Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [46]
“KL06NZG?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a green Mercedes SLR Coupe?”
“No!” Bulman shut his eyes. His headache was getting worse. “It’s a silver Volkswagen Golf.”
“Can you give me the license number again?”
Bulman repeated it, pausing between each digit. Whoever was at the other end of the line obviously didn’t have much skill with computers.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The woman was adamant. “That number is registered to a Mercedes. Can I take your name?”
“It’s Bulman. Harold Edward Bulman.”
“And your address?”
He told her.
“Could you hold a moment?” There was another silence, longer this time. Bulman was about to hang up when the woman came back on the line. “Mr. Bulman, how long have you had this car?”
“I bought it two years ago.”
“I’m afraid we have no record of that name or that address on our files.”
This was the end. Bulman lost his temper. “Are you telling me that I don’t know where I live and that I’ve forgotten the make and the color of my own car? I’m telling you, my car has been stolen. I left it here last night, and now it’s gone.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The license number you’ve given us doesn’t match up with the information I have here.”
“Well, your information is wrong.” Bulman slammed the phone down. His head was throbbing.
He needed money. He felt naked without cash and he wanted to eat. He looked at his watch. At least that was still working. Half past nine. The banks would have opened by now. Bulman had plenty of ID on him, and he’d feel better once he had a full wallet. He could deal with the car later.
He turned and walked back the way he had come. Ten minutes later, he found himself in the local branch of his bank, talking to one of the managers who had a desk in the main hall. The manager was a young man, Asian, dressed in a suit, with a neat beard. He was clearly alarmed as this new customer came striding up to him, and Bulman realized that, what with all the tramping back and forth, trying to deal with all the events that seemed to have ganged up on him in the past hour, he must look half crazed. He no longer cared.
“I need to withdraw some money,” he said. “And your machine doesn’t seem to be working.”
The manager frowned. “We haven’t had any complaints.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to use the machine. I want to withdraw some money from you.”
“Do you have a card, sir?” Bulman handed over his last remaining credit card and watched as the manager brought up his details on the computer. He gazed at the screen, perplexed. “I’m very sorry, sir . . .”
“Are you saying I don’t have an account with you?” Bulman’s voice was quavering.
“No, sir. You used to have an account. But you closed it down a year ago. You can see for yourself.” He swiveled the computer around and there it was, a row of zeroes at the bottom of his account. Every last penny had been removed exactly twelve months before.
“I never closed my account,” Bulman said.
“Would you like me to talk to the head office? . . .”
Yet Bulman was already gone, spinning out of the chair and making his way through the main door, out into the fresh air. What the hell was going on? His travel pass, then the bank cards, his mobile phone, his car, now his accounts . . . it was as if his identity was being taken from him one piece at a time. He leaned against the corner of the building, steadying himself, and as he stood there, a commuter hurried past, throwing a copy of his newspaper into a bin right in front of him, almost as if he wanted Bulman to see what was on the front page.
It was a photograph of himself.
Bulman gazed at it in horror, remembering the headline that he had seen as he came out of his apartment. “Journalist Killed.” He was looking at the same headline now. He felt the sidewalk lurching underneath him as he stepped forward and plucked the newspaper out. The story was very short.
Harold Bulman, a freelance journalist who specialized in stories relating to the army and intelligence services, was yesterday morning found dead in his north London apartment. Mr. Bulman, 37, had been stabbed. Police today appealed for any witnesses