Trouble Insurance

By D.J. Nyland

Several years ago, lacking empathy for ego-driven bosses, I decided I would be best off self employed. I thought long and hard about what a qualified CPA might do in a world that didn't involve bean counting. After due consideration I concluded that the only thing with growth potential was 'white collar crime'. I felt suitably qualified to deal with this, having worked for many years in an industry where almost everyone was 'of dodgy character'.
To begin, I opened a small office in the city. At the same time I put an advertisement in the yellow pages offering myself as a private investigator.
Regular checks of my answering machine gave me nothing of real interest. After a few weeks, a strapping Scot named Gordon volunteered to be my first employee. Amazingly he found me a client, begining my investigative efforts with a whimper rather than a bang.
My next breakthrough, a change to the world of travel insurance fraud, was driven by my desperate need to escape corporate life. My searches for petty criminals, scammers and con artists inspired me to write about these shady characters who thought they could pull off the perfect crime. Some did, most didn't.
Along the way I discovered that half a million Aussies leave our shores each month, taking with them a complete ignorance of travel insurance. This book will seriously change that dynamic
After investigating hundreds of claims I estimate that less than five percent were totally free of fraud, one quarter were totally fraudulent, half were severely padded and the remainder were only slightly exaggerated. Some defences of these claims may be useful to a reader planning a scam. Most stories are humorous, but all are educational.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.J. Nyland
• Release date: Aug 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9780646578842

Book preview

Trouble Insurance

D.John Nyland

Published by D.J. Nyland at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 D.J. Nyland

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CHAPTER ONE

My name is D. John Nyland. For over eighteen years I’ve been investigating travel insurance claims. At this very moment you are probably wondering why on earth any one would write a book about this topic. All I can say is this topic has, on many occasions, kept me amused, puzzled, wary, scared and entertained for years. I have just felt obliged to tell the story of those I have encountered, hopefully giving you similar experiences. They walk among us, and you should be mindful.

The journey began in the latter part of the twentieth century when I applied for, and was granted a license to work as a private investigator, having formed the view that the only growth industry in Australia was ‘white collar crime.’ Being a qualified bean counter, I thought all I had to do was advertise and work would flood in.

At this time, I was working for two entrepreneurs, a couple of smart operators. They purchased or started businesses at a rate that made heads spin, expecting their existing staff to be experts in management and administration of their dalliances. The budding moguls just assumed you knew, and if you didn’t, you got shunted out of the way. However, employees were rarely sacked. Most were simply reassigned or given menial tasks, or both. In some instances, executive assistants were given bigger cars than the executives. This was a sure sign their career paths looked more like bush tracks in boxthorn country.

I’m not flashy. I’m a steady kind of guy, more likely to laugh than attack, which was possibly why they initially employed me. Needless to say, they ran the kind of business that encouraged people to exceed their own expectations. In one situation a female clerk used this initiative and sorted out the account of a major client. She then penned a letter to the CEO which began, Dear Sir, Further to our oral intercourse. . . Her error pointed out, she promptly resigned. But, with luck on her side she was employed within the week. Guess which major client snapped her up?

My bosses loved the rough and tumble nature of their business which in turn trained me well in dealing with cut-throats, liars and thieves; ready for self employment in an ever-increasing dodgy world. I enjoyed being part of this crazy world but I knew deep down that one day I too might have to navigate my way through boxthorns. So, this was the partly the motivation to plant a few seeds for myself.

Interested in growing my crop sooner rather than later, and needing to conserve my meagre bank balance, I opened a small office in a cheapish part of the city. I inhabited the place out of hours, having kept my day job. The two–room affair could only be furnished sparsely: one desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet (for the booze) and a large ashtray. For trimming, I had a printer with a ribbon which could be rewound (cost efficient), a land-line attached to copper wires, a cumbersome mobile phone that should have had its own manual handling instructions and a Commodore 128 (this was a computer, if you didn’t already know), overlooking the 64 because it wouldn’t cope with my anticipated growth.

The rooms, to my surprise, must have been a former establishment for men’s pleasure because during the first week or so of summer, whilst I was in setting up mode, strangers would walk through the door in heavy overcoats. Hiding something maybe? I had great difficulty in ushering some out the door. I eventually realized the external night security light was an ominous color. After I changed the light, things improved markedly. The cloaked male moths were no longer attracted by the light.

On my second week, I found a message on my office answering machine. I replayed the unusual-sounding utterances several times and after each I understood a few more words. The language was English, but spoken by a newly arrived Scotsman who had apparently seen my little advertisement in the Yellow Pages. He wanted to meet for a wee chat.

The next day, a big, strong lad, blond-haired and blue-eyed, arrived in my office. He introduced himself as Gordon Smith and sat in the offered chair. During our get-together, I reluctantly formed the view that my visitor was no Einstein. He began every sentence with an ‘err’, which actually sounded more like eearrrrrrrrr. I rearranged my desk pens, dreamed about having a full in-basket, and exercised my ankles while he took an eternity getting to the point. At the precise moment of finishing his second ‘err’, he blurted out that he was looking for employment as an investigator. This was really a cute moment in time.

I discovered he had worked as a cop in both Scotland and Northern Ireland, the later posting coinciding with that rotten era in Irish history when they took a fancy to blowing up anything or anyone they didn’t like. As I didn’t have a single client except for an odd-bod who wanted a paper on the pros and cons of scrapping Worker’s Liens Act, I thought what the heck; give the immigrant a go.

This is the silly part. I said, If you want a job, mate, get me some clients.

Even sillier, he said, Okay.

That day, I had business cards printed for him, but I had to change his name to give him the pizzazz to match his large jaw. A simple hyphen did the trick. In an instant he became Gordon Raydon-Smith. He marched off perfectly happy. I sat staring at my empty filing cabinet, apart from the booze. Luckily, I still had my regular employment.

Although ‘white collar crime’ is a growth industry, investigators of scams don’t necessarily flourish. Unfortunate (for me), but true. Deceitful acts tend to get ‘swept under the carpet’ when a fraud has been committed in a business. Some business owners won’t chase good money after bad, thinking the cash has likely been spent at the track or invested in a poker machine and that the chance of restitution is nil. Others are more concerned about protecting their own egos than nailing perpetrators. As for getting the police interested in investigating fraud, often the authorities will only get involved when evidence is laid out for them. Therefore, the cheated have to engage a fraud expert. I initially saw myself filling this role and filling my pockets. My immediate ambition went unfulfilled until, lo and behold, after about a week or two of knocking on solicitors’ doors, Gordon rang me to let me know he had landed a ‘big case’ from a prestigious legal firm. You little ripper, my first real job! I’ll never forget the moment when he settled his worn-down shoes under the chair in my neat but almost empty office and set about telling me what the ‘case’ was about.

The solicitor wanted summonses served on three men. Despite valiant attempts over several years, these culprits could not be found. The scoundrels had borrowed millions of dollars from an Australian bank, made no repayments, and promptly vanished.

Aha. I had a proper client. An injection of capital was now required. I needed to buy a second desk, an armchair and another large ashtray. With progress came man-made pollution and the need to implement our own carbon reduction strategy. I prized opened a window that hadn’t moved in decades.

Back in that era, some banks had lax lending habits. Their managers chucked money at anybody whether they wanted funding or not. A customer who wanted $10,000 was encouraged to borrow $20,000. I was quite peeved to discover these organizations had changed their ways, especially when a good number of banks were precluded from taking legal action to recover debts, having botched loan documentation. An opportunity lost! Plus, I would have preferred using their dosh rather than risking my start-up company, which consisted of one employee and no clients.

With a big, slow grin, my new-found Scottish mate dragged out the story for over an hour before mentioning the names of the dastardly individuals. When he eventually revealed their identity, I laughed because I actually knew of these guys. Over the years they had tried to get one of my bosses to invest in their business opportunities, but he was too smart. For some obscure reason he liked mixing with these types of individuals. I think he enjoyed listening to their scams and stories.

A large folder full of documents and investigator reports accompanied our first case. The bank had paid thousands of dollars several private investigation firms to find these crooks. I suspect we landed the job simply because the solicitor was desperate, having run out of options. Maybe he had been swayed by Gordon’s broad Scottish accent. Whatever, I set about reading the reports submitted by the various investigators. The ink on the documents was largely wasted. The reports were short on facts and long on rhetoric.

Taking into account the theory of ‘six degrees of separation,’ I actually knew what these guys had been up to over the previous two years, and they hadn’t been anywhere near Australia. Their names were Con, Nob and George. (You would have realized by now that all names used in the book are fictitious but reflective of those involved.) If you happen to recognize yourself here you might be wise not to admit your folly to anyone.

The colorful-lads had been in a small African country where they had acquired the mining rights to an abandoned diamond mine. In reality, all they had was old workings. They arranged for a geologist to do a dodgy assay on the slag-heap which was then used as the basis of a feasibility report. Obviously, this showed that massive profits could be derived from reworking the heap to recover small diamonds. With the report in hand, they headed for Europe to find a sucker. Who did they call on? You guessed it, my boss. He had just bought a run-down transport business in Europe for one solitary guilder. Yes, one guilder. They did their song-and--dance act about the diamond mine, but he didn’t bite. I never found out what happened to the mining venture but you can bet this dodgy trio came out in front.

During inquiries into their activities, I found they had also gained an interest in a Brazilian gold mining venture, which they ‘salted’, resulting in ‘killing’. These guys were good at their craft. Finding them would not be straight-forward. They had cash, ways and means, dual passports, and panache, while I had trouble evicting cloaked moths.

Any investigator who doesn’t view chasing shysters as fun should find another line of work. So, I took a deep breath and got the manhunt for our three debtors underway.

* * *

Manhunts might be entertaining but they can become frustrating. In this particular case, our quarry was hell bent on not being found. The old investigation reports gave me a clue as to whom these guys associated with in Australia. I started tracking them during the first few weeks in my spare time. This enabled me to gather information about the trio and their mates. Most of the ‘good oil’ came from the ring-leader’s ex-wife, an over-toasted blonde who jumped at the opportunity to bring her ‘ex’ undone.

Obvious to me was that getting square after being dumped for a more current model and not getting a share of the large bank loan was her motivation. Also, she figured that if the money was removed from the equation, the mini-skirter would soon fly off and the husband would limp home. So confident was she that this would happen she didn’t even bother losing the spare tyre or touching up the duco.

Late one Saturday afternoon I was reviewing the intelligence gathered thus far in my cozy little carbon-reduced office while sharing with my Scottish investigator a bottle of his favorite beverage. Frustrated by the lack of progress, I decided to telephone a known associate of one the men, whose name strongly suggested he hailed from southern Europe. A young boy answered the phone.

I conjured up a foreign accent and asked, Seen-a Con lately, boy? I’m a gunna be in town nex-a week and I wann-a do the business.

Con’s in hospital.

When pressed for more information, the boy called for his Mum. I panicked and hung up. I then called another of his associates. Using the same dodgy accent, I told him I had heard that Con was in hospital and I wanted to know where so that I could send a card.

Royal North Shore, thank you very much!

Gordon then rang the solicitor at his home with this news, as he had requested. The solicitor was so delighted that he instructed us to charter a light aircraft, as the last commercial flight had already departed for the night. Off went Gordon and I to Sydney, armed with a summons for a very large debt, and larger bottle of scotch. The Scot, newly promoted to partner, flatly refused to drink anything else.

Once in Sydney, we checked the Yellow Pages for a process server. In NSW, as in most of the other states in Australia, you need to be licensed by the government to perform this type of work. We found Harold Hunter whose business address suggested he was the closest and we met at the hospital on the Sunday morning. After briefing him on the situation we then located Con.

Our scammer lay morosely on his bed in a private room. Bedraggled flowers drooped in a vase on the window-sill. A urine bag dangled from the side of his bed. We guessed he was attached and wasn’t leaving in a hurry.

Having gained clearance from the duty doctor, we sent Harold in to serve the court summons. This is a simple process. The server only has to confirm the person’s name and hand over the document. If the person refuses to accept, the server only has to touch him or her with the document, or drop it at their feet. We watched the proceedings through a glass panel.

A good deal more time passed than is usual. Our man, rising to his toes now and again, had a lot to say. Con