Morden Man

The Crew – "The Long Good Friday" (A British Noir RP)

Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange
12:28 AM

They were officially late. Coach muttered a complaint under his breath as he eyed the clock on the dashboard of his taxi. It was unlike Red. Coach had never met someone as able to plan things out to the very second as Turner was – something he put down to his time in the military. He didn’t talk about it much, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out. So when things ran late, as they were running late now, it made Coach worried. Deathly worried.

It took Bobby some time to get down from the roof but there was no reason Red, Charlie and Freddy shouldn’t have long since been out. Coach tried to put his fears to one side and think instead about what he’d spend his cut on. He still wanted to take the kids abroad, like he’d promised them before the Wembley job, and he’d started putting quiet feelers about setting up a firm of his own. That dream was well within reach.

More minutes passed by and the sinking feeling in Coach’s stomach started to nag at him even more. He looked down at the pistol on the passenger seat and considered heading inside but something told him not to. Instead he gently put his foot down on the accelerator and slowly pulled away from the Diamond Exchange. Something was wrong. Things were too still.

And then he heard it in the distance. The sound of an engine starting. The listing taxi began to pick up speed and a scowling Crowder sped his way in the direction of the sound. He saw Freddy Fingers clambering his way into a car with two bags in hand. There was no sign of Bobby, Charlie or Red. As Fingers reached to shut the door behind him, he locked eyes with Coach for the faintest of seconds.

“Oh no, you bloody don’t.”

Coach’s taxi bore down on the burgundy-coloured coupe at speed. He managed to block it in. Freddy and he were staring at one another dead in the eye, with only two panes of thin glass keeping them apart. Next to Freddy was a handsome-looking blonde haired woman with piercing blue eyes. Coach opened his mouth to shout abuse in Freddy’s direction and was cut-off as the coupe crashed into the driver’s side. The impact sent Coach sliding over and when he looked back, Fingers was pointing a pistol at him.

“Bollocks.”

Two bullets tore through the driver’s side window of Coach’s taxi. Crowder ducked beneath the door in time and was rooting around the passenger seat for his own gun. The coupe scraped across Coach’s taxi, with each second of metal rending metal a dagger in the old cabbie’s heart. He spotted the pistol on the floor of the passenger’s seat and reached for it. Finally the blonde behind the wheel managed to tear the coupe free and steal off ahead of Coach’s now-battered taxi.

Coach started after them with pistol in hand. There wasn’t much time. Even in the dead of the night the racket they had made would bring Old Bill running. He’d make that bastard Fingers pay for double-crossing them – and more importantly he’d make him pay for wrecking his fucking cab. Coach made sure to make a mental note of the coupe’s license plate as his ailing taxi gave chase.

“Coach,” Bobby’s voice sounded from the radio on the dashboard. “Where are you? We need you here.”

“I’m after Fingers,” Coach shouted into his radio.

“Forget him,” Bobby’s tinny called out. “Red’s hurt bad. Freddy hit him over the head with something. There’s lots of blood. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“But the diamonds,” Coach started.

Bobby made to speak but it was clear that Charlie had wrestled the radio free from his fingers. “Fuck the diamonds. Get back here.”

“Fuck,” Coach cried as he hit the brakes.

He watched as Freddy and the blonde’s burgundy coupe disappeared off into the horizon. The chase had left bits of broken metal scattered about the streets and Coach spotted stirring from bedroom windows. He hightailed it back to the Diamond Exchange rendezvous-point where he found Bobby and Charlie waiting. Propped up against the wall was a barely-conscious Red.

“What the fuck happened?” Coach said as he leapt out of the taxi. “That sod Freddy tried to shoot me in the face.”

Charlie’s face turned a deep shade of red. “Don’t you worry about him. We’ll make sure that backstabbing prick gets his before the weekend’s out, I promise you that much.”

A weak groan slipped from Red’s lips.

“He needs to go to a hospital,” Bobby repeated, with all the concern of a son seeing his father sick for the first time.

“No,” Charlie said with a shake of the head. “No hospitals. That’s the first place the Old Bill will start. Don’t be so fucking naive.”

Coach knelt down beside Red and gestured to Bobby to do the same. They placed their arms beneath Red’s armpits and lifted him to his feet.

“I know a place,” Coach said as they slid Turner into the backseat. “But don’t expect a friendly welcome.”

The Crew – "The Long Good Friday" (A British Noir RP)

Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange
12:12 AM

Red started the timer and watched as Frederick Reams, the man they called “Freddy Fingers”, went to work. He’d never worked with Reams before but his reputation was second to none. There was no better safecracker in all of London – at least not one that was breathing. Turner watched on as Fingers expertly felt his way around the dial, listening for the slightest of sounds, while gently tapping the outside from time to time with some of the tools he’d brought with him. It was like watching a virtuoso at work. Reams seemed calm, collected, and completely unphased by working against the clock. Every movement was precise.

Turner glanced down at the timer and back up to Reams. “A minute-thirty left.”

Freddy offered a thumbs-up by way of recognition and continued on with his work. Red set his shotgun down on a table for a moment and used the sleeve of his overalls to wipe away the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He glanced over to Freddy again and noticed there wasn’t a single bead of sweat on his.

“A minute.”

As the seconds melted away, Freddy’s nonchalance began to worry Red. They had practised this more times than Turner cared to recall and Reams had never come up short once, but executing in the field was another thing. Turner had seen more accomplished men wilt under pressure before. And where the lack of urgency that Fingers showed had been impressive but thirty seconds ago, with less than a minute on the clock, it now began to grate.

“Thirty seconds, Freddy.”

“Could you?” Fingers slipped one of the discs free from his ear and pressed one of his namesake against his thin lips. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Red nodded sheepishly and left Fingers to his work. There was nothing Turner could do from here. It was all in Reams’ hands. He picked up his shotgun, placing it lazily under his arm, and watched the seconds tick by as Freddy worked. With around twelve seconds on the clock, the safecracker’s eyes narrowed some and a long thin tongue slithered through his lips.

“Et voila.”

The safe door popped open and Freddy stepped aside to allow Red to inspect its contents. The half a dozen binders filled with documents and grainy photographs caught his eye. He reached for a folder and opened it briefly, skimming through its contents, before setting it back down. Blackmail material, he was sure, probably worth a small fortune to the right person – but Turner’s crew weren’t in the business of blackmail. They were there for one thing and one thing only.

One of Red’s hands reached for a beige bag inside the safe. He pried it open and pulled out a smaller black cloth bag inside. Gently he undid the cord that tied the cloth bag open and tipped the bag’s contents out into his hand. One diamond came tumbling out, then another, then another, and when Turner shone a torch on the small diamonds sat in the palm of his hand the light was almost blinding. A large grin appeared on Red’s face as he inspected the precious stones.

“I think we’ve hit the jackpot this time, Freddy,” he said over his shoulder contentedly.

There came no answer from Fingers. Unperturbed, Turner began to tip the diamonds back into the cloth bag, making sure not to drop a single one. Once they were in, he tied the cord around the bag with as much care as he could muster and prepared to slip it inside the courier bag. From behind Red a familiar click sounded and his face dropped instantly. He knew what it was before he turned to face it.

“Freddy?”

The safecracker had produced a pistol from somewhere and was brandishing it in his direction. There was a steely look in Freddy’s eyes. He looked every bit as determined to pull the trigger if necessary as he had been determined to crack the safe moments ago. All the same, one of Red’s hands crept towards his shotgun.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Freddy uttered calmly as his finger tightened on the trigger. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t.”

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

Alright, and with that mammoth of an end-of-season montage post, the first chapter of The Crew's journey has come to an end. Fear not, they'll be back much sooner than you – or they – think.

Thanks for reading.

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

The Crew will return in... "The Long Good Friday"

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

Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
7:22 AM

Red’s eyes opened slowly to the sound of birds singing. The sun hung high in the air and for the first time in what felt like over a week, Turner had managed a good night’s sleep. He had no right to it. Every second that passed was another that brought the Old Bill a step closer to him – he had Charlie seeing red in the middle of the heist to thank for that. Iris was still dead. And Cecil was close to breaking. But with a good night’s sleep behind him, Turner’s problems felt a fraction more manageable.

He stole a look at the clock as he climbed out of bed and prepared himself for the day ahead. He’d promised Cecil he would take him for breakfast this morning. Best case scenario, he’d have the boy out of the corner before the day was out and the rest of the Crew could go underground until the heat was off them. However long that took.

Turner washed himself down in the bathroom sink, brushed his teeth quickly, and put on a set of clothing that was distinctly un-Turner-like. He was no dandy like Hanky Harry – nor did he worry about his hair being out of place as often as Charlie did – but Red usually made an effort to make sure he was well turned out. Today was an exception. He dressed down.

Once he was content he was prepared he sat by the phone and called ahead to Cecil, making sure to speak quietly so as not to wake Charlie. Each time the switchboard operator reported back that the call could not be put through. Turner thanked the operator and set the phone down with a disgruntled look.

“Probably drunk,” Red muttered, recalling the bottle of Scotch he’d seen Cecil clutching to his chest when he’d left.

On the drive over to Acton, Turner’s mind replayed the conversation he’d had with the Binneys last night. He felt the cold, gnawing hatred bubbling away in the pit of his stomach. Within seconds, he’d pushed it away again and reminded himself of the task at hand. He’d lost one crew to sloppiness before – he wasn’t about to lose another. There’d be time enough for hate once Cecil was out of the country and the rest of the gang were safe.

As Cecil’s flat came into sight a wave of despair hit Turner straight in the chest. His hands almost slipped from the steering wheel. A uniformed police officer was stood bolt upright outside of the entrance and the doorway was taped off by blue and white police tape. He composed himself, his hands now slippery wet with nerves, and made sure to park a few roads over from it.

The flags lining the streets flapped wildly in the wind as Turner trudged towards the flat. Each footstep felt heavier than the last. Finally Red stopped slightly down the road from it, spotting a boy, no younger than twelve, perched on his bicycle a few metres down from him.

Turner whistled softly to catch the boy’s attention. “What’s going on up there, boy?”

“My mum says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

The voice was sickly sweet. That of a play-acting nine year old, not one befitting a boy that looked on the cusp of adulthood. Suddenly there was a mischievous glint in the boy’s eye, one that Red recognised in an instance. The whole city was on the take. He almost damned his naïveté for thinking this would be any different.

“Is that so?” Red said, rooting around in his pocket for some change. “Well, what your mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her, can it?”

“Suppose not.”

The boy bit into the coin to make sure it was real. Once he was convinced, he pocketed it and pedalled over to Turner with a knowing smile.

“My big brother says he heard shouting last night. The old Scottish geezer that lives two doors down from us was hollering and screaming about something. Then two coppers showed up and…”

The boy stopped speaking. Turner’s attention had been lost to some movement up on the landing to Cecil’s flat. The front door had opened and a police officer in plain clothes had stepped through it. Once he’d ducked under the tape, the copper reached into his coat for a cigarette and offered one to the uniform stationed outside.

“Oi,” the boy said, yanking on Turner’s sleeve. “Are you still with me?”

“Go on,” Red responded with a nod.

“The boy that lived there, name of Charlie or Chris or something, rumour is he topped himself in the middle of the night.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but hearing the words come out of the boy’s mouth rocked him. Turner reached one of his clammy hands out to the wall beside him to steady himself for a moment. He thought of Cecil sat beside him last night, tears read from crying. “I don’t know if I can, Alf,” he’d said. Red had thought that Cecil meant he couldn’t leave the country. Now he realised he meant go on at all.

“Cecil,” Turner mumbled to the boy as he drifted back to the conversation.

“What was that?”

“The boy’s name was Cecil.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, well the poor bastard’s dead now, isn’t he? I don’t think he’ll mind my getting his name wrong. Must have had worse problems on his hands if he did himself in.”

Turner nodded grimly to the boy by way of acceptance. Cecil had problems, alright – one’s that Red had brought to his doorstep. Had he not involved the boy in their plan both he and his girlfriend would still be alive, and Turner and the rest of his crew would be able to walk down a London street without looking over their shoulders. It was Turner’s fault. All of it. And if he didn’t pay for it in this life, he’d surely pay in the next.

“You need anything else, mate?”

Turner shook his head. “That’ll be all.”

“Nice doing business with you,” the boy said, thrusting out a hand in Red’s direction. A few seconds passed and it became clear that Turner’s mind was elsewhere, so the boy shrugged his shoulders and began to pedal away. “Suit yourself,” he muttered as he disappeared off into the distance.

As Red lifted his gaze his eyes locked with the plain-clothes copper stood on Cecil’s landing. The officer nodded in Turner’s direction. Red nodded back instinctively, aware that to not do so might arouse suspicion, and then set off back towards his vehicle. His hands, first slippery, then clammy, were now sopping wet. By the time he reached his car he could barely draw breath. Thoughts clattered around his brain at one hundred miles per hour and the world seemed to be spinning around him. Through it all he heard one voice, over and over again.

“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”
“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”
“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”

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

Acton, London
11:25 PM

“We’ve won the cup,
We’ve won the cup,
Eey, aye, addio,
We’ve won the cup.”

A chorus of drunken revellers had made a home of the small patch of grass opposite Cecil’s building. Over and over again they sang of England’s victory against the West Germans, unperturbed by the fact their nose was keeping people up. Cecil was one of them. He had made his way through three-quarters of a bottle of Scotch but was no closer to sleeping than he had been before it. Red’s visit had lifted his spirits somewhat but soon after he’d left they’d plummeted once again. Thoughts of taking the money and starting over again in Spain or Australia receded, to be replaced only by the sickening crunch of the butt of a gun against Iris’ skull.

“It’s your fault,” Cecil mumbled to himself as he took a swig from the bottle. “If it wasn’t for you, Iris would still be alive. She’s dead because you were greedy. No, worse than that, she’s dead because you were too weak to tell Alf where to go.”

Across the room a small mirror hung from a nail on a wall. Cecil could see his reflection in it. He looked in a sorry state. Who wouldn’t be in a sorry state given the circumstances? Who wouldn’t be drowning their sorrows? He felt like he was in a bad dream. Perhaps if he drank enough he would wake up tomorrow morning and this would all be over – Iris would still be alive and his life would go back to normal. He grinned weakly at the thought. It lasted for a second at most before giving out

His lips trembled gently to begin with, then more forcefully, before he finally surrendered to the sadness. The tears came fast and thick. “She’s really dead,” he cried, staring at his pathetic, swollen eyes in the mirror as he did so.

“We’ve won the cup,
We’ve won the cup,
Eey, aye, addio,
We’ve won the cup.”

There it was. The joy again. Today would go down in history as one of England’s proudest sporting moments – the footage of Geoff Hurst knocking that late goal past the German keeper would no doubt be played over and over again in the years to come. Lost in it all would be an innocent girl’s life snatched away from her over absolutely nothing. The thug that caved in her brains would walk free. The thought made Cecil’s blood boil. How he wished he’d have the chance to face the bastard down, the wrap his hands around his neck, and make him feel the terror that Iris must have felt in her final moments.

As Cecil raised the bottle of Scotch to his lips for another mouthful, a heavy knock on his front door made him stop short. His brow furrowed and he took a glance at the clock. It had only been an hour since Turner had left.

“What do you want, Alf?” Cecil groaned as he climbed to his feet. “This had better be good.”

He staggered across the room with the bottle still in his hand. He made it halfway towards the door before his balance gave out and he crashed into the coffee table, knocking a glass onto the floor with a sudden smash. Cecil cursed under his breath as he felt the tiny pieces of glass lodged in the meat of his hand. Sober Cecil could deal with that in the morning. He climbed up from his feet, made it to the door and grabbed at the handle. Before he opened it, he felt a wave of nausea flood over him. A sickly burp rose up through his throat. He fought it back and did his best to ignore the horrible taste in his mouth before turning the handle.

There in front of him stood not Turner, but the man that Cecil had let into the stadium – the man that had killed Iris. Moments earlier a vengeful Cecil had hoped to see him again. As if by providence, the man had been delivered to him. But now that he was stood there, Cecil’s righteous fury, his rage, gave out – to be replaced only by dread.

From his jacket pocket the man produced a pistol, pointing it in Cecil’s direction with a callous smile. “I think you and I should have a little chat, don’t you?”

***

12:08 AM

Brown brought the car to a stop outside of the Acton address that Cecil had supplied them with earlier that afternoon. Half a dozen or so young men loitering around scattered upon catching sight of Brown and his young colleague. They had come in an unmarked car – but it only took one look at them to make out they were Old Bill. It was in the way they carried themselves, Brown most of all. As they stepped towards the block of flats that Cecil called home, Brown spotted a concerning sight.

“Rory,” he muttered to the Detective Inspector stood beside him. “Prepare for trouble.”

“Guv?” McEntyre asked inquiringly as they continued their approach.

Brown gestured up to the figure stood in front of Cecil’s door. He couldn’t quite deduce what the man was shouting over the sound of his fists banging against the door noisily. McEntyre reached towards his holster and Brown shook his head solemnly to him. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be one of them. It wasn’t their style.

“What seems to be the trouble, sir?”

The man spun towards Brown and McEntyre with a scowl. His face was covered in burnt orange stubble and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. There was a distinct whiff of alcohol to him. Whiskey, to be exact.

“The problem,” he slurred in a heavy Scottish accent. “Is that I’ve bloody water coming through in to my kitchen in the dead of the night.”

“Water?” Brown mused.

“Aye. We’ve just got the wiring redone and this idiot must have fallen asleep with the taps on. It’ll cost me an arm and a leg to get the bloody lot fixed. I’ve no the funds to be d-”

One of Brown’s hands thrust the man to the side. It only took a glance to Rory to signal what needed to be done. The young detective leant against a ledge for leverage and smashed the heel of his boot into the front door. A crack appeared by the locked area but it did not give out until the second kick.

A flood of water came streaming out from inside the flat. Brown could feel his heart pounding in his throat as the pair of them made their way into Cecil’s small apartment. Rory had his pistol in his hand now, but Brown already knew it was too late. They were too late. In the bathroom, a grey, lifeless Cecil was all but submerged in a bath full of bloodied water.

“Christ,” McEntyre muttered as he thrust his pistol into its holster in disbelief.

“Don’t just stand there,” Brown shouted to him. “Get him out.”

McEntyre’s arms thrust through the water and lodged themselves beneath Cecil’s armpits. Brown yanked the plug from the bath. Glistening in the bath water he spotted a razor blade. They laid Cecil’s body on the bathroom floor gently and McEntyre instinctively reached to feel for a pulse.

“It’s no good,” McEntyre muttered. “There’s no pulse, sir.”

Brown’s teeth gritted together as he watched Cecil’s pallid arms slip from McEntyre’s grasp onto the bathroom floor with a thud. The two men sat there in silence, kneeling in bloody bath water, as they thought through their next move.

“Call an ambulance,” Brown commanded with a gesture to the Scotsman lingering in the doorway.

“What now, guv?”

Brown reached for the edge of the bath and climbed to his feet. There was strain there, little signs of age that he had sought to keep hidden away through a strict diet and exercise regime, but in moments like these it was hardest to hide them. This was no accident. Someone had leant on Cecil, Brown was sure of it. Though he could not figure out to what end – but he would.

“Now we rally the troops.”

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

Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
10:28 PM

Red and Charlie made the drive back from the Oyster Club in silence. The scenes of jubilation along the streets made the complete stillness in the car all the more uncomfortable. There was nothing Turner could add to the Binneys’ tale. Loathe as he was to admit it, the bulk of it was true. He’d gone through hell and back in Korea, but it was the Binneys that had beaten young “Fred” Turner into the man he was today, and for that he was almost thankful, because one of these days the Binneys were going to get theirs – and Red was going to be there to see it happen.

He’d offered little more than a murmur by way of parting when Charlie had pulled up to the florists in Fulham. Bobby had trudged home to West Norwood earlier and Turner suspected Coach was by now playing the part of the West German keeper Tilkowski in his back garden for his children. All that was left to do before turning in was to check on Cecil.

Red sat nervously as the phone rang out several times. He took a glance at the clock on the wall of the backroom and let out a troubled sigh. Old Bill had likely taken the boy in for questioning. He’d done his best to prepare him for it and, despite his many sensitivities, Turner didn’t think that Cecil was the cracking type. But he wasn’t going to bet his life on that.

Seven attempts later, Red’d had enough and set out for Cecil’s place in Acton. The lights were out. He turned the handle to the flat a few times and then, with a derisive snort, pushed aside the little rabbit statue by the entrance. Beneath it was a spare key. He flicked on the lights and headed straight for the cupboard beneath the sink, where Turner remembered Cecil kept a cheap bottle of Scotch.

After two and a half glasses, Cecil’s thin frame slunk through the front door. The seated Turner poured out a glass for the boy and lifted it in his direction.

“What time do you call this?”

“You’ve got some cheek coming here tonight,” Cecil glowered at him with fists balled tight.

The tone of Cecil’s voice caught Red off-guard. “Pardon?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?” Turner said as he set down the glass on the table in front of him and climbed to his feet. “What’s the matter, Cecil?”

Cecil’s fists unclenched as Turner reached out towards him and placed his hands on his shoulders. The boy went to speak but the words couldn’t leave his mouth. His shoulders began to shake gently and when he looked up tears were streaming down his face. Turner shushed him, perplexed, and tried to coax Cecil to speak. When he did, the words cut through Red like a scythe.

“She’s dead.”

Turner could feel his blood running cold in his veins. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”

“Iris,” Cecil sobbed. “The one with the moustache, he bashed her over the head with the butt of his gun just for looking at him. One bash and now she’s dead. Old Bill said she had bleeding on the brain.”

Red’s hands slipped from Cecil’s shoulders. They were dead weights at his sides. His mind was racing trying to figure out his next move and how much the Old Bill had to work with. He damned Charlie’s temper under his breath, before shaking the thought free from his mind. It could have happened to anyone – and it was Red that had sent him in there, after all. It was every bit his fault as it was anyone else’s.

The feeling returned to his hands slowly and he lifted one to his face to pinch at the bridge of his nose. It was cold to the touch.

“What did you tell the police?”

Cecil’s red, swollen eyes unscrunched themselves. “You don’t even care, do you? Iris is dead and you couldn’t care less.”

Turner shot Cecil a look of pure venom. For a half-second, all of the sympathy he had carried for the boy had been replaced by resentment. Red was a criminal – he had never sought to hide that fact – but he was still a human being. The Binneys and the Kanes of the world might consider human life disposable, but Turner never had. The accusation had struck a nerve with him.

“Nothing,” Cecil mumbled guiltily. “I didn’t tell them a bloody thing, alright? But I wanted to. I wanted to drop you and the bastard that did Iris in right in it. I was just too much of a coward to go through with it.”

Red let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Cecil,” Turner said, reaching one of his hands out and placing it against the back of the boy’s head. He brought their temples together for a moment. “I’m so very sorry.”

They sat down on the grotty couch in the corner of the room and Turner topped up the glass of Scotch he had poured for Cecil. They sat there unspeaking for a few minutes, each sipping on their glasses every few seconds, until Turner was confident that the boy was ready to hear what came next.

“I know you might not be minded to listen to me, but it’s of the utmost importance that you do. The Old Bill are going to coming after us five, ten times harder than we planned. Like it or not, this is going to be big news – front page of The Mirror big news. We’ll need to go to ground.”

Cecil didn’t offer much in the way of a response. His glassy eyes made Red doubt he’d understood quite what he meant. “We’ll all need to go to ground, Cecil.”

“What?”

“Take my share of the take as well and get as far away from London as you can. You’ll have enough to start again somewhere. You can buy a house or start yourself a business. Christ, you could even go abroad. There’ll be enough to live on for a decade if you’re smart about it.”

Cecil’s teeth rested against the brim of the glass. Turner could see in the boy’s eyes that he was trying to process it all still, maybe he was picturing life on some sunny beach in Spain. Whatever thought Cecil was entertaining, it came to an abrupt end. He shook his head, clawed his teeth back from the glass and set the glass down on the table in front of him.

“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”

Turner placed a hand on the boy’s back gently and rose to his feet. “Get some sleep. God knows this whole ordeal has been stressful enough without compounding it all with tiredness. Look, if you really don’t want to go away, we can try to figure out some other way out of this mess, alright? But that conversation can wait until the morning.”

He regretted making that assurance the moment it left his mouth, but he didn’t know how else to calm the Cecil’s nerves. Things were about to get noisy for Turner and his crew, but he knew they’d be able to handle that – they had disappeared countless times before. Christ, no one knew where Bobby went half of the time even when they were planning a job. Cecil wasn’t one of them, though. He wasn’t cut out for this life and Red had known that when he brought him in. It was on him to try and make this all right.

“I’ll ring you first thing tomorrow,” Turner muttered by way of goodbye as he walked towards the exit. “We’ll sort breakfast out or something. How does that sound?”

Cecil nodded weakly and lifted his feet onto the space of the sofa that Turner had created. Turner watched as the boy reached for the glass of Scotch on the table and knocked back the dregs left at the bottom. His hand reached for the bottle and placed it on his chest pathetically as he stretched out on the sofa. It was a sorry sight.

Red gritted his teeth slightly, bid the boy a final goodbye, and shut the front door behind him. He slid the spare key under the rabbit where he’d found it earlier and set out into the darkness, his guilt echoing through the streets with every footstep.

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

Scotland Yard, Westminster
7:42 PM

Detective Inspector Eddie Dunphy placed a cigarette between his lips. It lay there helplessly for the duration of Dunphy’s journey from Scotland Yard to a nearby phonebox. It wasn’t until the police officer had stepped inside of it that he bothered to light it up. It was a peculiar habit Dunphy had. That and wearing the peacoat his uncle had bought him for his eighteenth birthday all year round. Both had earned him his fair share of stick from his colleagues. But it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

He filled his lungs with smoke as he pulled up the sleeve of the coat. There daubed on the fat of the inside of his hand was a phone number that Dunphy was supposed to have memorised. In all of the day’s excitement, the task had proved beyond him.

He slid a few coins into the phone and tapped the phone number in. After three rings, he heard the receiver being picked up on the other end.

“It’s me,” Eddie announced.

“Ah,” Harry Handkerchief’s faux-surprise was tangible from the other side. “I had been wondering when you would call.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been a bit of a busy day at the office. Our little misadventure down at Carlisle’s place wasn’t even the evening’s main attraction.”

“What?”

“Some bastards with bollocks the size of Big Ben robbed Wembley Stadium blind while the final was going on, if you can believe that. Half of Scotland Yard are down there trying to figure out what happened. The other half are out on the piss, as you’d expect given the football and all.”

Dunphy had been hoping the World Cup Final would help draw the Met’s attention away from the Cooperage raid. And he thought it had done. But someone had gone crying to Brown and his boys at the last minute and blown Dunphy’s plan to pieces. It was only a stroke of luck that Eddie himself had been called out there. If it had been someone else, Harry would likely have been blown away there in that alleyway.

“What of my colleagues?”

“Stockton and Walsh were dead the second they reached for their guns,” Dunphy sighed. “Your wheelman rear-ended a rubbish van trying to get away from the scene. Wasn’t a pretty sight. Coroner reckons he died on impact, though.”

“Christ,” Harry muttered down the phone. “And Clubber?”

“Conroy is alive,” Dunphy responded. “The bugger took six bullets at close range and it still wasn’t enough to put him down.”

“Well, I suppose that’s good news.”

“Is it?”

The sound of honking horns and cheering from passersby filled the silence between the two men.

“What are you suggesting, Edmund?”

Eddie could feel the indignation in Harry’s voice. Their settlement, as they had come to refer to it as, had worked well for both men up to this point – Dunphy came up with the plans, Harry saw them through. Because of his day job, that was about as involved as Eddie could afford to be. That meant that Harry had to put together his own crews. Dunphy didn’t always agree with his choices. Clubber being one of them.

“He went away for a long time last time around,” Eddie ventured with some trepidation in his voice. “And he’s only been on the outside for, what, nine months? What if he starts getting ideas when he comes to? I’ve seen Brown crack bigger and tougher bastards than him.”

Harry’s tart, posh laughter sounded from the other side of the phone.

“They don’t make bastards bigger and tougher than James Conroy.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

“I am,” Harry nodded. “Not that it will matter once Carlisle gets wind of my involvement in this bloody mess.”

“Don’t you worry about that old todger,” Eddie said knowingly. “I spoke with my family friends this morning. Rumour has it Carlisle will have a little more than a botched robbery to deal with in the next couple of days.”

Carlisle’s days were numbered. The Binneys were going to see to that. The old man must have known that. With the Binneys territory creeping more westwards every week and the Kanes looking to make moves across the river, Carlisle was surrounded. Nearly a decade ago, a similar fate had befallen Eddie’s great uncle – Jack Donoghue. That had been when the Binneys were small-time. Now they ruled the roost. Carlisle would be lucky to still be around in six months time.

“You’ll see to it that no harm comes to Clubber on the inside? He’s a good man, Edmund. A simple one, perhaps, but he understands the value of loyalty,” Harry implored.

The copper thought on it for a few moments. It would be a ball ache convincing Albie and Alan not to have Conroy seen to once he was on the inside, but he felt like he owed Harry that much, given what had happened to the rest of them. He’d go to Frank first. Frank had always been the key to getting the brothers onside.

“I’ll do my best, Harry,” Eddie agreed finally.

Harry intimated he’d be dropping off the map for the foreseeable and the two men said their goodbyes. Eddie put the receiver down and tossed his now dead fag onto the floor and ground it into mulch with one of his feet.

He made the slow trudge back to the Yard as he mulled over when was the best time to contact the Binneys. Once he was in the Yard’s myriad identical halls, his thoughts returned to his day job. He caught a glimpse of Superintendent Thomas Brown. For years, Dunphy had been leaking and framing under Brown’s nose without him being any the wiser – but with two busts in one day, it felt like the net had begun to tighten somewhat.

“Evening, guv,” Dunphy murmured to Brown as the two passed by one another.

The Superintendent nodded his head dismissively in response. If Dunphy didn’t know Brown better, he’d have thought he might have harboured some suspicions about him. The truth of the matter was that the old man was about as crotcetchy as they came – and was probably just running late for once in his life. Eddie smiled to himself knowingly and returned to his desk.

There was work still to be done.

***

8:04 PM

“Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed at such short notice.”

“Am I in some kind of trouble?” Cecil asked.

“No, no, of course not. Your colleagues will all be brought in over the next couple of days for similar interviews but given your rather prolonged exposure to one of the suspects, we thought it best to strike while the iron was hot.”

Cecil nodded in agreement and Superintendent Thomas Brown quickly offered Cecil an explanation of what his rights were and explained how the state-of-the-art recording device on the table was going to be used. Finally, the officer laid out a few folders in front of him. He cleared his throat, pressed a button down on the recorder, and began his questions. They seemed routine enough to Cecil as he recounted the events of that morning.

When he reached the evening, Brown’s attention seemed to spike.

“You told an officer at the scene that the gentleman who robbed the counting room had a firearm, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cecil nodded. “That’s right. He had a gun of some sort. I couldn’t tell you much more than that. I don’t know much about them, see.”

“It was a pistol?”

Cecil nodded again. Gladys and the rest of the staff in the courting room had seen as much. There was no harm in telling them that. Alf had walked him through what to say and what not to say in the interview room. One of the big no-nos was to be seen as non-compliant – it would make them suspicious, Alf had said. So far Cecil had been a picture of compliance.

Opposite him, Brown jotted down a few notes. He opened his mouth to ask another question but was cut off by the door to the interview room opening. A uniformed police officer stuck his head around the corner.

“A moment, guv?”

“Can it wait?” asked without looking up from his folders.

The officer shook his head and Brown sighed. He set down his pen and followed the officer out of the room. Cecil watched as the door shut behind the two of them quietly and he was left alone. He repeated Turner’s advice over and over in his head.

A minute passed, then two, then five, and as the time kept melting away, Cecil grew more anxious. Finally the door opened and Brown reentered the interview room. This time the schoolmasterly calm that he usually exuded had been left at the door. Cecil could tell that something he’d learned had worried him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Cecil, but your colleague … the girl.” Brown mused as he began to thumb his way through the folders in front of him, desperately avoiding making eye contact with him. “What was her name? Do forgive me.”

“Iris,” Cecil shouted as he stood bolt upright. His seat fell to the ground with a bang. “What’s wrong with her? Tell me what’s happened.”

“I’m afraid she didn’t make it. Bleeding on the brain. The doctors say the knock she took during the robbery was the cause of it. This is now a murder investigation.”

The words nearly floored him. They had not known each other for long, but he and Iris had grown close over the past two months. A joke here and there over a fag had turned into something more – maybe even something lasting. Cecil had already been planning how he would use his share of the take to maybe take Iris away for a while, once the dust had settled, of course. But that was all a pipe dream now. She was dead.

“I am very sorry,” Brown said from across the table.

Cecil’s hands gripped the edge of the table tightly to steel himself. His grief turned to rage as he pictured the face of Turner’s hired muscle. The squat figure that had flung him to the ground after letting him through the door – and the absurd moustache that sat atop his lip. His face was imprinted on Cecil’s mind. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to get out of that interview room, find a weapon, and take from that man what he had taken from Iris.

“They’ll be sorry,” Cecil muttered under his breath.

Across from him, Brown stirred inquisitively and Cecil spotted the officer make a note in the folder in front of him. His anger subsided slightly as he realised anything he said to incriminate that mustachioed bastard would only incriminate himself too – even if it were done to avenge Iris.

“They?” Brown asked innocently. “I thought there was only one man in the counting room, Cecil.”

It was a trap. Even poor, naive Cecil could sense that much – but Turner’s words rang in his ears one final time as his senses returned to him and his temper cooled. Non-compliance was suspicious. Cecil propped his seat back up and returned to it with an unconvincingly heaviness.

“Well, he couldn’t have been dropping the money to himself, could he?”

Brown smiled solemnly at the deduction.

“I suppose not.”

There was a slither of suspicion there. Cecil could feel it. He leant forward, crossed his arms, and prepared to navigate his way through the copper’s questioning without dropping himself in it.

As Brown asked the next question, Cecil glanced up at the clock. If all had gone right, he’d have been out on the town with Iris and the rest of the staff by now – heck, maybe they’d have even invited the Thursgoods. Instead, Iris was dead and he was one more wrong word away from being sent down as an accessory to murder.

Turner had a lot to answer for.

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

5:16 PM
4 Minutes Left in Extra-Time

With every passing minute, the crowds outside Wembley Stadium grew and grew with size. Drunken renditions of “God Save the Queen” were tossed back and forth between expectant England fans. The Three Lions were 3-2 up and on the cusp of securing their first World Cup win – on home soil at that. For Red and Coach, who were taking shelter in a stolen ambulance crammed full with stolen cash, that wasn’t much comfort to them. Charlie and Bobby’s lateness was playing on both of their minds.

“What do we do?”

“We’re not leaving them behind,” Red responded curtly.

“Blimey, Red,” Coach bristled in the seat next to him. “I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. I’d as soon chop my own bollocks off than leave them high and dry on a job. You know that.”

Turner had regretted saying it the second the words had left his mouth. His nerves had got the better of him. For not the first time that afternoon, Red silently damned himself for having got Cecil involved in the scheme at all. They could have found another way in. He should have found another way in for them.

Before he had a chance to apologise, he made out Charlie’s squat figure cutting its way through the crowds of people. In front of him was Bobby, ridiculous outfit and all. He was frog-marching towards the ambulance with a stern look on his face.

“That’s them,” Red said with a point in their direction. “Start the engine. I want us out of here in thirty seconds flat.”

Coach shot Turner a nod. Red climbed from the passenger seat into the back of the ambulance and opened up its double doors from the inside. Charlie gave Bobby one last shove, almost knocking him into Red’s arms, and shut the doors behind him.

“Better late than never, comrades,” Coach called out from the front as he stuck on the siren.

“I can take off these stupid clothes now?”

Red smiled at Bobby.

“Yes, Bobby, you can take off the clothes.”

Lewandowski pulled the Union Flag waistcoat off over his head and flung it onto the floor of the ambulance. He was half-rolling up his sleeves when Red motioned to him to join Coach in the front of the ambulance. Once he had sat down, Coach began to pull out of the parking lot. Turner took a seat opposite Charlie in the back. There were bags of money piled around their feet.

“What happened in there?”

“Your boy Cecil happened,” Charlie fumed. “He was twenty minutes late. I stood out there with my ass flapping in the wind for twenty goddamn minutes.”

“At least he came through in the end,” was all Red could muster by way of defence.

“Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not as forgiving. The whole job could have gone south.”

The siren hadn’t quite had the desired effect. The crowds had parted some to make way for it – but not nearly at the speed you would expect. The ambulance was taking a slow and winding course through the crowds, with bags of money sliding to the left and right with Coach’s each turn of the wheel.

Turner was about to attempt to justify Cecil’s lateness for a second time when Crowder called out from the front of the ambulance.

“Pipe down back there, would you? England are about to win the World Cup.”

Coach reached for the dial and turned the volume up. Sensing the tension between himself and Charlie, Turner stepped up towards the front of the ambulance to listen in to the football with Coach and Bobby. Through the radio, the sound of Kenneth Wolstenhome’s voice came booming.

“The referee looks at his watch. Any second now, it will be all over. Thirty seconds … the Germans are going down and they can hardly get up. It’s all over, I think.”

Crowder prematurely pumped one of his fists, before quickly snapping it back into place and steering the ambulance away from the stadium car park and towards the exit in the distance. As they crossed the threshold, Wolstenhome sounded again, this time even more desperate and excitable than before.

“No, it’s – and here comes Hurst, he’s got – some people are on the pitch, they think it’s all over! It is now!”

There was a roar from the stadium behind them. The assembled crowds that were lining Wembley’s streets broke out in scenes of pure ecstasy. Coach shook his fists excitedly in the air and Red dug his hands into Crowder’s shoulders with a laugh. In the passenger’s seat, Bobby beamed that broad, wholesome smile that only Bobby could. Turner turned to Charlie sat in the back and smiled at him. Enfield smiled back faintly, but only for a second.

It was almost done, Red thought as the ambulance drew away from the stadium. They made one last stop so that Charlie could pick up the Wolseley the Binney’s old man had kindly supplied them with, but after that it was smooth sailing.

England had won the World Cup – and they had managed to rob the bastards blind under their noses without so much as a shot fired.

Something told Turner that he would remember this day for the rest of his life.

***

5:14 PM
2 Minutes Left in Regulation

There were only minutes left until the referee blew his whistle. George Thursgood had no intention of missing out on England’s victory lap once that whistled sounded. After a little coaxing from his brother Johnno, he’d agreed to broach the idea of the pair of them heading down to the field with Gladys. They arrived at the sorting room, where Gladys reigned supreme with the help of Cecil’s squeeze Iris, and George gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles.

Nothing. Usually Gladys’ hoarse, cigarette-shredded voice sounded through the door within seconds. Perhaps “The Battleaxe” had agreed to let the staff go down to the field already, George thought to himself for a second. He rapped his knuckles against the door one last time before, again at his brother’s coaxing, deciding to try the handle.

“Gladys,” George called out as the usually-locked counting room door swung open. “You don’t mind if Johnno and I head down to the st-”

The elder Thursgood stopped in his tracks as he spotted his colleagues tied up around the room. In the centre of the room, where the piles of notes were usually laid out to be counted, was only an empty table. He knew straight away what had happened. And it had left him with knots in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, christ. We’ve been robbed, haven’t we? On Cup Final day of all days,” Johnno whimpered.

“Go and find a copper,” George implored his younger brother earnestnessly.

Johnno nodded and disappeared into the stadium’s corridors in search of a police officer. George knelt down beside Gladys. He pulled a pen-knife from his pocket and hacked through the cables that bound her feet and hands. He hadn’t even finished helping the old woman to her feet when she gestured to the rest of their colleagues.

“Help me untie the rest of them.”

The two of them set about untying the other bound members of staff one-by-one. There were tears, even anger, all around as they all clambered to their feet. Only Cecil and Iris remained on the ground. Gladys had broke towards Cecil to help him so George knelt beside Iris to do the same.

It took less than a second for Thursgood to realise that the girl was eerily still.

"Something’s wrong with Iris.”

From outside of the counting room there came a roar that shook Wembley Stadium to its foundations. Just two minutes ago, George would have been the first to try and decipher what it meant. Now, staring down at the young blonde girl’s unmoving body, he couldn’t bring himself to think about football.

Gladys, who was about to remove Cecil’s gag, stopped dead in her tracks.

“What are you talking about?”

George instinctually placed his fingers against Iris’ neck in search of a pulse. After a second or two, his face awash with dread, Thursgood looked round at Gladys.

“She’s not breathing.”

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

Wembley Stadium
4:41 PM
4 Minutes Left in Regulation

Bobby had lead security on a merry chase around the stadium after letting off the bangers. But something was wrong. He’d seen that Cecil boy shooting the breeze with colleagues of his a good fifteen minutes after he was supposed to have let Charlie in. There wasn’t much that Bobby could do about it with security on his tail. He’d kept running past and hoped that the Sweeney hadn’t blown the entire plan. But there was only one way to be sure of that – and it involved making a change of his own to the plan. He had to let himself get caught.

The crew working the Final was made up of bunch of old men and boys that looked like they were barely old enough to take a drink. It wasn’t out of the ordinary. At events like this there were lots of Old Bill scattered around. The deterrent effect of all those uniforms was usually more than enough. All Lewandowski needed to do was let up a little and after a while one of the guards caught up with him.

He was trudged to a holding room where a few drunk England fans were being held in makeshift cells. Supervising them was an older man, who had the cut of a retired police officer about him, and scowled in Bobby’s direction as he was brought into the room. Lewandowski suspected it was as much at his ridiculous outfit as it was anything else.

“What’s it this time?”

“This plonker was letting off some kind of fireworks in the crowd.”

“Blimey,” the old man said with a disapproving shake of his head. “Given Her Majesty is in attendance, I suspect Old Bill will be wanting a word with you once the game is done. We’ve about filled up all the cells, so you’ll have to make do with a bench for the time being. I hope that’s not too disagreeable.”

Bobby stared impassively at the man. The guard that had brought him in gave Lewandowski a slight push down onto the bench. He perched down alongside him with a heavy sigh.

“What have I missed?”

The older man described Peters’ goal to his colleague – who kicked himself for having missed it. He’d given Lewandowski a hateful stare at that moment. He’d have been in the stands to watch it had Bobby not let off those bangers. For that the Pole felt more guilty than he ought to. But that was Bobby to a tee.

With another sigh, the Pole removed his ridiculous hat and flung it to the floor beside the bench. He slunk down in his seat as if he were planning to make the bench his home for the foreseeable future. Satisfied, the security guard beside him slipped a cigarette into his mouth and continued on listening to his colleague.

“The Krauts are knackered. England look closer to scoring another than the Germans do equalising. All they need to do is hold on for a few more minutes and we’ll be laug-”

The sound of a piercing whistle came through from the radio in the corner of the room. There was a roar of disapproval from the Wembley crowd that announced something not to the liking of English fans had happened. A half-second afterwards the radio announcer’s voice sounded.

“Jack Charlton clatters into Schnellinger and the referee has awarded West Germany a free kick deep in English territory.”

“For god’s sake, Charlton,” the old man muttered.

Beside Bobby, the security guard began to scoot forward on his seat. The two men were gripped by the football. He didn’t blame them. The entire country was gripped by it. Heck, Lewandowski had been when he was sat in the stands.

“Emmerich steps up to take it. The Wembley crowd has fallen silent. West Germany’s hopes rest on this kick. And … he fires it directly into the English wall.”

“Have it,” the security guard shouted, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth as he jumped forward out his seat. “Take that, you Bratwurst-eating bastards.”

Bobby stole a look towards the door but thought better of it. He needed to wait out whatever was happening with Charlie here – and hope that Charlie showed up before another member of Old Bill. The guard had all but sat down until the announcer’s voice sounded again over the radio. This time it was more desperate. The guards were glued once again on the radio.

“No! The English can’t seem to get it out of their own box. A German boot sends the ball flying into one English player and now it’s slid across the mouth of the goal to Weber. He scores! West Germany equalise with less than a minute left in the game. The West German fans are jubilant.”

There were screams from the Wembley crowd in the distance. The security guards shouted profanities in the direction of the radio. As they did so, Lewandowski simply leant back into his seat, a wry smile appearing on his face. Wherever the hell Charlie was, the West Germans had just given him a lifeline. Bobby just hoped he took it.

***

Carlisle's Cooperage, Soho
4:35 PM
11 Minutes Left in Regulation

Handkerchief Harry followed the rest of the crew into the Cooperage. Almost instantly the employees spotted the men in their double-breasted suits. Some turned to face them, others, perhaps in the know as to what the Cooperage’s real purpose was, kept stubbornly working on for a few seconds. The sound of Clubber’s shotgun cocking made even the most pig-headed stand to attention. Sensing his moment had arrived, Harry climbed atop one of the completed barrels, making sure to brush down his trousers once he he had done so, and cleared his voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please do not be alarmed. This is, of course, exactly what it looks like – a robbery. As you can see, my esteemed colleagues here are heavily armed and, I assure you, have no qualms about making use of said armaments, so your cooperation would be most appreciated.”

The Cooperage employees watched on in perfect stillness. Harry wasn’t sure whether they’d not heard him – or whether they’d simply not understood him. He was about to repeat himself in slightly more forceful terms when Clubber stepped forward. In two small steps, James “Clubber” Conroy’s body managed to communicate that it possessed all of the destructive capability of a Silverback Gorilla and more.

“What’s wrong with you people? Are you deaf or something? The man told you to hand over the money or you’re fucking dead.”

Suddenly they began to scatter towards the barrels packed filled with cash. World Cup Final day had been like Christmas come early for shylocks across London – and no shylock operating on this side of the capital could afford not to pay Carlisle for the pleasure of doing business on his patch. Harry was sure there was more money packed into this place today than in all of the Bank of England’s vaults. And he’d promised Clubber, Stockton and Walsh that they’d take as much of it as they could carry with them.

Harry climbed down. Opposite him stood a man in his fifties with thick-rimmed glasses. He slipped off his workman’s gloves and thrust them into the front pouch of his apron. For a second, Harry wondered whether the man was going to try to play hero – but his fears proved unfounded. The man pinched the bridge of his nose nervously, as if weighing up whether to speak or not, before eventually walking over to Harry with an apologetic smile.

“Bit of friendly advice, lads – I were you, I’d turn round and walk out the way you came in. The fella owns this place don’t look to kindly on people taking what’s his, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” Harry said as he went to lay a grateful hand on the man’s arm. “Truly.”

Before it had made contact with him, the butt of Clubber’s shotgun came crashing down against the back of the man’s head. He fell into a heap on the ground clutching at his head. There was blood pouring from it. Harry looked down at the man ruefully and then shook his head in Clubber’s direction.

“Now, now, was that really necessary?”

Clubber grinned.

“You lazy sods have exactly thirty seconds to round up the rest of the cash or the old boy is getting one in the skull,” he said, forcefully prodding the shotgun against the downed man’s head.

Harry made sure to watch the entrance of the Cooperage as Walsh and Stockton oversaw the employees loading bags filled with cash. Clubber swaggered around, shotgun in hand, brandishing it in the direction of anyone he felt like wasn’t pulling their weight. They crumbled under the weight of his gaze. As loathe as he was to admit it, Harry couldn’t help but admire the former boxer’s style. It was brutal, but it got the job done. Harry was the softly spoken word to Conroy’s big stick. He couldn’t help but wonder whether all that trouble with the Kanes might have been avoided if he’d had someone like Conroy in his corner back then.

“We need to move,” Walsh called out.

Clubber nodded. Each man threw a large bag filled with cash over their shoulders and made ready for their escape. Franklin was parked around the corner in the van. They’d be on the other side of London before Carlisle knew what had hit him.

Behind him, Harry heard the backdoor to the Cooperage fling open as Stockton, Walsh and Clubber disappeared through it. He look one last glance at the Cooperage employees and gave them a theatrical bow as if accepting an encore from an adoring crowd.

“As you were, ladies and gentlemen.”

As he was about to follow his crew through the door, he heard the sound of screeching tyres and pistols cocking. There was shouting from outside. Harry's face dropped in an instance. It was the Old Bill. It had to be the Old Bill because if it were Carlisle's men they would have started shooting first and asked questions afterwards.

Harry scanned around the Cooperage desperately for an exit. There was no way he was walking into the deathtrap that Clubber, Stockton and Walsh were caught in. He'd heard Clubber say enough times that he wasn't going back to prison to know that standoff wasn't going to end peaceably. When the shooting started, his suspicions were all but concerned.

"Fuck," Harry muttered under his breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

They would have both front and rear exit covers, that's for sure. His brain was flying at a hundred miles per hour, trying to remember the schematics of the place that Stockton had acquired for them before the heist. By the time the shooting had stopped, he remembered there was a side exit the workers used when they wanted to go out for a smoke. If he was going to get out in one piece, it would be through there.

The bag of money over his shoulder made him feel like he was running through treacle. Reluctantly he slung the bag to the ground and made for the side exit. As he reached it, he pulled out the pistol in his waistband and prepared to shoot his way out. With a kick, the door flung open and Harry broke through it.

The alley was empty all but for one figure. Harry trained his weapon on him before recognising the trademark navy peacoat. Without saying a word, DI Eddie Dunphy used the barrel of his own pistol to reveal the likeliest escape route to him and Harry followed it without a second's thought.

Clubber, Stockton and Walsh were probably dead. If Franklin was clever, he'd have high-tailed it out of there the second Old Bill showed up. Knowing the boy, he was probably sat in the back of a police van.

Harry had absolutely no intention of joining him.

***

Wembley Stadium
4:56 PM
24 Minutes Left in Extra Time

Red had almost kissed Coach on the mouth when West Germany scored their last-minute equaliser. He wasn’t sure exactly how Crowder had willed it into being, but he had seemingly managed it with that quip of his. The two of them stood, growing more and more nervous about the crowds surrounding the stadium, until a window opened high above them.

“Look sharp,” Red ordered.

Crowder quickly ran to the driver’s seat of the ambulance and turned on the vehicle’s engine. Lewandowski had no-showed. Turner was worried about that, too – but slightly less worried than he had been about Charlie’s lateness. Something had held him up. He hoped Cecil wasn’t in some kind of trouble.

The first bag of cash was flung down to Red. He readied himself to catch it but was still caught off-guard by just how heavy it was. The take was going to be bigger than they had thought. As of yet, Turner wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good thing.

What seemed like a dozen more bags were thrown down and Turner loaded each onto the waiting ambulance. Finally Charlie’s head popped out of the window above them. Turner and he made eye contact. He wanted to shout out to Enfield and ask him whether Bobby was with him – but to do so would be to tip-off anyone listening in that their crew had a fourth. He couldn’t risk it.

Instead he made a flinging gesture with his hand. At the end of the gesture his fingers flicked out abruptly, striking against his thumb, in a makeshift exploding motion. Charlie watched him for a few seconds, as if trying to decipher the gesture's meaning, and then suddenly nodded back determinedly. The window shut and Enfield disappeared back inside the courting room.

“What’s going on?” Coach mumbled to Red as Turner made his way around to the passenger side. “Was the kid with Charlie?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Red sighed.

“Christ, as if the game wasn’t bloody dramatic enough on its own.”

The two elder statesmen of the crew sat in the front of the ambulance in silence. One of Turner’s hands reached for the dial on the radio. Coach glanced at his colleague despairingly, fearing he was about to turn the match off altogether, but was relieved to find Red turning the volume up slightly.

There was nothing they could do now, Red ruminated. Everything was resting on Charlie – and, perhaps not for the first time, that thought made him anxious.