes.’

‘And you placed this advertisement? “Widower, mid-fifties, former army officer, fourteen handicap golfer, keen hiker, likes fine wine and good food, can do Times crossword in ten mins, seeks like-minded lady for companionship and perhaps romance.”’

Johnny shrugged. ‘I did. You see, I’ve been on my own for the last four years since my beloved Elaine died. Years back I served in the army for a time in Germany and — frankly — I really liked German women, although I was married at the time and never strayed. But there is something about them that always appealed to me — so many of them seemed strong and confident and full of life.’

‘When did this lady begin asking you for money, Mr Fordwater?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘It might be relevant, sir.’

Johnny shrugged. ‘About a month after we first made contact. She was going to come over for a weekend, but someone rear-ended her car on the way to the airport. She told me her ex-husband had cleaned out her bank account. So I sent her 3,000 euros to get her car fixed — oh, and another 2,000 for her medical bill, for her whiplash investigation — MRI scan and stuff. Apparently, her husband hadn’t told her he’d not been paying her medical insurance.’

‘That was all you sent her?’ Potting asked.

‘Initially, yes — as a loan. About three weeks later she paid it all back — and sweetly added two hundred euros, saying that was interest!’

‘She paid it back?’ Potting queried, surprised.

‘She did, yes.’

‘Did you send any more money after that?’ Wilde asked.

Johnny hesitated. ‘She told me she wanted to come over to see me, but her two sons were going to be removed from private boarding school because, same problem, her ex hadn’t paid the fees. I sent her 30,000 euros to cover their schooling for the next term — as a loan, as was the car-repair money. She said she would pay me back as soon as her divorce was settled, and they’d sold the marital home — she’s entitled to a fair chunk of it, under German law.’

‘Did you make any further payments to this lady, Mr Fordwater?’ Wilde pressed.

Beginning to feel irritated by them, he replied, ‘Look, frankly, this is very embarrassing, I don’t really want to talk about it any more. Can you take me back to the airport to get my car, please.’

From her recent work with the Financial Crimes Unit, Velvet Wilde knew there were a number of phases that a victim of fraud went through. They would begin with denial, followed by doubt, then partial acceptance. Then would come realization, next anger and finally accusation, blaming anyone. Mr Fordwater was following just this deeply tragic pattern now.

‘We’ll drive you back,’ Norman Potting said. ‘But can you tell us if you made any more payments to Ingrid Ostermann, Mr Fordwater?’

‘It’s Major actually,’ he said testily. ‘But why do you need to know?’

‘As I’ve said before, it may be relevant, sir... Major.’

‘Well, OK, yes, a couple.’

‘And these were?’

Johnny was silent for some moments, then he said, ‘Well, quite substantial, actually.’ He lapsed into silence again, studying his blank phone. ‘You see, she needs money for a top brief to fight her manipulative ex-husband. That doesn’t come cheap. I loaned her 60,000 euros for her legal battle. On top of that, the poor lady’s mother has advanced Alzheimer’s. In Germany, apparently, they don’t have the National Health care facilities we have here in this country. Her mother was living at home with her, you see. The only way she could be free to come over to be with me was to put her mother in a home, so I helped her out with that.’

‘Very generous of you,’ Norman Potting said. ‘To what extent?’

‘I paid for a year’s care for her mother — 120,000 euros.’

Johnny ignored the gasp from the female police officer.

‘So if I total that up, sir, by my reckoning that comes to a grand total of over 200,000 euros — is that correct?’ Norman Potting asked.

‘More or less. There are a few further bits and pieces,’ he said, blushing. ‘It’s all just a loan, she’s going to pay it all back, as she did before. But what does this have to do with anything?’

‘Quite a lot, sir. May I ask a personal question? Are you a wealthy man, Major Fordwater?’

‘Wealthy? No, I was a career soldier. When I left the army, I worked in the charity sector, until my wife became sick — motor neurone disease. I had to quit my job to care for her full-time. I needed round-the-clock nursing care for her during the final two years, which financially drained me — that and private medical care. We didn’t have insurance, you see.’

‘But you were able to pay this lady, Ingrid Ostermann, over 200,000 euros?’

‘Actually, I... took out bank loans, and did one of these equity-release plans on my flat. I’m pretty much hocked to the hilt. Sold a rare Bentley I inherited from my father. But it’s fine, because Ingrid’s going to pay it all back from her share of her house in Munich.’ He shrugged. ‘You know? If you love someone, you help them, right?’

The two detectives were giving him a strange look.

‘I love her. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. The money is irrelevant. She’s going to pay it all back and we can live on the income from her divorce settlement.’

‘We told you earlier, sir, that this lady does not exist, but you don’t believe us, do you?’

‘No, you’ve got this all wrong — I think you must have crossed wires somewhere along the line.’

Norman Potting slid a photograph across the table to him. ‘Is this the lady you believe is Ingrid Ostermann?’

Johnny studied it for a fleeting second and his face lit up. ‘Yes! But hold on, old chap, I don’t believe it... I know it!’

‘You are absolutely sure?’

‘No question, that is her, yes. What exactly are you implying?’

Potting hesitated. When he had been a young cop, working on Traffic, the one job he had hated was delivering what the police called a ‘death message’. Knocking on a door at 2 a.m. to tell them a loved one had died. What he was about to tell Major Johnny Fordwater was going to be just as bad.

In some ways, maybe, worse.