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

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.

[i]Albert Binney.[/i]

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 ... [i]busy[/i] 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. [i]Or ever again for that matter[/i], 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.”

[i]A beautiful one at that[/i]. 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. [i]There are people relying on me[/i], Turner reminded himself. [i]Daisy for one, but Enfield, Lewandowski and Crowder too.[/i] 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?”

[i]The presents had been received[/i], 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.