Vladimir realised he had to ditch the bag before the mob or the politsya cottoned on. It was hot, stuffed with roubles undoubtedly from dubious and dangerous sources.
One minute in the laundrette watching his smalls rotating, the next leaving with the wrong bag - a lapse of concentration that could cost him his life.
In turmoil Vladimir wrestled with the options: runaway to the Caspian, buy a dacha, plastic surgery, a possible gruesome reckoning or return it surreptitiously. Fatefully he chose the second. His bullet ridden body was discovered in the spin dryer with no sign of the laundered money.