Morden Man

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

4:15 PM
31 Minutes Left in Regulation

“A beautiful turn from Charlton sends Beckenbauer the wrong way and … Gosh! What a save from Tilkowski. The German goalkeeper acrobatically parried away the Manchester United man’s shot at the very last second. We’ve a corner incoming.”

Coach had near leapt from his seat as he listening along to the BBC radio broadcast of the final. It had been a nervy game all around. The kind that made Coach wish he’d never quit smoking. Instead he’d taken to gnawing on his worn-down fingernails to relieve himself of tension. It wasn’t working. The Germans striking first had all but shattered whatever confidence Coach might have had before the game.

He took a glance down at the clock. By now Bobby ought to have let those bangers of his off in the crowd. At least, Coach hoped he had. There’d be enough money sat in those counting rooms to change Coach’s life for good. He’d be able to take the kids on that holiday he’d been promising them – there’d be no more Bognor Regis or Devon, this time it would be sunny Spain.

With what was left over he’d pursue the dream he’d harboured in secret for the best part of two decades. He’d trade in the old cab for a whole fleet of cars – nice ones, too – and start his own private hire firm. There’d be no more driving. Hell, if he had it his way he’d never touch a steering wheel again. Coach would be the guv’nor for once. He’d be the one wearing the big, double-breasted suits with pinstripes on them.

He’d make more money legit than the crew had ever done robbing banks and jewellery stores. And he’d use it to give his children the chances he never had – see to it that they went to those public schools the toffs all sent their kids to.

“Another brilliant save from the German,” the BBC announcer bellowed. “What a performance we’re seeing from him this afternoon. If the Three Lions are going to get another past Tilkowski, it seems it’s going to take something special.”

This time Coach slammed his fist down in frustration on the steering wheel. It gave a sudden beep and a passing crowd of England fans leapt back in shock. Coach’s cheeks turned a blushed red and he removed his hat with an embarrassed smile by way of apology.

“Come on, boys,” he muttered in the direction of the stadium, clearly unsure as to whether it was directed at Lewandowski and Enfield or the men on the field.

***

4:28 PM
18 Minutes Left in Regulation

Cecil could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He was running late. Alf had told him that he needed to be at Gate L for ten past four and a good fifteen minutes or so had passed since then. The coast hadn’t been clear, Cecil told himself, though had he been honest with himself it was more that he’d been having second thoughts about the entire thing. He should never had said yes to Turner – he’d only agreed out a sense of gratitude for all of the help that Alf had given him over the years. Now Cecil was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

The two convenient obstructions were none other than George and Jonno Thursgood. They were older than Cecil by a good two years, but you would have been hard-pushed to believe it. Despite the fact he’d only started working the turnstiles since the quarter-finals, Cecil had been made the Thursgoods line manager of sorts. They hadn’t taken too kindly to that.

They were huddled between a crack in a wall, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening on the field. Cecil doubted they could see anything from where they were stood, but when a roar came from the Wembley crowd, George, the older of the two, let out a shout of his own.

“Bloomin’ heck, that was close.”

“What’s going on? Move out of the way, George, I can’t see,” Jonno muttered as he attempted to jostle for his position with his older brother.

“Never you mind what’s going on,” Cecil called over to them. “You two are meant to be working. There are still some late-comers arriving that need letting in.”

The Thursgoods stepped back from the crack nervously and looked to one another in search of an explanation. Once it became clear they didn’t have one, they chose a different tack instead. George shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

“Yeah, well if they can’t be bothered to show up on time for the World Cup Final, they can bloody well hang for all I care. What do you reckon, Jonno?”

“Yeah, they can bloody well hang."

“Alright,” Cecil sighed. “Well, I’ll let Gladys know that you won’t be wanting paying at the end of the day then, shall I?”

He’d managed a half step before George bound over to him and place an apologetic hand on his sleeve.

“Steady on, Cecil.”

The Battleaxe claims another set of scalps, Cecil thought triumphantly. Gladys was sixty-eight and had a reputation for running the Wembley staff ragged before, during and after matches. She’d near deafened Cecil during his first shift at the stadium. And he was sure that she was onto him and Iris.

That didn’t matter now – all that mattered was getting the Thursgoods as far from here as possible and fulfilling his end of the bargain. Even if it had taken him slightly longer than it had meant to.

“The gates,” Cecil commanded.

With a wounded look they did so and Cecil took a few moments to make sure that there was no one else around. He reached for the ring of keys around his belt, thumbing his way through it in search of the right one, and upon finding it nervously slid it towards the keyhole. His hands were shaking. There was the faint taste of iron in his mouth. Once he opened that door, he was officially a criminal. But the way he saw it, he had no choice. He’d made assurances. Heck, maybe Iris would write to him in prison.

Finally he slid the key in and began to turn it. Before Cecil had realised it was even unlocked, two black gloved hands came barrelling through it and he found himself knocked to the ground. Looming over him was a heavy-set man in a policeman’s outfit. His dark features almost purple with rage. One of the man’s gloved hands wrapped itself tightly around Cecil’s collar and the other was cocked back into a fist.

In the distance the Wembley crowd let out a howl. A look of recognition flashed across Cecil's assailer and slowly the purple drained away from his face. With embarrassing ease, he dragged Cecil to his feet.

“Move,” the man barked. “Or I swear to God – I don't care who the hell your goddamn uncle was – I’ll do more than pretend to shoot you.”

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Wembley Stadium, London
2:35 PM

There was a carnival atmosphere on the streets of London. Nowhere was it greater than in the immediate proximity of England’s fabled Wembley Stadium – the home of world football. Its two white towers loomed over the streams of excited football fans making their way to the stadium to watch the game. Among them was Bobby Lewandowski.

The Pole had tried his best to keep a low profile on his way to the stadium. At least, as well as one could in the get-up that Bobby was wearing. There had been a few smiles and sniggers here and there but in the main Lewandowski had kept his head down and pushed through the embarrassment.

By the time he had arrived in Wembley itself his discomfort had all but disappeared. Even dressed as colourfully as he was, the streets were so awash with flags and football supporters kitted out in equally garish fashion that Bobby was one with the crowd.

He trudged towards the stadium behind a group of a dozen or so England supporters. They were all burley, heavy-set men in their forties and fifties. Unlike Bobby, they had come dressed in their Sunday best. He couldn’t help but smirk as he listened in to the bickering of the two walking nearest to him.

“Hurst has played well, I’ll give the boy that, but you cannot leave Greavsie out of the team. I know he picked up a knock against France, but this is the World Cup Final, for christ’s sake. You cannot leave a player of Greaves’ quality out. It makes no sense.”

“England wouldn’t even be in the final if it weren’t for Hurst. He scored against Argentina and he set up Charlton’s second against Portugal. And after all that you want to drop the poor sold? Come off it.”

The argument continued as the group filtered towards the turnstiles.

“That’s all well and good – but in a World Cup Final you need experience in the side, Tom. You know what th- ”

Finally one of the older men, who had stopped to pat down his pockets in search of his ticket, cast a scornful look in their direction.

“Give it a rest you two, would you? It’s been bad enough reading it in the papers all week.”

The two men sheepishly fell silent, produced their own tickets, and followed after the rest of their group into the stadium.

Bobby took a moment to take the scene in, glancing up at Wembley’s famous two towers one last time, before stepping towards the turnstiles with his ticket in hand. A mustachioed man in his late twenties took a quick glance at the ticket and then peered at Bobby’s outfit.

“Nice hat, mate.”

“Thank you,” Lewandowski replied, suddenly self-conscious again.

The man nodded and the turnstiles cranked as Bobby stepped through them. He slipped his ticket back into the inside pocket. As he did so, he made sure to feel around the extra lining that Red had asked the tailor to stick into the suit. Satisfied that the bangers had survived the journey in one piece, Lewandowski made his way to the stands.

***

2:42 PM

A bead of sweat trickled down James Crowder’s forehead. Within a half second, he had mopped it away with the sleeve of his ambulance driver’s uniform. The material was coarse – and it was warmer today than he’d anticipated it being. Coach’s ambulance had sat unmoving in traffic for the past ten minutes. With each minute, he’d grown more nervous. He couldn’t afford to be late. More importantly, the crew couldn’t afford for him to be late.

Luckily for Coach, no one knew the roads quite like he did. At the very sight of a traffic jam, he knew how to reroute himself to cut the worst of it out. It was a skill that had served him well over the years. Unluckily for him, there was no avoiding this one. He was on the long straight road to Wembley – its pristine white towers staring at him from the distance.

Red and Charlie had gone together in the Wolseley so Crowder only had the radio to keep his mind occupied. Truth be told, he was as nervous about the game as he was about the job. Some music to put his mind at ease would have been welcome – but given the occasion there was little on but wall-to-wall football coverage.

“England manager Alf Ramsey’s decision not to choose the prolific Tottenham forward has ruffled feathers in some corners, but the side look to be in good hands with young Hurst leading the front line.”

“That's enough of that,” Coach muttered as he flicked the radio off.

The car in front of Coach pulled forward a few inches and someone in the lane next to him him tried to pull in front of him.

“Cheeky bastard.”

Crowder pulled ahead and denied the car’s attempt to pull ahead of him. As he pulled forward he resisted the temptation to brandish his fingers in the driver’s direction. Slowly, but surely, Coach was making his way towards the stadium. He took solace in knowing he’d be able to use the siren on the way back – and that, with any luck, England would be World Cup champions.

***

2:50 PM

With ten minutes to spare, Turner and Enfield had arrived in Wembley. The traffic on the drive over had been much worse than even Crowder – with all his knowledge of London’s roads – had anticipated. Despite that, Turner had still been forced to remind Charlie to ease up on the accelerator on several occasions on the drive there. They hadn’t talked an awful lot outside of that. The nerves were setting in, as they always did. Red told himself that people that don’t understand what’s at risk get nervous. And people that don’t understand what’s at risk are dangerous, he mused.

The Wolseley pulled to a stop a short walk from the stadium and Turner prepared to exit the vehicle. As he did so, one last pang of doubt rang through him and he felt obliged to impart Charlie with some information about their inside man.

“A word of advice about Cecil,” Red said as he grasped the passenger-side handle. ”He’s a very sensitive soul. Not quite au fait with our way of doing things, if you know what I mean? So don’t be too handsy with him if you can help it.”

One of Enfield’s arched up suspiciously at the sensitive comment.

“How exactly do you know this boy again?”

Red shot Charlie a look that would turn most men’s blood cold. The implication to the question was clear – and it wasn’t one he appreciated. Enfield was the only member of the crew that knew about his private life. Back in 1961, a now-departed associate of Turner's had misunderstood the nature of his relationship with Charlie and shared a little too much with him.

They hadn’t once spoken about it in all the time that had passed since. Turner wasn’t about to change that in the middle of a job.

“Cecil’s uncle and I served together in Korea. Poor bastard didn’t make it back. Made me promise to check in on him from time to time. He’d murder me for getting the boy involved in all of this if he were still alive.”

“Good thing he’s not then,” Enfield said with a shrug.

Turner took a quick glance down at his watch. Kick-off was in seven minutes. He opened the door and stepped out of the car into the waiting street. Before he shut it, he peered back into the Wolseley at Charlie one last time.

“Watch yourself in there, Charles – and remember, I’ll be round the back waiting for the take by sixteen-thirty-five.”

Red caught the end of Enfield’s curt nod as he slammed the door shut and made his way into the crowd. He used his gloved hands to clear a path through it, snaking through the throngs of ticketless people that had gathered outside of the stadium. He envied them. In another life, he would have been out there with them. But he had a job to do – and nothing was going to get in the way of his seeing it through to the end.

***

2:58 PM

“God Save the Queen” rang out from the stands at Wembley Stadium in anticipation of Ramsey’s men taking to the field. Sat by the halfway line, Bobby spotted the red shirts making their way down the tunnel on the opposite side of the stadium. Bobby Moore led the Three Lions out onto the pitch and was met by a deafening roar from the English crowd. Lewandowski could feel the noise in his chest. For a moment, he was overtaken by the emotion. A broad smile appeared on his face and he began clapping enthusiastically in support of his adopted nation.

In two minutes, footballing history was going to be made. In seventy-two, Bobby, in his own way, was going to write his own chapter in it.

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
9:35 AM, 30th July 1966

It took Red all over twenty minutes to make the journey from Battersea to Fulham. He’d took in all the smells and sounds that London had to offer on his way to the safehouse that morning.

He had chosen the place because it was suitably off the grid. It had raised a few eyebrows to begin with. It’s not every day that hardened criminals rock up to a florists. But the West Indian woman that owned the place, Ms. Ambrose, was polite enough. She didn’t ask for much from them in the way of cash – and she never enquired as to the nature of the meetings the men held.

Turner had fought alongside a dozen or so blacks in Korea. Half of them ended up dying fighting for a country they’d never so much as clapped eyes on. But he learned a thing or two from the ones that stuck it out – namely, that they’d sooner sit round the dinner table with Lucifer himself than talk to the Old Bill. Ambrose was no different.

After Kinnear, that mattered to him more than anything.

As he opened the door to the back room, Turner noticed Charlie stood in full policeman’s garb, thin black moustache resting on his top lip. His skin was taut, freshly-shaven, but the bloodshot eyes betrayed his tiredness. He was never one for early starts.

“The moustache suits you,” Red said, running a thumb and forefinger across his own top lip with a fraternal smile. “You look positively Hitlerian.”

“Yeah, and good morning to you, too” Charlie scoffed.

Enfield reached across to pile of policemen’s uniform and tossed a set to Red. Turner caught it and swaddled over to the mirror and began to change out of his suit and into the disguise. As he dressed, he had one eye trained on the clock and the other on Enfield. It was difficult to tell read the boy sometimes. He seemed to oscillate between being a ball of nerves and teeming with bravado depending on his mood. I was much the same at that age, thought Red as he finished buttoning up his shirt.

“Any news from Coach?” Turner muttered as he took a seat and reached for the day’s paper.

“Figure he’ll be on his way over from St. Helier by now.”

Within ten minutes, the sound of Coach’s voice carried through the room walls. He’d tried to warn Crowder off talking to the old woman too much when they’d first started working out of the place, but with time Red had mellowed on it. It created a semblance of normalcy in the event they ever passed through the front when customers were around. Plus he knew he could no sooner change Coach’s way than he could hold back the tide – he was a cabbie, it was in his nature.

When the door finally opened, Bobby unexpectedly stepped through it and a few moments afterwards Coach came bounding through, catching the door just before it closed behind Lewandowski.

“Hope you two didn’t come here in the same motor,” enquired Charlie.

“No, no, I was rabbiting with the old woman in the shop and young Bobby here slid in right behind me without so much as a hello.”

“I didn’t mean to cause offence,” Bobby demurred in his half-Cockney, half-Polish accent.

“None was taken, lad,” Coach responded, slapping the Pole on the back supportively.

“Enough,” Charlie muttered impatiently. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

“The bastard’s early one time,” Crowder whispered to Bobby as they took off their coats and began dressing for work.

Turner couldn’t help but crack a smile at the scene. There wasn't a nasty bone in Lewandowski's body. Red was sure the kid had sent half the money they’d made together back to some impoverished mother in Poland. What he did with his money was none of Red’s business, what mattered was that there was no finer an explosives man in all of London. You don’t acquire a nickname like “Bobby Bombs” for nothing.

That said, the outfit he’d be wearing for the job did him no favours. He looked like John Bull. Beneath Bobby’s blue suit jacket was a waistcoat emblazoned with the Union Flag. Coach had taken get pleasure in pinning several red, white and blue rosettes onto Lewandowski’s lapels.

“Please, not the hat.”

The final touch – the dreaded hat – was a sight to behold. It was a soft, plush top hat in the colours of the Union Flag with the word “England” printed across the white cross in the middle. For someone as introverted as Lewandowski, wearing that getup in public was like being trapped in a living nightmare. But it would get the job done.

“I’m sorry, Bob,” Red said as he stifled a laugh at the outfit over the paper. “Just think of all the nice clothes you’ll be able to buy yourself with your share of the take.”

“Plus, you’re the only one that’s going to be able to see the game and you’re not even bloody English. Try and spare a thought for the rest of us, St. George,” Coach added, itching at the pits of his snug ambulance driver's uniform.

Satisfied his associates were prepared for what lay ahead, Turner tossed the newspaper onto the table beside him and cleared his throat. He began to walk the crew through the plan. They had been through it a thousand times before and could all recite every second of it word-for-word at this stage. But Turner was a stickler for repetition. Every member of the crew had to know the others were going to be at every point, the to the nearest second if possible.

Finally, Red reached, for lack of a better phrase, the interesting part. Getting to and from the stadium would be easy enough – it was everything that happened between those two points that worried him. Usually they worked in pairs, but today Bobby and Charlie would be shouldering the load.

“Bob, at sixteen-zero-nine, that’s nine minutes into the second half, you do what you do best: make things go boom. Spray those bangers of yours in among the crowd and cause enough of a ruckus that the wardens step in. If Charlie’s going to get inside, we need security focused squarely on you – so don’t hold back.”

“Got it,” Bobby nodded.

“Our man Cecil is working on Gate L. Charlie, he’ll be expecting you at sixteen-ten. So the second you hear the banging, head to the gate and he’ll take you to the counting room. Once you’re there, put the fear of God into the staff – make them think you’re gonna blow a hole in poor Cecil’s back – but don’t get too rough with them. We need them to bag up the cash.”

Red watched as Enfield massaged his now gloved hands.

“Once they’ve done that, get the blindfolds and gags on them. At sixteen-thirty, I’ll move into position on the ground by the counting room – Coach, I’ll need you bring the ambulance round pronto. Bobby, once you’ve been turfed out by the wardens, you’ll meet me and Coach by the ambulance at sixteen-thirty-five. You start dropping the bags of cash down to us as soon as the coast is clear, Charlie, and Bobby and I’ll load them into the back.”

There were a lot of variables. Too many for Red’s liking. He’d lost count of the hours of sleep he’d missed out on wondering what would happen if England were down big and the stands emptied before the game was done.

Or worse, what happened if England lost? The thought of the four of them crammed into that ambulance with only an inch or two of steel between them and nearly a hundred thousand drunk England fans didn’t bear thinking about.

“Give or take a few minutes for extra time either way, the game ought to be coming to an end around sixteen-forty, Charlie. Use the crowd to slip out of the counting room and make your way out to the ambulance where we’ll be waiting for you.”

Coach lifted a hand into the air above his ambulance driver’s hat and Turner invited him to speak.

“Then we whack the old siren on and I get us home safely.”

“That’s the plan,” Red smiled.

“What are we waiting for then?” Coach said, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. “We’d better get this show on the road if we want to beat the worst of the traffic.”

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Polish Ex-Combatants Association
Hammersmith, London
6:15PM, 29th July, 1966

Bohdan “Bobby” Lewandowski had spent all morning and afternoon looking for work. In his most expensive suit, he had traipsed from one factory to another – hoping his clothes might keep certain doors open that his accent would not. He had, of course, been unsuccessful. According to the newspapers, unemployment was at its lowest rate in over ten years. Given the number of doors Lewandowski had slammed shut in his face over the past few weeks, it was hard to believe that.

There was one place where he knew would be given a warm welcome. Hammersmith was home to half a dozen Polish shops, twice as many Polish clubs and associations, and even a library owned by an elderly Polish couple. Here “Bobby” could become Bohdan again. He could speak in his mother tongue, eat meals that he had grown up eating, and hear slithers of news smuggled back from the Motherland.

There was no better a place for that than the Ex-Combatants Association on King Street. The receptionist smiled upon spotting Bobby entering it and clambered to let him in. She was pretty, older than him by a good six or seven years, and unmarried – which explained why she always left her stool with such speed when she spotted him. The pair spoke for a few moments before Lewandowski made his way through the common room to the office of the man he had come to see.

“<General Jarosiewicz.>”

In a green leather armchair in the corner of the spacious office sat an old man in military uniform. According to his friends, the old man had once been all of six foot, four inches tall. Some combination of the injuries he had sustained in the war and old age had left him just north of six foot now. He was as thin as a rake, and his craggy, greying skin was lighter even than his hair. On his brow sat one, continuous, black eyebrow – it rose as he rose from his seat to greet Bohdan.

“<Andrzej will suffice, young master Lewandowski.>”

They embraced and the general returned to his seat.

“<How are things?>”

The old man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket a produced a weathered notebook and a pencil. He flicked the notebook open, licked the tip of the tiny, grubby pencil and scribbled down a few words.

“<Things? Things are fine, Bohdan. Gomułka’s false promises have turned to ashes in our people’s mouths, as I warned them they would, and now our country stands on the cusp of something far worse.>”

“<I did not think things could get worse, General.>”

“Things can always get worse.”

There were some at the Ex-Combatants Association that questioned why the old man still wore his uniform, but it was clear enough to Lewandowski. His war never ended, he thought to himself as he watched the old man making notes. His heart is still there – still in Poland.

“<You know, when we first came to London during the war, your father was convinced the British would stand by us at Yalta. Maybe the Americans would renege on their promises, but the British? Winston Churchill? After all we had done for them, all the Polish lives lost, Churchill would be true to his word.>”

They had all thought it – even the good general himself, though he rarely recounted that part of the tale. “The betrayal,” as it had become known in the Motherland. The moment a grubby deal between Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin sentenced hundreds of thousands of Polish scattered across Europe to a life in exile. It was in the moment that Andrzej Jarosiewicz and Bobby’s father, Bartek, knew their war would continue here in London. They had spent every penny they had helping the resistance in Poland – smuggling contraband home to those in need, even smuggling people out on occasion.

It was a risky business.

“What I would not give to be young and naive again, Bohdan.”

The younger man nodded knowingly and produced a flask from inside his coat. He unscrewed it and passed it to the general, who took a hearty swill of the vodka inside of it, before passing it back. They spoke among themselves for a time with Bohdan keeping Andrzej informed about his search for work. Finally, they reached the topic both men had been dancing around since Lewandowski’s arrival.

“<Tomorrow is an important day.>”

“<Do not talk to me about the football. Everywhere I go there is football. These people are obsessed with it. You know, poor Mieczysław was set upon in the street by some children. They thought he was German.>”

“<No,>” Bohdan replied. “<Tomorrow I take delivery of another shipment. A substantial one – perhaps the largest to date. I hope to buy myself a new pair of shoes, perhaps a new coat, but otherwise I hope that you will be gracious enough to accept a … donation from me. For those in need back in the Motherland.>

The old man’s eyes narrowed slightly – as if voicing his silent concern for the boy’s safety – but sure enough they softened and his rose once more from his seat. The greying flesh of his hands clasped Lewandowski’s shoulders tightly in a grateful embrace.

“You are a good boy, Bohdan. Your father would be proud of you.”

With that, Lewandoski took his leave. A tube and a train later and he was back on the street he called home in West Norwood. There were flags in the house of every window and the sound of children’s feet skittling after well-worn footballs carried through the night. Every now and then there would be a roar as a young boy would put the ball through a goal made of discarded jumpers or milk bottles. They would wheel away, arms lifted in celebration, as they celebrated what was surely the winning goal in the World Cup Final.

That England would be victorious tomorrow was a given to them. Whether Lewandowski would make it through the heist was anyone's guess.

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

The Crown & Thistle Hotel
Battersea, London
11:27 PM, 29th July 1966

The last flecks of burnt orange stubble drift slowly from “Red” Turner’s face into the sink beneath him. With a flick of the wrist, Turner washes the stubble down the sink and rinses his straight razor clean. He glances up at his face and stares morosely at the slash marks running across the lower half of his mouth and onto his right cheek. Sat beside it is a squat, broken nose that he hated with all of his being. He’d never forgotten how it had got that way – and who was responsible for it.

Albert Binney.

Binney was little more than an enforcer for the Donoghue Firm back then, and a far cry from the man he would go on to become. Turner liked to think he’d changed in the decade since too. He was faster and smarter than he’d been then – and he knew that he’d sooner catch malaria again than go back to prison.

It was that bastard Kinnear’s fault. The Irishman had sold him down the river in ‘56. He’d sold Hammond, Davies, Mallory, Smith, Shea and the Barries down the river too – and they’d paid with it for their lives. The Binney Twins had seen to that. Had it not been for Frank, the youngest, Turner would probably be at the bottom of that river with the rest of them. For all the good it had done him.

Since that day, Turner had spent every waking moment looking over his shoulder. He knew one day the Sweeney would break down his door – or some ape the Binney Twins or the Kane Firm had sent would do him in. And for all that stress, he still didn’t have a damn penny to his name.

“What’s wrong?”

In the mirror, Turner caught sight of Theo’s lithe, tanned body moving around in the bedroom.

“Never you mind what’s wrong.”

One of Red’s paws reached out for a towel beside him and he wiped what remained of the shaving cream away from his face. A dissatisfied Rodwell stood beside the bedroom window, cigarette dangling loosely from his full lips, watching the cars skitter along the streets below them. He was stark naked.

“Listen here, as of tomorrow things might get a little ... busy for me at work. I might not be able to stop by to see you for a while,” Red muttered, as he plucked the cigarette from Rodwell’s lips and placed it between his own. Or ever again for that matter, he thought.

Before Turner had taken his first pull, an accusatory frown appeared on the boy’s face. One day those plump cheeks would adorn every billboard in the West End. There was no doubt about that in Turner’s mind. He’d known that from the first moment he’d clapped eyes on him in A Long Day’s Journey Into Night eighteen months ago. Right now though the sadness daubed across the his cherubim features was almost revolting – like a bloody handprint smeared over Cupid’s face. Turner didn’t want to remember him like that.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” Rodwell muttered defeatedly.

“And what of it if I do? Whose business is that exactly but my own?”

There was a heavy silence between the two men. Rodwell stared at the carpet beneath the two of them, evidently trying to piece together a response that he knew would fail before it had even left his mouth.

“You’re bright, Alfie. Brighter than whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You don’t need me to tell you that and yet ... here I am telling you it. Just say the word and we can leave tonight. I’ll go with you. We can start over again somewhere els-”

Red had heard enough.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “You’re just a boy.”

A beautiful one at that. But the people around Turner had a nasty habit of turning up dead. He’d already risked enough carrying on with Theo for as long as he had done – humouring the boy’s fantasies about running away with him would only add more fuel to the fire. There are people relying on me, Turner reminded himself. Daisy for one, but Enfield, Lewandowski and Crowder too. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t leave until the job was done. There was too much riding on it.

Red stubbed out his cigarette, pulled Rodwell toward him and kissed him hard. He was resistant at first – still seething from their argument – but he relented soon enough. They made love there, on the floor of the hotel room, as if they both knew it would be their last time.

Turner made his way through three cigarettes as Rodwell drifted asleep beside him. He glanced nervously at the clock and then towards the telephone on the bedside table. As Turner had willed it into being, it began to ring. He let it ring three times before lifting the receiver against his face.

“You're late,” Red said, taking a long pull of his fourth cigarette in what felt like as many minutes. “How were your brothers? They didn’t forget your birthday, I hope?”

The presents had been received, Coach assured him from the other side of the phone. A wry smile appeared on Turner’s freshly-shaven face and he imparted his own birthday message to the family man before placing the receiver down gently.

That was that then – all the confirmation Turner needed.

While the whole world was watching what was happening on the football pitch, Red and his crew were going to rob Wembley Stadium blind.

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

OFFICIAL METROPOLITAN POLICE REPORT
FOR INTERNAL DISTRIBUTION ONLY

NAME:
Alfred Turner
DOB: 19/05/1932
HEIGHT: 5”11
WEIGHT: 180 pounds
HAIR COLOUR: Red
EYE COLOUR: Brown
KNOWN ALIASES:
“RED TURNER”, “ALF TURNER”, “FRED TAYLOR”

HISTORY:

Alfred Turner, aka “Red Turner”, is the presumed leader of an armed robbery gang operating in the Greater London area. Born in Putney in 1932 to Jonathan and Annabel Turner, Alfred’s childhood, as far as it can be ascertained, was completely normal. His father, Jonathan, earned a decent living as a train driver on the London Underground – and served with distinction as member of the Royal Engineers during the Second World War, assisting in the construction of Mulberry Harbours (See: DoD file #21023129). Turner’s mother, Annabel, did her part for the war effort as a machinist.

In November 1948, Turner’s father was gunned down on the way from work in a suspected robbery and Alfred, then studying with a view to become an engineer, was forced to drop his studies to support his mother and younger sister (See: Met Homicide file #08125933). For the best part of two years, Turner worked as a butcher’s apprentice in Stepney – grass reports gathered by East Ham Flying Squad from the period suggest it is likely the Binney Twins, then enforcers in the Donoghue Gang, used Turner’s butchers as a disposal point (See: Met Intelligence dossier #0234543). These claims are unsubstantiated, but are worth making note of in light of Turner’s future line of work.

In 1952, Turner was drafted for National Service and served in the Royal Fusiliers in Korea (See: DoD file #73024522). On his second tour in 1953, Turner was given an honorable discharge after contracting a particularly nasty strain of malaria and sent back to London. Perhaps motivated by his inability to find work upon his return from Korea, Turner’s alias “Alf Taylor” first appears in a Wandsworth Flying Squad report in connection to a spate of robberies across South London (See: Met Intelligence dossier #2345904).

In 1956, four synchronised robberies take place across East London at Donoghue-held businesses. Without a single shot being fired, more than £480,000 pounds is lifted from these properties and distributed between Turner and his eight associates (See: Met Intelligence dossier #2346290). Within two days, seven of Turner’s associates are found dead in locations across South and East London – and the seventh, Roger Kinnear, appears at Camberwell Police Station requesting police protection (See attached addendums CPS4338121 and CPS4338122). Shortly thereafter, on information provided by Kinnear, a badly beaten Turner is apprehended attempting to board a ferry to Calais.

Ahead of Turner’s trial, Kinnear – then under police protection – disappeared. Without Kinnear there to give evidence against him, Turner was sentenced to only five years in prison (See: DoJ document attached). After two years, taking into account Turner’s good behaviour while behind bars – and his military record – a parole board saw fit to release him back onto London’s streets.

From there, the trail goes cold for several years. Turner goes to ground. Nothing – not a mention of “Alf Turner” in a single Flying Squad report for the best part of four years. Grasses suggest Turner may have left London for fear of recrimination from what remains of the Donoghue organisation, with some suggesting he may have fled as far as South America. And then, without explanation, Turner reappears in South London in 1961 (See: Met Intelligence dossier #45232320) – and with him a series of heists over the next three years the like, and frequency of which, London has never seen before.

To assert that Turner’s return and this crime wave are linked without hard evidence would be folly, but not to ask the question at all would be more dangerous still. Where Turner was between 1958-1961 is anyone’s guess – but if he is back for good, and operating with the sanction of all, or any of London’s organised crime families, I suspect Flying Squad’s across this city of ours will have no shortage of work on their hands.

Sincerely,

Detective Superintendent Thomas Brown
Metropolitan Police Force Organised Crime Division
12/3/1964

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Byrd Man/Morden Man present: The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Introduction

Welcome to another Morden & Byrd Joint. This time we're taking the action across the pond to the UK. Inspired by hard-boiled crime novels, real-life gangsters, and heist flicks comes this London based high-octane saga. The Crew tells the story of the best robbery gang operating in the London underworld. Smart, ruthless, and ambitious, they take what they want from anyone. Independent of any criminal organization, The Crew has to walk a fine line and navigate the byzantine power structure of the underworld, staying one step ahead of the gangsters along with the coppers. With themes of brotherhood, betrayal, poverty, and power, the RP seeks to tell an epic story spanning multiple heists and multiple years, showing the transition from Swinging London to Thatcher's England.

Background

The year is 1966 and the Swinging Sixties are well underway. Three years have passed since Labour prime minister Harold Wilson promised to forge a new, modern Britain in the "white heat" of the coming scientific revolution. Unemployment is low, living standards are higher than ever before, and British culture has taken the world by storm. The Beatles are on every radio station and no girl's wardrobe is complete without a miniskirt from the King's Road. In short, London is the place to be. Hell, even the city's most notorious criminals, the infamous Binney Twins, are schmoozing with rockstars every other night. And best of all – England are in the World Cup Final.

What could possibly go wrong?

Players

The Crew – London-wide
Led by Red Turner, The Crew stands heads and shoulders above all robbery gangs in London. Backing Red on his plays are sharpshooter Charlie "The Yank" Enfield, explosives expert Bodhan "Bobby Bombs" Lewandowski, and getaway ace James "Coach Crowder." . With a little help from some friends along the way, The Crew have robbed London blind over the past five years. And they're only just getting started

Key members:
Alfred “Red” Turner
Charles Enfield – “The Yank”
Bohdan “Bobby” Lewandowski – ”Bobby Bombs”
James Crowder – “Coach”

***

The Binneys – “The Binney Firm” – East London
The Binney Firm is led by the Binney Twins, Alan and Albie. The Binneys specialise in protecting racketeering, money laundering, extortion, gambling and counterfeiting. Their younger brother Francis runs several gentleman’s clubs across East London that are frequented by celebrities from far and wide. The Binneys are the most powerful gang in London – and the Twins are considered near-invulnerable.

Key members:
Albert “Albie” Binney
Alan Binney
Francis “Frank” Binney

***

The Kanes – South London
The Kane Firm specialises in fraud, drug running, prostitution and loan sharking. Cousins Jimmy and Bill Kane have complete control over London's docks, which has given them a near-monopoly over the city's booming drug trade. Despite this, the Kanes are still playing second fiddle to the Binneys – and are often forced to survive on the Binney Firm's scraps.

Key members:
James “Jimmy” Kane
William “Bill” Kane

***

The Flying Squad – “The Sweeney” – London-wide
The Sweeney is the Metropolitan Police Force's catch-all organised crime disrupting force. They regularly work outside of the law to get results. In recent years, there have been murmurs about The Squad’s association with both the Binney Twins and the Kane Firm – with some considering the unit to be as corrupt as either gang.

Key members:
Detective Superintendent Thomas Brown
DI Rory McEntyre
DS Michael Chapman
DC Terry Morgan

Absolute Comics: A One Universe Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Morden Man>

I'm just happy to see you're still around!

@Lord Wraith