This is the crude, but effective, device that was designed to part me from my debit card.
Too late to avoid a week of inconvenience while a new one is despatched by my bank, I only realised something was wrong when my card was not returned and my requested £60 failed to pop out of the machine.
It was late evening in Grays Inn Road, London, and I’d hopped off the bus to use the NatWest ATM before heading home on the tube from Chancery Lane.
The machine is not well lit, shaded from the street lighting by a tree and now a hole in the wall outside a branch of Pret a Manger where once there was a bank branch.
I’d made a cursory swipe across the card slot before I used the machine, as always, but not felt anything was wrong. So I keyed in my pin and cash request. The machine whirred and appeared to be trying to serve me, but nothing appeared. It dawned on me that all was not right.
The machine whirred again and then a fault message came up on the screen, advising users not to re-enter their pin numbers and to consult a smartphone app to find the nearest alternative.
Not much point with my card apparently swallowed. Better phone my bank, I decided. A quick search for the number and I rang the Co-operative Bank’s 24-hour card loss service.
The phone signal was poor but I managed to identify myself as the rightful customer and explain the problem. That the £60 had been deducted from my account increased my suspicion that there was more than a faulty ATM here.
So I felt around the fascia more carefully and realised I could get my nail under a grey piece of plastic beneath the card slot. I pulled and it came away, revealing that it had been attached with double-sided sticky tape. Embedded in the tape were a piece of card that looks, in daylight, as if it had been cut from a tube ticket and then a rectangle of sprung metal, The assembly had been painted metallic grey to match the ATM. A skimming device.
Now I was asking if I should call the police, but took the impression that they’d take little interest in this fraud and my £60.
I’d already cancelled my card and pin by this time, but could see the end of the card tantalisingly within reach. No point in retrieving it, was the advice, and I didn’t have a tool with which to prise it out. So I pushed it in further, determined that however useless the card now was the thieves would not have the satisfaction of getting their mitts on it.
I imagine the skimmers weren’t far away. Possibly it was even the youngish man who queued for a bit behind me, then left, then came back, then left again. But that’s my suspicious mind.
Now I have to wait for a new card, new pin and to see if the Link company will return the £60 I never received. I’ll report back when I hear if they try to claim I must have taken it.
I’m not sure the cash dispensing slot hadn’t been tampered with too, but nothing came off in my hands. And, despite having read about these crimes, I forgot to search for the tiny camera that might have been recording my fingers as they keyed in the pin.
I’ll be avoiding this ATM in future. On reflection, the surroundings are just too dark for customers to see if it’s ok to use. But more generally, had I not been able to search for my bank’s contact details on my phone browser, I’d have quite likely left the scene – and given the skimmers access to my card and my account.
Surely ATMs should display at the very least contact information and instructions to follow if you suspect a crime, and perhaps even a button to press (clearly marked “Panic”) to speak to a control centre.
I take some comfort that my phone wasn’t expensive enough to attract the attention of any lurking muggers. But that’s another risk of modern life.