They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

54 September 2011

In the service station loo, behind a locked door, I shot up methadone, and it started to calm me, rapidly. I then peed, refuelled and got us something to eat, and Bruno and I had a mother-and-son date night in the car park before driving on to the Malmaison at Brighton Marina for an early night.

Nicos had helpfully instructed me that we must spend a minimum three nights in England, so as not to create any suspicion with the Jersey Customs and Immigration team when we return. He said the Border Force officers scrutinize the manifests of the airlines and ferries, and people making round trips in a short space of time, such as twenty-four hours, will often trigger suspicion.

It is such a relief to spend three nights away from Nicos, and some time instead with just Bruno. I’m planning to take him to see the lions at Longleat safari park tomorrow.

Our twin-bedded, tastefully styled room is feeling like a sanctuary after the long stressful day and I’m finding it calming, particularly as Bruno is now fast asleep, and I can finally open the heavier and bigger-than-I-had-expected suitcase that’s sitting on the floor. It doesn’t look anything special, just a big, cheap, soft-sided suitcase — I guess that’s the point, ordinary and bland to avoid suspicion.

I’d collected it on the way here, from the storage depot in Shoreham, using the keys and the code Nicos gave me to access his locker. Now I heave it up onto my bed.

Pop-pop go the twin metal catches.

I lift the lid. And...

Oh my God!

It’s the smell that hits me first before anything else! It’s never really occurred to me before that money has a smell, but it really does. It’s not the glorious smell of musty paper you get in old libraries, it’s tangy, intoxicating, a seductive perfume full of promise. It smells of the French Riviera, of fast cars, of slinky black leather gloves, of expensive lingerie, of jet planes — and above all...

It smells of freedom.

I’m high on the smell and mesmerized by the sight. I’ve seen plenty of movies in which villains have suitcases full of cash, but...

Shit...

I’ve never actually seen a real suitcase full of real cash, until now. Bundles of fifty-pound notes. Bundles and bundles. And bundles.

And more bundles. All neatly stacked.

And more bundles still. All held together with red elastic bands.

I count one bundle. There are a hundred fifty-pound notes; £5,000 a bundle.

An hour later, after I’ve finished counting, I’m looking at £1.2 million. I whisper it out aloud to convince myself I’m not dreaming. ‘One million, two hundred thousand pounds!’

As they call it in criminal slang, one point two million quid in folding.

Nicos told me it would be a doddle. Collect the suitcase, spend three days in England, and then return to Jersey.

Great.

But I’m not comfortable leaving a suitcase containing over a million quid in our hotel room. Or our car parked with that amount inside.

And here’s another problem that smart Nicos hasn’t anticipated. The suitcase is almost too big for the boot of my little MX5. And that gives me another problem. Where is the rest of our luggage going to fit?

Then I’m struck with a thought. And it’s a thought that I really like. And the more I think about it, the more I like it.

How about I take some of this money to the Rendezvous casino a two-minute walk away? That would help sort out the oversized bag issue!

And £1.2 million would be so cool to gamble with.

If I could figure a way to get that debt paid back to Roel Albazi, I never need to think of him ever again. I’d feel a lot better. I want to be a decent person, really. I guess that’s something my Lutheran mother instilled in me.

Do the right thing.

But that would mean taking up gambling again and that’s not really doing the right thing. Maybe it would lead me back down the dangerous path of gambling addiction, and it wasn’t lost on me that was why I was in this situation to begin with. Nicos never allowed me the opportunity to gamble once we moved to Jersey and luckily there are no casinos there. Instead, he got me hooked on heroin. One addiction to another. At least it did stop my out-of-control gambling habit. But just this little flutter would be OK. It was all I could think of and the obvious way into my new better life. Just a little of the money, win it back and more, raising no suspicion when I take it back as promised to Nicos, pocketing the profit. I felt confident and in control.

I could ask the reception to help me find a local approved babysitter to watch over Bruno while he slept, disappear next door to the casino, just an hour or so, all anonymous.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.

Just one big bet — two at worst. £150K on red or black? Double the money and, bingo, out of trouble! Not that I’m worrying that I’m in any trouble — four years on, Roel Albazi in prison probably has bigger things on his mind. And anyhow, I’ve no idea how I would get the money to him.

God, my mind is so messed up.

But this money is burning a hole. I could turn it into so much more and Nicos would never know. I hand him the suitcase in three days’ time, with £1.2 million in it. And I’d have another million or more, stashed secretly. And I’ll use it to get away from him.

It’s a good plan.

Game on.

I’m feeling lucky tonight!