An Unpleasant Memory

Sometimes, I watch real-life documentaries about police work in England. As I worked for the police in London before I retired, the procedures interest me, and I like the ‘behind the scenes’ look at how cases are investigated and solved. (Or never solved) I was watching one last night, and it brought back a memory that I hadn’t thought about for some years.

In 1977, I was working as a depot supervisor for a large food company that sold sausages, pies, bacon, and cooked meats from fleets of vans around London. I was based at the Battersea Depot, and we had twelve vans covering west London, out as far as Heathrow Airport.

Because of the nature of the work, it was a very early start. I had to be at work by 4 am, and the vans would be loaded and on the road by 5:30. For the rest of the day, I had to phone in the orders to the factory, deal with routine paperwork, and occasionally drive out to take care of customer complaints about short loads or missed deliveries.

To compensate for the early start, everyone finished early, and the last van was usually back well before 3 pm. Because the drivers/salesmen were sometimes paid in cash by establishments like roadside cafes and restaurants, I had to sort out the banking before I could lock up and leave. The nearby branch of the bank we used was always closed before I could get to it, so we used the Night Safe facility. This was a large opening in the wall of the bank with a pull-down drawer sealing it. I just had to place the sealed leather bag containing the money into it and it dropped into a container out of reach.

Most days, there wasn’t much money involved, but on Fridays some customers paid for a full week’s deliveries, so there could be as much as five hundred pounds in cash in the bag. A fair sum back then. Friday was also a late finish for us as many vans came back to the depot during the day for extra products, with shops and supermarkets asking for more if they anticipated a busy weekend. It was our habit to meet in the local pub when it opened at 5:30 pm, and have a drink before going home.

One Friday, I told the others I would meet them at the pub after dropping off the cash bag. I drove the short distance to the bank, not wanting to walk around that part of south London carrying over four hundred pounds in an obvious night safe bag. I parked (illegally) on a yellow line on the corner of Battersea Park Road and Meath Street, right outside the bank. (I don’t think that bank is still there) There was solid rush hour traffic in both directions, and lots of people waiting at bus stops on both sides of the busy main road.

Walking to the Night Safe which was on the same main road, I could hear someone running fast behind me, and presumed they were running to catch a bus.

The impact of a big man barging into me knocked me straight over onto my side. Another man appeared, trying to grab the bag from my right hand. As I hung onto it, a third man appeared, and kicked me repeatedly in the head. Luckily, he was wearing trainers, or he might well have fractured my skull. The second man stamped on my arm repeatedly as I lay there, until I could no longer hold the bag. Then the first man grabbed it, and all three ran off, turning into Meath Street and heading north.

For some reason still unknown to me, I ran to my car and gave chase at speed. What I was going to do if I caught them I had no idea. But I was angry, and still only twenty-five years old. I soon drew level with them, despite their head start, but being in the car, I couldn’t follow them into the housing estate at the next junction. Only then did I realise that I was still holding a hat I had dragged off the head of one of them. It was wrapped around the gearstick.

They had all been of West Indian appearance, dressed in the ‘Rasta’ style; with casual clothing, and large floppy hats covering their hair. I had this oversized velvet cap, and was determined to keep it as evidence. I turned the car around and drove back to the bank. There were no mobile phones in those days, but many members of the public had seen this happening, and had phoned the police from call boxes or by asking shopkeepers along the road to ring 999.

There were four uniformed police officers there in two cars. I spoke to one of them about what had happened, and he took down the details. I handed him the hat and told him where I had last seen them, minutes earlier. He shook his head wearily. “They will be long gone, I’m afraid”.

Moments later, an unmarked car drove up at speed, and two plain clothes officers jumped out. One flashed a badge at me and said “Flying Squad”, we heard the call go out”. Under his jacket, he was wearing a shoulder holster containing a revolver. Seeing armed police was rare back then, but the Flying Squad from Scotland Yard was world-famous.

I was expecting the police to set off to try to find the suspects. I had given a pretty good description, hung onto the hat for evidence, and declined medical aid. Instead, the Flying Squad officer with the gun took me into the side street, and started to suggest that I was involved. “Where did you dump the bag? What’s the names of those blokes you used to set it up? Come on, you might as well own up. It has to be an inside job, how else would they know what time to be here?”

To say I was outraged is an understatement. I told the police officer just what I thought of him, using language that cannot be typed here.

Eventually, they let me go on my way, and a uniformed officer said “I will be in touch”. But he never did get in touch, and neither did anyone else. There were no arrests, no suspect questioned, (except me) and we never again heard anything about the incident. It was robbery with violence, and as far as I know was never even followed up.

My bruises soon faded, leaving me with an unpleasant memory of not only being a robbery victim, but then being accused of staging it myself.

That memory never faded.

Simple, Convenient, Online Banking

I have been with the same bank for over forty-three years. During that time it has changed its name, but still has branches everywhere. However, since the Covid-19 problems, my local branch in the nearby town of Dereham has significantly reduced its opening hours. It now closes at 2pm every day, which makes it inconvenient for me.

In 2002, I bought my first laptop. Not long after, Julie set up Internet Banking on it for me. But I didn’t use it, as I could not bring myself to trust online dealing with my hard-earned money. Up until this very day, I still write cheques to pay bills, and if I have a banking issue, I go into the branch to sort it out face to face.

But cheques are going. Most banks intend to withdraw them from use soon, and with branch closures beginning in earnest, my local bank in Dereham may well face the axe in 2021. As the saying goes, history has caught up with me, and I will have to bank online to stay ‘relevant’ by the end of next year.

So yesterday evening, I logged on to that eighteen year-old account. Well, tried to log on of course, but was unable to. My previous numerical security code was no longer active, so I got a screen telling me to call a customer service telephone number. After ten minutes on hold, I was answered by someone from an Indian call centre. The man spoke very good English, but his voice was quiet. He also had a way of sounding a ‘W’ like a ‘V’, and a ‘V’ like a ‘W’ which made some of his conversation hard to grasp.

When I explained the situation, he was sure he could help me very quickly. I had to download an App onto my mobile phone he told me. I answered that I did not want to use my phone for banking. For one thing the screen, large as it is, is too small for me to use for that kind of detail. And for another, I might lose the phone or have it stolen. I wanted to use the tower PC in my office, with its TV-screen size monitor.

But no, I couldn’t do that until I had the App first, which must be downloaded onto my phone.

(You might want to make a hot drink at this point, and sit in a comfy chair…)

Once the App was on the phone, I had to close it, then open it again. With the man on the phone prompting me, I started to complete the new user registration process.

1) Invent a username. Don’t write it down, just remember it. (Yeah right, like that’s going to happen)
2) Create a security number that must be 6 numbers, with no doubles and no running sequence. It must not include numbers from your cash card PIN number, or any of your date of birth. (Did that, and wrote it down, just as I had the username)
3) Create a Security Key. (?) Apparently, that’s like a password, and has to have numbers and letters, but no more than six in total. (Did that, and of course wrote it down)
4) Memorable Questions. I had to choose three answers. One for a TV character, one for an ideal holiday destination, and another for a famous historical figure.
(They all went in my notebook too of course)

Once I had entered every answer twice to confirm, the App was ‘live’.

But all that was only the start. By now I had half a page of my notebook full of security codes and passwords that I wasn’t supposed to write down. Then the man told me I had to close the App, and log in on my PC using all the same answers.

Before I could do that, the bank had to send a ‘One time only’ numerical security code to my mobile phone which had to be entered in yet another box on my PC screen. With that in place, it opened the Internet banking facility, and asked me to complete everything I had just done on the phone again.

My patience was wearing thin. The man in India told me it was only because I was a first time user, and after that I would only need my security number. (In case you are as confused as I was, that’s (2) in the list above.)

Trying to stop myself swearing at the man, as I knew he was only doing his job, I entered everything carefully, checking all the details I had written in the notebook. (Could anyone really remember all that stuff after twenty minutes? If so, you’re a genius!) I pressed the box marked ‘Continue’ and breathed a sigh of relief.

Until the box turned red, and this warning appeared.

‘One of the three required fields has been entered incorrectly. Please try again’. But it didn’t tell me which one of course.

I had to exit the page on the PC, and start again. By now, I had been on the phone for forty-one minutes, and my stress levels were in the stratosphere. Five minutes later, I had done it all again, and got the red box again. This time it had a different warning message.

‘You have now entered one of the required fields incorrectly for the third time, and can no longer use this online facility’.

I told the man what it said, and asked him what the next move is. He thought for a moment. “You did use all block capitals, didn’t you sir?” Of course I hadn’t. Why would I? I told him that. So all those ‘errors’ were because I hadn’t typed everything in caps, and hadn’t been told to do that either by prompts on the screen, or by him.

Still talking quietly, and annoyingly switching his ‘W’ for ‘V’, and Wice-Werca, he came up with a great idea.

“You could go into your local branch when it is open, Mr Johnson. They should be able to reset your online account”.

I now have to go in before 2pm on Monday, and hope that the branch has not been closed down for good over the weekend.

So much for the ‘Simple, convenient, online banking’. (Their advertising)