The Fear Index

come into your shop and say they were me?’
    ‘There is no shop any more. Not for five years. Only a poste restante. These days we are in a warehouse outside Rotterdam.’
    ‘Well, surely someone must have spoken to me on the phone at least?’
    ‘No, to speak to a customer is very unusual these days. Orders all come from email.’
    Hoffmann wedged the phone between his chin and shoulder. He clicked on his computer and went to his email screen. He scrolled through his outbox. ‘When am I supposed to have sent you this email?’
    ‘May third.’
    ‘Well, I’m looking here now at my emails for that day and I can assure you I sent no message to you on May third. What’s the email address on the order?’
    ‘A-dot-Hoffmann at Hoffmann Investment Technologies dot com.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s my address. But I don’t see any message to a bookseller here.’
    ‘You sent it from a different computer perhaps?’
    ‘No, I’m sure I didn’t.’ But even as he uttered the words the confidence leaked from his voice and he felt almost physically sick with panic, as if an abyss was opening at his feet. The radiologist had mentioned dementia as a possible explanation for the white pinpricks on his CAT scan. Perhaps he had used his mobile, or his laptop, or his computer at home, and forgotten all about it – although even if he had, surely some record of it would be here? He said, ‘What exactly was in the message I sent you? Can you read it back to me?’
    ‘There was no message. The process is automatic. The customer clicks on the title on our online catalogue and fills in the electronic order form – name, address, method of payment.’ She must have heard the uncertainty in his voice; now caution entered hers. ‘I hope you are not wanting to cancel the order.’
    ‘No, I just need to sort this out. You say the money was paid by bank transfer. What’s the account number the money came from?’
    ‘I cannot disclose that information.’
    Hoffmann summoned all the force he could muster. ‘Now listen to me. I’ve clearly been the victim of a serious fraud here. This is identity theft. And I most certainly will cancel the order, and I’ll put the whole goddamned thing in the hands of the police, and my lawyers, if you don’t give me that account number right now so I can find out just what the hell is going on.’
    There was a silence at the other end of the line. Eventually the woman said coldly, ‘I cannot give this information over the telephone, but I can send it to the email address given on the order. I can do it immediately. Will this be okay for you?’
    ‘This will be okay for me. Thank you.’
    Hoffmann hung up and exhaled. He put his elbows on his desk and rested his head between his fingertips and stared hard at his computer screen. Time seemed to pass very slowly, but in fact it was only twenty seconds later that his email inbox announced the arrival of a new message. He opened it. It was from the bookshop. There was no greeting, just a single line of twenty digits and letters, and the name of the account holder: A. J. Hoffmann. He gawped at it then buzzed his assistant. ‘Marie-Claude, could you mail me a list of all my personal bank account numbers? Right away, please.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And you keep a record of the security codes at my house, I believe?’
    ‘Yes, I do, Dr Hoffmann.’ Marie-Claude Durade was a brisk Swiss woman in her middle fifties who had been with Hoffmann for five years. She was the only person in the building who did not address him by his Christian name. It was inconceivable to him that she could be mixed up in any kind of illegal activity.
    ‘Where do you keep them?’
    ‘In your personal file on my computer.’
    ‘Has anyone asked for them?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You haven’t discussed them with anyone?’
    ‘Certainly not.’
    ‘Not even your husband?’
    ‘My husband died last year.’
    ‘Did he? Oh. Okay. Sorry. Anyway, there was a break-in at my house last night. The police may want to ask you some questions. Just to let you know.’
    ‘Yes, Dr Hoffmann.’
    As he waited for her to send him the details of his accounts, he leafed through the Darwin. He looked up ‘suspicion’ in the index:

A man may have his heart filled with the blackest hatred or suspicion, or be corroded with envy and jealousy; but as these feelings do not at once lead to action, and as they commonly last for some time, they are not shown by any outward sign …

    With all due