When the time came for the driver to arrive, I did not have the heart to leave. I stayed hidden behind the two large middle doors that separated the corridor from the factory. I saw the driver get into the office through the blurry glass windows and I prayed with all of my heart for this to go smoothly. The summer breeze sneaked into the factory, a nice relief for my damp hands and my flushed face. I had been suffocating, I felt like a vampire in the sun.
I heard Angie and the driver chat and about five minutes later I saw my dad with his black ski hood enter the office. He yelled, ‘This is a hold up, do not move or I shoot you dead! Lie down on the floor and it will all be OK!’
It all happened so fast, and two minutes later I saw him run like Michael Johnson at the start of his 400 metres, disguised as a thief.
Dad had nailed it so quickly and without any issues. I was shocked and proud at the same time, but aware of the potential consequences of his actions. We were not out of the woods yet, I thought.
The driver and Angie both called the police and they arrived quickly at the factory. I stayed hidden for a couple of minutes then decided to sneak out to catch the bus home. I ran up to the bus stop and sat down. I felt so wrecked and empty that I did not have the energy to run home. I wanted no more part of this and I did not want to get interviewed by the police. They never did speak to me. But both Dad and Angie were called into the police station of Ixelles. The driver was interviewed too. The man Dad had bought the paper machine from smelled a rat. He must have known people in high places, because special agents took over the case. Dad was released when they checked his alibi, and the client confirmed he was there the entire time. Angie was not so lucky. She spent the entire night there and they grilled her FBI style. She could not sleep and did not get fed. She just received a couple of coffees and cigarettes. No torture instruments here, just the bright desk light in her face while being asked relentless questions. They treated her poorly and accused her of being my dad’s accomplice.
They asked her what she was going to do with the money, told her she was a slut sleeping with a much older man for his money and his nice villa. They told her they would both go to jail for a long time and that a holdup was a serious offence. They laughed and told her that the accomplice would get the same jail time as the main perpetrator. They came at her repeatedly, hoping that sleep deprivation and fear might make her thoughts blurry and make her finally confess. They only got a few tears out of her and the speech she had practised a few times in anticipation of being interrogated.
