1995. It's said that bad luck comes in threes. I had just injured my leg in a skiing accident, my tenants had done a flit and let the house filthy and unrentable, and now my car had been stolen. I got off the train and limped down to the station car park, but where was the car? I looked back and forth, but it wasn't there: just a pile of broken glass to suggest that entry had been made through a rear window. What the ...? Didn't this sort of thing only happen to other people? All right, I will admit that repairing it was still cheaper than its purchase price, but the paint was fainted from 17 years in the sun, and unkind people were known to use the term, "rust bucket" when talking about it. Who'd want to steal something like that? At the Sandgate Police Station an officer entered the details into a computer and told me that, if it had been taken for a joy ride rather than parts, they would likely find it in a few days, for they usually cruised around car parks at night looking for stolen cars.
That was late on Thursday. None of us could have predicted the sort of craziness which the weekend would bring.
Friday was simple. I contacted my insurer, who arranged for me to be supplied with a rental car for 14 days, or until the stolen vehicle had been recovered, whatever came first. It was a brand new Falcon with just 6 kilometres on the clock. "What about the insurance?" I asked.
"It's covered by the insurance on your old car," was the reply.
Not terribly reassuring! A dint on that thing would have cost more than the replacement price of the stolen vehicle.
Saturday, for reasons I needn't go into, was exhausting, so I went to bed at half past 8, only to be jerked out of sleep by the loud ringing of the telephone about quarter to 9. My first thought was that it was a bit early for the police to have found my car. Instead, a male voice started: "I hear you're offering a reward, no questions asked, for the return of a car - a U.C. Torana."
"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.
"In the pubs and such," he replied. (Rubbish!)
"Well, I hadn't, actually," I answered, "but I'm interested. What's your story?"
"Listen, I didn't steal the car, but I know who did, because the fellow who took it tried to sell it to me. I know where it is. It occurred to me that you might be prepared to pay something - say $200 - to get it back. But I don't want the police involved, because I've got some outstanding fines."
I started to think fast. It was probably best that he didn't know I had a rental car at hand. "Well," I said, "I'm more concerned about getting it back than getting the police involved. But I don't have any wheels right now, or the money. I'll have to see the bloke next door - perhaps wake him up - and borrow his car so that I can go to the ATM and get the money out. You'll have to phone back later. And how are you going to get the car?"
"I'll borrow it from the guy who's trying to sell it to me. He has a skeleton key."
He hung up, and a half an hour or so later I was at the police station being interviewed by a Detective Hopkins of the C.I.B., who instructed me to call back when he phoned again.
Now, I asked myself as I went home, how did he discover my name and telephone number? Then it hit me. In the glove box I had left a small, very old notebook which I used as a log book, and it bore my name and address. It would then be a simple matter to look up both in the telephone directory, and although the telephone was in my mother's name, our initials were the same.
Sunday. Needless to say, it took a long time to get back to sleep, and that disturbed sleep was shattered at a quarter past one by the raucous ringing of the telephone. It was him again. Did I have the money? Yes. How did he find my name and phone number? He confirmed my original conclusions.
It would be difficult and pointless to repeat our exact conversation, because he was so scared he said everything twice. He would tell me something, go to another item, and then return to the earlier statement a couple of minutes later.
"Look," he said, "I wasn't able to get the car, but I know where it. The bloke who stole it tried to sell it to me. He's a real violent bastard, and I don't want him to know I'm talking to you, or he'll bash my head in. But I'll show you where it is. I'll be frank with you: my motives are a combination of greed and doing you a favour. I reckon if I can help you get back your car, you can help me out by paying for the information."
I agreed that sounded reasonable. "Right now," he said, "I'm ringing from a public phone booth at ..." and he gave me an address some miles away which would be very easy to find. "My name's Derek ***, and I come from Adelaide, where I've got a couple of fines outstanding, so I don't want the police involved."
So, he's doing something of questionable legality, and he's afraid of the police, but he provides his name. Not only that, but he provided it again a minute or two later. I was starting to think I wasn't dealing with the sharpest blade in the cutlery drawer.
"Don't worry, I won't call the police. I'm more interesting in getting my car back. So, how do I go about it?"
"Well, if you can drive down here with the money, I can take you to the place. But if I show you the spot, you can't knock on the door. I told you, he's a real violent bastard, and I don't want him to know I'm involved."
What the ...! He wanted me to go out in the dead of the night with a wad of money and rendezvous with a complete stranger at an isolated spot. Did he think I was a complete idiot, or was he one?
"Well," I said, still pretending I had no replacement car, "I can get see if I can wake up the man next door and get him to drive me down."
"I've got another idea," he said. "Perhaps I can phone for a taxi from here. I can then have him drive to your place, if you're prepared to pay the fare."
That was the last thing I wanted! Instead, I told him I would stick to my original plan, and be down to meet him within the hour.
"But don't send the cops around," he insisted. "If you do, I'll tell them another story." He was terrified of both the police and the violent thug who had stolen the car.
"I won't send around the police," I told him.
Like hell I wouldn't! I looked at my watch as I hung up. It was just after 1.21. Right away, I dialed the number of the local police station - feeling a heel, because I had repeatedly promised I wouldn't. No answer. It was apparently closed. I therefore dialed triple-zero and told my story to an officer on duty. He agreed to send someone around, and promised to ring back.
Sunday morning: nothing happened! I had woken spontaneously at 6, feeling a wreck. Well, I thought, that's it; I've lost the car. After church, I caught up on my sleep. Then, at 4 pm I returned to the Sandgate police station because I knew Senior Constable Hopkins was due to be back on duty. He was surprised to hear that the station phone number had been registered as disconnected the previous night, because it was always manned. He contacted head office, and discovered that my call had gone through at 1.36. They had sent over a police car right away, but had found no-one. I gave him the complete story, and pointed out that a person with Derek's initial and surname was listed in the phone book close to the pick-up point.
On returning home, I was just starting a cup of coffee, when the phone rang again. "Hello, it's me again," said a familiar voice. I couldn't believe he'd be so stupid as to call back. "What happened last night?"
I wish I could always think as quickly as I did at that moment. "That's what I'd like to know," I demanded with mock indignation. "Where the hell were you?"
"At the place I said," he replied. "The coppers came past, and at first I thought you had sent them, but then I thought it'd be against your best interests."
"You're telling me!" I replied. "I wouldn't be stupid enough to send around the police." It seems he had ducked behind some building when the police car approached, then had waited till about half past two. Now he was at Sandgate, and wanted to meet me at Doug's Seafood Café. Now, isn't it interesting: you live in a locality for decades, and never bother to use the eating facilities. This was the first time I'd heard of the café, but we now use it quite regularly. It's very good. Anyhow, I told him to give me half an hour while I borrowed the neighbour's car. I had to describe myself and the car, and received his description in turn.
Immediately, I called Constable Hopkins, and hurried down to the station. It was agreed that detective Wells would drive the car, pretending to be my neighbour, because he was casually dressed. When we arrived at the café, we found it thronged with customers, none of which looked like Derek. Then Detective Wells pointed out a man who was tall and slim, wearing black jeans, as originally described. He also sported a small beard, a shirt opened on a tattooed chest, and a face that looked like it had been in a fight.
"I believe I have to see you," was his greeting. "Derek *** is the name." I introduced myself and my "neighbour". He was affable, and suggested we get into the car and talk. Once inside, he explained that the car was, in fact, just around the corner.
Suddenly, Hopkins appeared at the window. "Police!" he said, flashing his ID. "We'd like to have a talk with you."
"Oh no!" said Derek quietly. "That's what I was worried about. So now I'll be going to jail, just for trying to do the right thing."
Hopkins and another policeman piled into the back seat. Derek explained that he did not steal the car, but he knew it was hidden in a shed at a house nearby - a boarding house, I think. He didn't want to drive past it in case the thief saw that he was with the police, so we all went to the station, where I sat in a waiting room while the interrogation took place.
I even felt like handing Derek a $20 bill as he went past, because I felt rotten about how I had betrayed him. True, he had tried to shake me down, but he was definitely trying to help me get my car back, and I had solemnly promised I wouldn't bring the police into it.
About a quarter to six Constable Hopkins came and told me there was no point in my staying around. They had got the address where the car was stored, and were satisfied that Derek was telling the truth. There was not much they could charge him with, and I wasn't prepared to press charges. At 10.25 that night a call came to say that they had retrieved my car and arrested the thief.
I never had to attend the thief's trial. They let Derek go, and I hope he got a good scare. He was not good enough to be an honest citizen, and not bad enough, or smart enough, to be a proper crook. That's a recipe for one day being caught between a rock and a hard place.
As for the car: a few years later the rust on the doors became so appallingly visible that I had them replaced. Unfortunately, it was not possible to match the faded blue of the chassis, so it ended up with one door dark blue, one green, and one yellow. No-one would think of stealing that! Shortly afterwards, I sold it for scrap and replaced it with one better suited for taking a certain lady on outings and on a honeymoon. She now informs me that if I had started courting her with the old multi-coloured rust bucket, I'd still be single.
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