They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

5 26 July 2007

I’m faced with a choice as I approach Gatwick Airport. The North or South Terminal? If I had a coin, I’d toss it. I decide South. So many decisions I’m completely free to make.

It’s 1.45 p.m. Horrible Roel Albazi can only just about now be figuring I’m a no-show. My mirrors are still clear. But just for belt and braces, to be certain no one is following, I do a full 360-degree loop around the South Terminal before driving up the ramp of the short-term car park. Roy is not going to be happy if he gets stuck with the bill, the size of which will depend on how long it takes them to find my car. But the car is in my name, so it really shouldn’t be a problem for him.

I take my ticket and the barrier rises in front of me. Symbolic in a way, as I drive through and into my new life, which begins with an empty space between a white Porsche Cayman and a purple Nissan Micra on the fourth floor of the short-term car park. I lock my little Golf — I’ve no idea why, habit I guess — toss the keys into a convenient bin, then walk across the bridge into the terminal building.

One bonus, in the situation I find myself in, of being married to a detective is the stuff I’ve learned from Roy that most people would never, ever, even think about. Like how to disappear in our online, digital world.

How to vanish without trace.

Like I’m about to. I am so nervous. Then I remind myself I have no choice.

It’s weird when I look at my left hand and don’t see my wedding ring or my engagement ring, which have been part of my fourth finger for so long. There’s just a faint white band of skin that isn’t suntanned. I may have to pawn them, hopefully not, but not too close to home, in case pawnbrokers become a line of enquiry. I dig my hand into the pocket of my lightweight denim jacket as I stroll around the Departures concourse because I’m oddly self-conscious about that white band, my naked finger.

After stopping at WHSmith to buy a newspaper, I head over to the British Airways check-in area, join a short queue and then check in to flight BA 2771 to Malaga. No luggage, I tell the polite young man behind the desk who is looking at my passport.

After a few moments of tapping on his terminal, he hands my passport back to me. ‘Have a nice flight, Mrs Gordon.’

Instead of heading for security, I head for the loos. Once securely locked inside the ladies’, I open the small holdall slung over my shoulder, pull out a dark brown wig and tug it on. Along with a large pair of dark glasses. Then I reverse my denim jacket, so it is now white. Tug off my jeans and replace them with a sensible skirt. Next, I make my way across to the EasyJet check-in area.

Fifteen minutes later, thanks to my second false passport, Sandra Smith is allocated seat 14C on EZY 243 to Amsterdam. When she arrives, with just hand baggage, she will check in to a London City Airport flight under the name of Sandra Jones. On entering the arrivals lounge there, she will see a limousine driver holding up the name Alison Shipley.

Alison Shipley will be whisked away from the airport in the back of a black Mercedes S Class driven by a courteous man called Meehat El Hadidy, following directions on his satnav to East Grinstead.

Taking her towards her new beginning.