I

AN INSPECTOR CALLS

Yorkshire, England, March 2008

The Reverend Andrew Arun John was in a minor state of shock one
morning in early March 2008. Hard to blame him. Not only had he
just survived the long journey from Delhi in cattle class, but it was two
weeks before the opening of Heathrow's new Terminal 5, and the
world's busiest international airport was exploring new standards in
passenger misery. His flight had left India around three o'clock in the
morning and, after negotiating passport control and the baggage
mayhem, he still had to face a four-hour drive north to Yorkshire.

Switching on his mobile phone, Reverend John saw he had an
inordinate number of missed calls from his wife. And before he'd had
time to call back to ask her what the fuss was about, she was ringing
again. She told him that the police had telephoned several times and
were desperate to get in touch with him.

Taken aback and confused, the Reverend replied sharply to his wife,
saying that she was talking nonsense – though he regretted his tone
almost immediately.

His wife, happily, chose to ignore his grumpiness. Clearly and calmly,
she explained that the police had wanted to alert him to the fact that
somebody had broken into his bank account, that this was a matter of
urgency and that he should ring the number she had for the officer
in charge as soon as possible.

His wife's call unsettled the Reverend still further and his weary
brain went into overdrive. 'Who has broken into my account?' he
wondered. 'What account? My Barclays here?' he speculated. 'My