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Authors: Oliver Harris
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correct.”
“How long would that take?”
“Two or three days.”
“Can you do it special delivery? I don’t want to lose another one.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But it should be with you in the next few days.”
“That’s fine.”
“I just need to ask a few security questions. Could you give me your date of birth?”
“Second of February, 1957.”
“And your postcode?” He lifted an unopened catalogue of gardening equipment and read it off the address label.
“Your mother’s maiden name?”
“Demochev,” he tried.
“That’s not the name I have here, sir.”
So he’d hit a wall. Belsey wondered how he would get Devereux’s mother’s maiden name. He pictured a dense archive of Soviet-era paperwork. It had always seemed touching to him, the use of maiden names as security; this private knowledge of our mothers’ pasts. It didn’t touch him now.
“I’m an orphan,” he said.
There was a pause. “OK, sir. Is there a particular name you gave us? A password?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“We would need to receive that before we can dispatch a new card.”
“OK.”
Belsey hung up. He gave it fifteen minutes, then called the Card Fraud Unit’s offices in Temple.
“Any reports just made on this individual’s card?”
“Not as far as I can see. Want to make one?”
“No.”
Out of curiosity Belsey called City Police and the Serious Fraud Office. He ran Devereux and his company past them but they knew nothing, were uninterested and, by their own account, busy enough already.
It takes the average person twelve months to discover that their identity has been stolen. That was for the living. If this was what he was doing, stealing Devereux’s identity, then it gave him some time. He felt ready to pick up where Devereux had left off. If he was going to be born again it would be nice to be someone rich.
Belsey set about his first systematic search of the premises. There were a lot of things he would have been interested to find: a will, a chequebook, the driver’s licence or any other photo ID, PINs, passwords, address books that might contain them, a laptop. He started with the study. The study had an elaborate dresser consisting of two alcoves joined at the top by an arch, with shelves in the alcoves, drawers beneath them, and then small cupboard doors. Everything was empty but for blank paper, yellowing newspapers in French and Italian; old catalogues.
The chest of drawers in the bedroom and the living room were also empty. Belsey searched behind the artworks for a concealed safe but found nothing. He looked under the dining-room table and found folded tablecloths and a box of crystal wineglasses.
He found a dusty sauna in what he had originally thought was a walk-in wardrobe. On the ground floor, beside the kitchen, he discovered a utility room that Devereux probably didn’t know about, with a washing machine, ironing board, tools for cleaners and gardeners, bottles of cleaning products, floor polish, mops, and overalls.
Not a single item of use to him.
The phone began to ring again. It seemed to announce the peculiarity of his situation. Each ring was the splash of oars pushing him farther away from shore. Belsey sat in the study and looked at the model ship and the Winter Palace, the will to plunder momentarily deserting him. Devereux’s possessions felt like words left hanging mid-sentence. They seemed to want to say something. About loneliness, perhaps. Exile was a feeling; he understood that. Belsey looked around and sensed someone trying to make a strange place look like home. Maybe it explained the noncommittal rental style.
What had Devereux thought of, sitting here? Money worries? A deal gone wrong? A country he’d never see again? Belsey imagined snow-covered fields, farm machinery, a dirt track. There were peasant women selling honey cakes to travellers; factories with muscular men and flags. He walked to the window then sat on the floor and looked at the space
“How long would that take?”
“Two or three days.”
“Can you do it special delivery? I don’t want to lose another one.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But it should be with you in the next few days.”
“That’s fine.”
“I just need to ask a few security questions. Could you give me your date of birth?”
“Second of February, 1957.”
“And your postcode?” He lifted an unopened catalogue of gardening equipment and read it off the address label.
“Your mother’s maiden name?”
“Demochev,” he tried.
“That’s not the name I have here, sir.”
So he’d hit a wall. Belsey wondered how he would get Devereux’s mother’s maiden name. He pictured a dense archive of Soviet-era paperwork. It had always seemed touching to him, the use of maiden names as security; this private knowledge of our mothers’ pasts. It didn’t touch him now.
“I’m an orphan,” he said.
There was a pause. “OK, sir. Is there a particular name you gave us? A password?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“We would need to receive that before we can dispatch a new card.”
“OK.”
Belsey hung up. He gave it fifteen minutes, then called the Card Fraud Unit’s offices in Temple.
“Any reports just made on this individual’s card?”
“Not as far as I can see. Want to make one?”
“No.”
Out of curiosity Belsey called City Police and the Serious Fraud Office. He ran Devereux and his company past them but they knew nothing, were uninterested and, by their own account, busy enough already.
It takes the average person twelve months to discover that their identity has been stolen. That was for the living. If this was what he was doing, stealing Devereux’s identity, then it gave him some time. He felt ready to pick up where Devereux had left off. If he was going to be born again it would be nice to be someone rich.
Belsey set about his first systematic search of the premises. There were a lot of things he would have been interested to find: a will, a chequebook, the driver’s licence or any other photo ID, PINs, passwords, address books that might contain them, a laptop. He started with the study. The study had an elaborate dresser consisting of two alcoves joined at the top by an arch, with shelves in the alcoves, drawers beneath them, and then small cupboard doors. Everything was empty but for blank paper, yellowing newspapers in French and Italian; old catalogues.
The chest of drawers in the bedroom and the living room were also empty. Belsey searched behind the artworks for a concealed safe but found nothing. He looked under the dining-room table and found folded tablecloths and a box of crystal wineglasses.
He found a dusty sauna in what he had originally thought was a walk-in wardrobe. On the ground floor, beside the kitchen, he discovered a utility room that Devereux probably didn’t know about, with a washing machine, ironing board, tools for cleaners and gardeners, bottles of cleaning products, floor polish, mops, and overalls.
Not a single item of use to him.
The phone began to ring again. It seemed to announce the peculiarity of his situation. Each ring was the splash of oars pushing him farther away from shore. Belsey sat in the study and looked at the model ship and the Winter Palace, the will to plunder momentarily deserting him. Devereux’s possessions felt like words left hanging mid-sentence. They seemed to want to say something. About loneliness, perhaps. Exile was a feeling; he understood that. Belsey looked around and sensed someone trying to make a strange place look like home. Maybe it explained the noncommittal rental style.
What had Devereux thought of, sitting here? Money worries? A deal gone wrong? A country he’d never see again? Belsey imagined snow-covered fields, farm machinery, a dirt track. There were peasant women selling honey cakes to travellers; factories with muscular men and flags. He walked to the window then sat on the floor and looked at the space
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