Flight 409

Everyone hates me.

I'm an inspector for 'Accountancy Solutions'. I'm the guy who swoops into your place of work when your boss thinks someone's nicking money or goods, and goes through the accounts to make sure things are in order. And if they're not, it's muggins here who points the finger at the likely culprit.

I do pretty well at it. I've got a lovely wife, and we adore each other, in fact we've got the perfect marriage. My boss Colin is also my best and oldest friend. Elizabeth and I have got a beautiful big house. On the whole I enjoy my work.

Born lucky I suppose you could say.

So why do you think I risked everything I've ever worked for to help a perfect stranger out of trouble?

My strange experience happened in Edinburgh. My company had sent me up to Frigid Foods, a large distribution centre for supermarket produce, where the boss suspected that money was going missing.

And I'd done the job to a tee.

Which was what was upsetting me so much.

I was waiting at the airport for Flight 409 that was leaving shortly, to take me back to London.

I was brooding and unhappy, remembering the 'criminal' Mary McCarthy, the extremely attractive middle-aged lady in the accounts department, who'd asked me into her office as I was leaving.

Tearfully she'd confessed to being the one who'd taken the money, something which I already knew. She explained about her daughter's drug addiction, her desperate attempts to find her counselling and therapy, and the huge cost of treatment at the addiction clinic. This was the reason, she told me, that she'd 'borrowed' money from the company's account, intending to pay it all l back before anyone noticed. Indeed, she told me, she'd got a loan that very day, and had already paid back all that she'd taken, but it would only show in the books tomorrow, too late for her to cover up what she'd done, particularly as I had now completed my audit. For obvious reasons we inspectors arrive out of the blue, so that no potential crook has the opportunity to cover their tracks.

Of course she knew there was nothing I could do to help her, she didn't even ask. Just sat there, telling me about her depression and misery, how she was divorced, and had been prepared to pay literally anything to find help for her daughter, who'd 'fallen apart in front of her eyes', but thankfully at long last had found a boyfriend and was on the road to recovery.

All I could do was advise her to tell her boss the truth next day, before they got my company report, and to throw herself on his mercy.

She replied, grimly telling me what I already knew: that as soon as he found out the company would be obliged to prosecute her, she might even go to prison, and she'd certainly never get another decent job.

FLIGHT 409, LONDON. ARRIVED

Was the notice that flipped up on the huge announcement board, that broke into my gloomy thoughts.

But just as I stood up to go through to the departure lounge, I knew that I couldn't go.

I just couldn't go!

I pictured Elizabeth, my wonderful wife, getting ready to drive out to meet me at Heathrow in a couple of hours' time.

But I still could't go.

For some weird reason I knew that there was no way that I could leave Edinburgh.

Next thing I knew I was running out of the airport and leaping into a taxi.