Fake landlord lied that his dad had died to scam my deposit

Freddie Priestley’s scheme to defraud renters began with a heart-wrenching tale of his father’s passing. Just two days before Sarah North was set to move into her London Bridge flat, the prospective landlord informed her of the sudden loss, claiming she’d need to find alternative housing. “He outlined the steps he needed to take—visiting the solicitor, coordinating with the funeral director, and finalizing plans,” North explains. What followed was a whirlwind of last-minute changes, leaving her stranded in a family member’s vacant rental while scrambling for a new place. “The entire scenario felt like a setup,” she says, describing the ordeal as “absolutely horrific.”

From California to a London scam

North’s story echoes that of Deryn Harris, who relocated from California to pursue a master’s degree in London. Harris, 27, also fell victim to Priestley’s ruse after agreeing to rent a room in his three-bedroom flat. “Studying abroad was something I’ve always dreamed of,” she recalls. “When I received my acceptance letter, I was elated—like, ‘Oh my gosh, is this actually happening?'” Priestley’s swift response to her Facebook post and the promise of an affordable £1,050 monthly rent convinced her. “He sent me photos to back up his claims,” she says, “and it all happened within a few hours.” Despite the speed of the transaction, she sensed something amiss, prompting her to attempt backing out of the lease. Priestley, however, reassured her the deposit would be returned, sowing doubt until she posted warnings online.

Trust betrayed by a fake narrative

Andy Hu, a 25-year-old from Australia, shared a similar fate. He, too, found a room in Priestley’s flat through a Facebook post, believing the landlord to be genuine. “He talked about sharing rugby matches and envisioning our future as flatmates,” Hu says, recalling the initial charm. “I thought he was the ideal roommate.” Yet, after signing the agreement and paying the deposit, Priestley began evading meetings, citing illness or family emergencies. “He wasn’t completely disappearing, but he’d drop hints until I felt forced to commit,” Hu explains. When he finally admitted to the scam, it was with the excuse of his father’s death. “I was too deep into it to admit it was a fraud,” he says, though he later verified the deposit wasn’t protected as required by law.

A pattern of deceit

The National Fraud Intelligence Bureau reports 4,441 rental scams in the past year across England, Wales, and Northern Ireland. Victims aged 20 to 29 are particularly vulnerable, as seen in North, Harris, and Hu’s cases. Priestley’s tactics—mixing detailed stories with subtle delays—exploited their urgency. “He provided such detailed accounts, it felt like every word was a lie,” North says, highlighting the ease with which scams can unravel trust. Harris, after checking land registry records confirming the flat was her father’s, still couldn’t escape the sense of being deceived. Her post on Facebook sparked a wave of similar stories, revealing a broader issue in London’s rental market.

“It was a gradual losing of hope,” says Harris. “I totally knew it was most likely a scam, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

“He wasn’t fully ghosting me, but he’d breadcrumb me until I basically had enough and posted on Facebook,” Hu adds.

By law, deposits must be safeguarded in a government-approved scheme within 30 days. Yet, in these cases, the schemes were either bypassed or misrepresented, leaving tenants with no recourse. Priestley’s story, though singular, underscores a systemic problem, with victims left to navigate the chaos of unfulfilled promises and empty promises.