1988…
Peter arrived just as the company’s existing finance Manager left. He’d never worked in the motor trade before. I liked him immediately. He was a shrewd operator and a quick learner, and he loved money. This was the 1980’s when 'greed was good', and he wasn’t all that concerned with how he acquired it.
The dealer sold the same make of new car as its two sister branches nearby did, making sales pretty hard to come by. It didn’t matter who sold what to whom, there was simply too many of us competing, and heavy discounts became the order of the day as customers went from one branch to the other, making our commissions really small. Eventually the dealership decided that the best way to increase its profits was to reduce the amount of commission they paid the salesmen. Unsurprisingly we didn’t like this idea, and all I got for voicing this was: “If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
So, after a few weeks of receiving one third less per sale, perhaps because it looked like we’d accepted their decision easily, they dropped the rate to half. This was the final straw for me, and when Peter and I later talked about it over a drink, an idea began to form. Instead of walking away, we would play a different game.
Unlike Peter, acquiring the company’s money wasn’t what really interested me. I was far more interested in what the experience would be like when it would be discovered. For me, it had never been about getting away with anything; we were going to be caught at some point so there was no point imagining anything else. And I even got to see everything laid out before me during a meditation, just before it all began, like a part of me was making sure I truly understood what I was getting myself into.
Taking the company’s money. Falsifying various accounts. Paying insurance cheques received for work done on accident claims into the wrong accounts. Even exchanging some of those cheques for the cash some customers paid their balance with, effectively laundering the company’s own money through itself, allowed me to put thousands into my pocket.
As a result, in quite a short time, I had so much money coming in that I felt free from having to earn it. I’d sit at my desk going through the motions, unconcerned whether someone bought a car or not, and then ironically started selling not only more than I’d ever done before, but more than the top sellers in the showroom were.
The 1980s was a time when flashing money around was the way people seemed to be. Even though I’d bought myself a really nice watch (something I’d made payments on the year before), having so much money cried out to be spent. So one morning, I stopped off at a Jewellers on my way in, put £2600 on the counter and walked out with a £3200 Rolex. And, just to complete the set, saw an 18ct gold and diamond ring, also by Rolex, and added that on too, for a mere £850 more. Then, almost immediately, went through a number of experiences where the watch was seen as fake. The irony was not lost on me.
Here’s an example…
I was in McD’s waiting for my order, in what was a fairly poor neighbourhood, when a large Jamaican man standing next to me suddenly exclaimed loudly…
“Why do peepall ullwayz weeaire deeze feeyaake wutches munn!”
I could’ve felt the need to put him right: Here, look closely my good man, can you not see this is the real thing? Feel it. Feel the weight of it. See the way the second hand sweeps? The fake ones tick. This is a handmade expertly crafted time piece made by a master watchmaker who…
…and then presumably watch him run off with it.
The bloody thing broke down a week later and had to be returned to Rolex who replaced it, making the whole process of choosing the specific slice of granite as its face, a nonsense. I lost the ring a few months later when it slipped off my finger as I'd lost weight.
I was soon working seven days a week. I finally took a much needed day off. The auditors came in, and I received a call from a worried Peter. He was sure they'd finally put things together and was making plans to run. I told him I’d be staying to face whatever happened. At first he couldn’t understand why I’d do that, but he eventually decided to do the same.
Peter's call gave me a chance to prepare a few things. I’d rented two safe-deposit boxes. The first idea was a small cash box I’d bought and kept at my bank, so I popped in and removed its contents. The better idea was a private vault in central London where I moved everything too. I needed to know money would be there when I needed it and could not be seized by the Police.
I came in the next day. The morning was uneventful, but after lunch, the manager called me upstairs into his office. Two fraud-squad officers were waiting and they arrested me the moment I walked in. No questions were asked, no accusations were made, in fact no words were said other than to confirm my name and tell me my rights. I'd been expecting it, but experiencing it still came as a shock.
I'd been living this secret life for over a year, and not having to hide anymore felt instantly better. I exercised my right to silence immediately; I knew I was going to. Silence helped me deal with what was already feeling strange. I knew I had to keep everything to myself.
The two detectives walked me down the spiral staircase, one in front, the other behind, while my work colleagues, having no idea what was going on, just stared. We stopped by my desk which they looked through briefly, then out to my company car where I was asked to remove any personal items. I already had.
As I got into their car, I replied to something one of the detectives said. It was silly really. He was trying to get a sense of who I was, and I answered him without thinking, and what came out sounded cocky. I saw his eyes light up as he must’ve realised he was going to play. Like a cat having caught a mouse and letting it think it has a chance; I realised I'd just made it harder for myself.
***
The Police station wasn’t far, and I was soon standing at the front desk listening to my rights being told to me again. When I was asked if I wanted a solicitor, I declined. I felt I had to handle it by myself, in silence, moment by moment. I didn’t want anyone interfering with that. I just had to accept it and let it be whatever it was going to be.
The desk Sergeant wrote down my details, putting my personal items into a clear plastic bag. When he picked up the Rolex, he looked at it closely, turning it over in his hands, feeling its weight, before shrugging and putting it in with rest. He led me into a warm cell with a small barred window, a narrow bunk with a blue plastic mattress, and a lidless, stainless steel toilet. No paper.
In the business card pocket of my jacket was a small piece of Hash. I wasn’t searched; they'd just asked me to empty my pockets. It was small and may not have been noticed anyway, but I was still glad they hadn’t found it. Even though I smoked Cannabis regularly; often during work, usually after work, and even with the sales manager in his office before we went home, the pervading fear was much stronger than it is now; far from the idea of medical Marijuana.
My first thought was to flush it just in case they found it on me later. But it seemed silly to get rid of it, especially as I would likely be in the cell for some time. I decided to swallow it as it would help me pass the time. I swallowed the lot.
The custody officer came in with a plate of beef stew, mashed potatoes served using an ice-cream scoop, and cabbage. The rules state that a prisoner must be fed at certain times whether they are hungry or not. I wasn’t even slightly hungry but I took it anyway, and as I did, memories of eating bland, primary school dinners requiring huge amounts of salt, flooded back. So I quickly asked him for salt, but the look he gave me definitely suggested the food didn’t need any. So I ate the unseasoned blandness anyway, and when he returned to collect the tray, the two detectives who’d arrested me followed him in. They led me to a nearby room, turned on the recorder and began the questions.
Without a solicitor this was more intimidating than it would otherwise have been. I did wonder if they'd employ any of those tactics I saw on TV shows when the suspect refuses to speak. They didn’t. They just went through their questions, asking what they wanted to know and adding 'no comment' next to it. I didn’t say 'no comment' like suspects usually do; the fact that I gave no comment was enough for them to write it.
I looked at them the whole time. I did not let anything they said reflect on my face. I was just there, with them, letting it happen. It was the process.
Without answers, these questions didn’t take long. They said they’d be taking me home to search through my stuff. I wasn't expecting this but felt slightly glad as anything was better than going back to the cell.
It was dark now, and chilly. They sat in the front of their unmarked car, talking casually as if I wasn’t there. Two work colleagues having a chat about that day’s events. I settled back into what would be a forty-minute journey.
As I looked out the window at a view I’d past countless times, for a moment I forgot what was happening and found myself enjoying the ride, just like I would were I getting a lift home from a friend.
Then I began to feel strange. Within seconds, all sense of being comfortable disappeared. A powerful fear replaced it, forcing me to look at what it was telling me was about to happen. I suddenly felt compelled to speak, to confess, to tell them everything. I had to tell them why I’d done it, and yet I knew if I did it would change everything.
One of the detectives started asking the same questions he'd asked earlier, but without the tape running he was a lot more aggressive. I somehow forgot I didn’t have to answer him, so I tried to listen really carefully, to make sure I would be able to answer him well, but this just increased the fear even more. I was now certain that if I let out a single word, I wouldn’t stop. This scared me as it felt like I was losing control. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to stay silent, observe everything from my safe inner space, not worry about the future and try to avoid it.
My mind filled with images of prison and the certainty I would soon be going there. The more I listened, to protect myself from a future I did not want, the more I realised I had no idea what he was even saying. He could’ve been speaking another language for all the good I was doing in understanding him. It was as if my life was finally crashing down on me and all sense of who I thought I was, was being destroyed. I had to let go, release this feeling; I had to find peace. The truth will set you free! THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE!!!
But then, just as it felt like I was losing my mind, I suddenly remembered that I didn’t need to answer him, and this revelation let me stop caring about what he said. In that moment all the fear vanished. I cannot describe the feeling of relief.
Both detectives were young, sharp, and University educated; they seemed well-trained and definitely in control. Creating a relaxed atmosphere was a clever way of making it more likely I’d lower my guard, never mind what I was actually going through.
The questions continued, and the detective couldn’t understand why I wasn’t saying anything. I watched his frustration build, until, clearly exasperated, he exclaimed: “Don’t you know what will happen to you!?” It was only then that I felt able to answer him. “Whatever will happen will happen”, I said blankly. He didn’t say another word. I felt calm and detached now. I knew everything was going to be alright, regardless of what took place. They would find or they wouldn’t find, but they would do so without my help.
I opened the front door and began to climb the stairs. Micky, my house mate, came out of the front room having no idea what was going on. I told him the Police were here to search the place, but one of the detectives interjected, saying they’d only be searching my room. They asked him to remain downstairs while this occurred.
I’d recently bought two ounces of Hash. I always liked to buy it in bulk as this not only saved me loads of money but meant I didn’t have to do it so often. The trouble was, having it cut into eighths and individually bagged, which was how it came, looked like intent to supply, and that would be serious. This was the other thing that came from Peter’s call. I’d taken what would have been clearly visible in the drawer and taped it to the back.
The detective went through the drawer’s contents then tried wiggling it to see if it would come out. There were other places he could’ve focussed on, other drawers, but he only did this with the spot the Hash was holding onto. He looked up at me a few time, perhaps hoping to see something that would justify him going further. There was nothing I could do if he removed the drawer, but I didn’t have to give him a reason to do so by imagining what would happen if he did. I’d replaced all the screws that held it to the runner so he'd need a screwdriver and some time to do so. He looked at me one more time, shrugged, and moved on.
I had passed the first test, but we went straight into round two. I’d left a small, unlocked cash box in plain sight by my bed. I watched his eyes widen as he lifted the lid with his pen and saw it was full of £50 notes. This wasn’t incriminating in itself. Nothing can be inferred from having a box of money by your bed.
“What’s all this then?” He asked, sarcastically. Without wanting to say more than I had to, but suddenly feeling more attached to it than I expected, I tried, half-heartedly, to hold onto what felt like mine. “Savings”, I replied. I knew the moment I said it I was just trying to avoid losing it. I had no idea why I’d even left it out. I could’ve hidden it just as easily as I did the Hash.
He announced that an important piece of evidence had been found and took it, together with the box. He seemed quite pleased with himself and the search ended soon after. After all, who would leave that much cash lying around if they were hiding anything else? I suddenly understood why I hadn’t hidden the money. Without finding the cash he may have felt the need to go back over where he’d already been, and perhaps this time get out that screwdriver.
It was almost midnight by the time I was back in the cell. Exhausted and glad to be alone again, I lay down on the bunk and fell asleep.
I woke up a little while later to find myself in prison. I’d been there three years. All my friends and family had forgotten me. I felt so alone. As I lay there feeling devastated, I felt myself shift and I found myself back in the cell. I was caught between the feeling of the dream and the reality of the moment, and my body started to shake just as the night Officer looked through the flap on his duty check on me. He came in, decided I needed help and called a doctor. The doctor arrived quickly, even though it was now the early hours of the morning. He said I was in shock and gave me two tranquillisers. They left me alone after this.
As I lay there, gathering myself together, a surge of energy came into me. I got up, almost ran to the cell door and called out loudly through the open flap that I wanted to see a solicitor. The Night Officer didn’t even bother looking up from his paper. He just stated flatly that everyone was in bed, it was far too late, and I should’ve asked for one earlier. I stepped away from the door, feeling deflated, but the energy hit me again, and I called out again, more insistently this time, that I wanted to see or at least speak to one anyway.
A few minutes later I was talking to the duty solicitor by phone. I told him how long I’d been held, what I’d been accused of, and the fact that I hadn’t been charged. As I did, the lead detective turned up looking like he’d just got out of bed. He caught the last of my conversation, made it clear he didn’t like being manipulated, and accused me of planning this all along. I had no idea what he was talking about. I just wanted to go home. I handed him the phone and the solicitor spoke to him. After he put the phone down he stared at me for ages, then asked if I wanted a cab. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him, but I said I did, and after he made the call himself, told me to get out.
I knew it would take time before they’d be ready to charge me, but it never happened. Perhaps my ex-employer decided not to press charges. Perhaps they were more concerned with what I might say about their dodgy practices if they did. Either way, whatever it was, I never heard another thing.
The dealership was taken over by a different franchise soon after. Nobody lost their job, they just put a different sign above the door, brought in different stock, and got rid of the ridiculous competition.
Getting away with it made me feel powerful. Peter began looking at me differently. Maybe I was the master criminal he started calling me, so that when the idea of doing something else came up, an unexpected feeling came over me, and without needing to think, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.