Fake Agent
Some years ago, when my daughter Helen was in her second term at university, she arranged for a few friends to come over for a weekend clubbing. One of the girls, Lisa, called to say she would arrive late – considerably after the others were going out – so I arranged to collect her from the station and drop her off in town. At the appointed time, I waited at the station. Lisa’s train was on time, and though I’d never met her, she was easy to spot once the departing passengers dispersed: a young, pretty girl standing outside the station with a case, looking around. I introduced myself and put her case in the boot. I knew Lisa was in the first year, like my daughter, so she was just eighteen. She was lovely; …