[b]Wembley Stadium 6:30 PM Seventy Minutes After The Game[/b] Detective Superintendent Thomas Brown didn't say much as he surveyed the stadium counting room. A police chemist snapped photographs while another dusted surfaces for fingerprints. Brown knew it was a fruitless gesture. There was no way they would be dumb enough to leave a fingerprint. He wasn't in charge of the investigation just yet, but he was here to observe. As a Super, he was low man on the totem pole among the Met brass. Commanders and Deputy Commissioners with enough medals and citations to make a Soviet general jealous were coming and going, getting the way more than they helped. Brown had one of his Flying Squads down in the security section of the stadium, interviewing the staff. He'd make his way down there shortly and contribute. A homicide detective in a rumpled suit smoked a cigarette while sketched out the layout of the counting room. A yellow placard on the floor marked where the body had been. Someone said she was only nineteen. It had to be an accident. Their first mistake, but Jesus Christ was it a big one. He had been on the way to Soho when he got the call on the radio to come to Wembley right away. Flying Squad 2, the one under McEntyre's command, foiled a big robbery of a bookie shop. Brown's grass said that was going go down and it did, but the grass was completely wrong about the people behind it. His gang of thieves, the ones Brown knew existed despite the doubts and derision of the Met, would be bold enough to pull a big job on the day of the World Cup final. On that much Brown and the grass agreed. What both men had sorely gotten wrong was the ambition of this crew. To rob Wembley Stadium of the World Cup Final gate [i]during[/i] the World Cup final was bold on the point of being insane. Crazy like a fox, wasn't that the saying? Well, their craziness had paid off. It'd also gotten a girl killed. "Superintend Brown." He looked away at the mention of his name. Deputy Commissioner Robertson stood at the doorway of the counting room. He had been called in from home. The man wore slacks and a blue polo shirt. Brown he saw the Saint George's Cross pin on the lapel of his polo. "Alright then, Joe?" Brown asked. Robertson raised his eyebrows. "What are you thinking, Tommy? I know how your brain works. Theories on top of theories. We got reports from downstairs that the one who did it was dressed as us. Old Bill, I mean." "Cheeky bastards," Brown said softly. "They would do something crazy like that." "They?" asked Robertson. "I've got a theory, Joe. Keep in mind, it's just a theory." Robertson looked around the ransacked counting room and nodded. "Let's hear it, then." --- [b]Fulham 6:34 PM Seventy-Four Minutes After the Game[/b] Coach whistled "God Save The Queen" as he and Charlie counted the take on a wobbly card table. They were the two quickest counters in the Crew. As a cabbie, Coach had to use quick maths to settle fares and give change. Red sat on the hideout's Murphy bed and watched them count while Bobby changed into his regular clothes in the apartment's tiny bathroom. Charlie had a cigarette stuck in his mouth as he counted, the ashes close to falling on the money. Coach would count up to a ten thousand pounds and then set it aside in a bundle on the table. So far, he had ten neat little bundles in front of him to go along with Charlie's eight. "Done," Charlie announced a few minutes later. He flicked ashes from his cigarette and looked over at Coach. "What you got." They compared notes and came up with an exact figure. Red rose off the Murphy bed and walked over to the table just as Bobby came out the loo in his street clothes. Coach announced it. "Lads, we just walked away with two hundred and two thousand, five hundred and seven pounds." It was so silent, the sound of the toilet running filled the small space. They all looked at each other before Bobby broke the silence with his laughter. Suddenly, they were all laughing and celebrating. Charlie reached out and wrapped Coach in a warm bear hug before pumping Red's hand enthusiastically. "Fucking brilliant," he said with a laugh. "Absolutely fucking brilliant, mate." "Shame it's not all ours," Red said with a laugh. "But I'll be happy with, what? Twenty-five grand a piece? Not nothing to turn the old nose up over, eh?" "I could drive hack for six years and not make this kinda cash," said Coach. "Charlie is right. Fucking brilliant." "Okay," said Red. "Someone needs to cut out forty percent of the take. The Binney brothers are gonna be expecting us to come calling tonight."