I’ve been away, dealing with a spot of bother.

Last Thursday evening, one of my neighbours knocked on the door and handed me two parcels she had signed for.  I thanked her and took them in, though I was a little surprised, because I wasn’t expecting anything.

I opened the first parcel.  It was an iPhone.

I’m not, on the whole, a covetous person.  Mostly I don’t have jewellery or antiques; my car is 12 years old and I have never bought an item of clothing that cost more than £150.  But I really love gadgets, especially electronics, especially phones, especially phones with internet.  Anyone who knows me knows I covet an iPhone.

I opened the second parcel.  It was another iPhone.

I didn’t break the seal on either box for a long time, but finally I thought it might be okay to open just one of the phones.  I plugged it into my computer.  In seconds I had a text message inviting me to log in with a user name and password that was a combination of my name and my birthday.  Clearly the phone was ordered by someone who knew me well.

The next morning I began trying to find out who had sent me this gift – partly so I could let them know that the order had been accidentally doubled up and I had received two phones.  I narrowed the suspects to one: my ex-husband.  We were pretty hostile for a while but have become friends again, and he was always a generous man.  He knows I want an iPhone and besides his denial was flippant “not me, guv, maybe they fell off the back of a lorry”.

Meanwhile, lest you think I am silly, I called both banks where I have an account, and each was certain that I was not paying for any iPhone or any iPhone bills. There was also nothing on my credit cards.

By the next morning my Ex had made it clear it really wasn’t him 

I dug a little deeper and accidentally got information on the account details, protected by a PIN I didn’t have. 

I had been the victim of identity fraud.

The account name was mine.  The account number was someone else’s (unknown).  The bills for the two accounts came to more than £100 a month.  It was likely he would notice.

And when he did, he was going to be pretty upset.  My name and address would be all anyone had.

I still didn’t get how the baddies benefitted – phones had been sent to me – but I was pretty sure I needed to get rid of them. 

I tried to take the phones back to the shop, but they absolutely refused to have them and finally I took them to the post office.  UK law says that mobile phone providers have to accept returns within two weeks.  This was within two days. 

I read carefully the return instructions, which said I must affix the label to the parcel.  The label was simply a large number 2 and a barcode.

The number 2 was reassuring.  That usually means Second Class Postage paid.  The barcode was less promising.  And there was no address.

At my local country post office, which is just a counter inside a news and stationer’s shop, I brandished my parcels. I am a little confused, I said.  Is the barcode the address?

The postmistress examined them and replied with enigma worthy of any oracle, Well, some say it is, and some say it isn’t.

I asked if she would nevertheless accept the parcels and she looked doubtful.

I began to get very agitated and explain that the shop wouldn’t take them either, but they weren’t mine and they had been wrongfully sent to me and I really, really needed to get rid of them.

The other customers in the queue began to get interested.

Unsolicited mail! shouted one, Not your problem!  Chuck it or keep it!  Up to you!

I said, My name is on the account, even though it’s not my account. I don’t want to be in trouble. 

The other customers sucked their teeth, meaning this was a problem. Who knew what to do about it?  It was bound to be trouble.  I hadn’t heard the last. 

The postmistresses conferred. The big number 2 on the label was very reaassuring.  At last they agreed they would take the parcels.

I said, pushing my luck. Please could I have a certificate of posting?

Emphatic refusals.  We don’t know where it’s going, see?  explained the postmistress, reasonably enough.

Eventually, with tears on my side and heckling in the other queue, they took the packages.  They gave me a receipt that simply noted down the barcode. 

I was surprised at how light I felt when the phones were gone.

The next evening (yesterday) I arrived home to find that another neighbour had signed for a new parcel.  He handed me a Sony laptop and my heart sank.

This morning I finally understood the scam.  It’s all about credit.

I called the people who had sent the Sony.  Amazingly, they sent it without any money at all.  I have (or used to have) a good credit rating and they trusted that I would pay later.

The fraud investigation team explained to me the system.  All someone needs is your name, address and date of birth.  They don’t need to know any credit card numbers or bank details

They apply for credit and order goods.  To protect you the goods are sent only to you.  That’s the bit I didn’t understand.  I didn’t think anyone would be so bold or open. Apparently the baddies hang around the house and just sign for your goods and have them, or, more often, they wait until the next day.  They knock on your door and say, Did you by any chance get a laptop computer delivered to you yesterday that you didn’t order?

You agree that you did.

Oh, thank goodness for that! They say.  I have been trying to trace where it went!  That order was meant for me! 

And then you hand over the goods, because you are glad to have the mystery solved.

Sounds improbable, right?  When I called the laptop people to report it all, they said, Fine, thanks very much, but what about the laptop delivered last week?

I guess the baddies got that one.  I never even knew it was delivered.  Maybe a neighbour signed for it, maybe the baddies, lurking in my driveway after I had gone to work, signed for it themselves.

Either way it is creepy.