[b]Scotland Yard
11:05 PM[/b]

DI Rory McEntyre sat at his desk and rubbed his calloused hands over his face. It had only been twelve hours ago that he was here, but it felt like twelve lifetimes had passed since. The robbery at the cooperage ended up all bollocksed. One was arrested, one escaped with the loot, and the rest were dead. The one they had wasn’t talking and wouldn’t talk. He’d take the prison time and tell the coppers to jog on. He was what the criminal underworld called a stand-up guy.

McEntyre searched his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. He found them and his lighter in a jacket pocket. After lighting up, he looked over at the super’s office. The door was closed, but he could see the lights were on from the crack beneath the door. The old man would probably be here all night, reviewing cases and files and intelligence reports. As big as the robbery at the cooperage was, it was a simple sideshow compared to Wembley. The old man missed big time on that regard. Although, the grass was to blame and not Brown. The intelligence had been sound. Just the scope of it was off.

He stood up and walked towards the guv’s office, gently rapping on the frame.

“Enter.”

Brown was behind his desk, a pair of thick reading glasses squarely on his. Open folders were stretched out on the surface. On the guv’s chalkboard was a map of Wembley tapped to it with notes in the margin. McEntyre caught a quick glance of a timeline scribbled down the side of the board.

“I think our young friend Cecil is in on it.”

“You reckon?” asked McEntyre.

“He said something to me earlier today. Talked about how the robber was tossing bags out the window. He couldn’t give us a good description of our man. Even though he was with him the longest of anyone. But he talked about the cash going out the window. That implies he was watching our man mighty hard.”

“So he’s lying. Maybe he’s afraid to cooperate for fear of the robber coming back. That wouldn’t shock me. The thing that I wonder is if he was watching, then why he didn’t get the bash in the skull like the girl got?”

Brown nodded in agreement and stood. He walked towards the board, grabbing a chunk of chalk as he did so. He drew an X on the map with chalk.

“Our fake bobbie knew exactly where to go to meet Cecil. A door that is normally guarded,” Brown. gesturing.

“The security guard said that he was called to the stands. Something about a nutter throwing around poppers.”

Brown tapped the chalk at his timeline, near the end of the match.
“Exactly. The moment the security guard walks away, Cecil comes out that door. An employee with the right keys to get to the count room, an employee that even knows where that room is. The management said that of the some hundred odd people who work at Wembley, most of them have no idea where the money is kept. So what are the odds that one of the few employees they need just so happens to walk out that door?”

“Too high for me to take,” said McEntyre. “Did anybody follow up on the nutter?”

“According to the security at their little makeshift jail, our nutter was conveniently taken into police custody. Nobody at any of the stations around Wembley reported a man being booked on charges of mischief and disturbance at the stadium.”

It dawned on McEntyre.

“It was him.Our robber. He plucked his distraction out of jail and they escaped.”

Brown pointed back at the timeline and started his summation.

“My working theory is this: Distraction pulls stadium security to the stands. Our robber goes into the count room with Cecil’s help, be it willing or unwilling that’s yet to be determined. He loads up and tosses it out the window to an awaiting party. If he’s dressed up like a copper, then whoever is on the ground is probably dressed either the same or similar. Nobody in England questions a man in a uniform who looks like he belongs. The robber slips out, after braining the girl, The distraction gets nicked and goes in to stadium jail or whatever it’s called. The faux bobby shows up and gets his friend out of jail while the other half of the group, the one with the score, drive off.”

“Jesus,” said McEntyre. “It’s cheeky as hell, guv.”

“It’s them,” said Brown. “The robbery crew nobody believes exists. It’s bold, brilliant. And if not for the dead girl, it’d be flawless. They’ve finally stepped in the shit.”

McEntyre looked at the old man. There was conviction in those eyes. People in the Met used the Boogie’s as proof that Brown was slipping. But, the previous conversation showed the inspector that the guv wasn’t slipping at all. He was as sharp as ever. And… he was right.

“Next step, sir?” McEntyre asked. The day had been long, but he was suddenly not so tired.

“Where’s your squad?”

“Out trying to get in touch with their grasses,” he said with a grin. “Case like this, it’s round up the usual suspects time.”

“Let’s go bring Cecil in,” Brown removed his reading glasses. “We’ll say he’s going into protective custody, which isn’t a complete lie. We’ll protect him and interrogate him.”

The old man’s cheeky smile was like a shot in the arm. It was theory and conjecture, but damn if it wasn’t a solid one. The Boogies, which had only been a fantasy in McEntyre’s mind a few minutes ago, was now realer than ever. And well within the Met’s grasp.

“I’ll drive,” said Brown.


--


[b]Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
11:06 PM[/b]


Charlie felt the smooth skin above his lip once more to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots. Satisfied, he placed his razor and shaving cream back inside the shaving kit and stepped out of the small water closet. Coach and Bobbie were long gone. Charlie and Red would both settle into the small studio flat was just a step above a bedsit. One of them would sleep on the Murphy bed hidden in the closet while the other on the lumpy sofa. Coach once made a joke about them getting bunk beds and Charlie conceded it wasn't a terrible idea.

He was sitting on the sofa reading when Red came in. Charlie knew right away something was wrong. Red was usually loose and jovial after a successful job. Now, he was tense and he had a sour look on his face. Charlie looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow.

"You look like you smelled shit."

"I have," said Red. "It's the big pile of it you stepped in."

Charlie tossed his book onto the sofa and stood.

"What are you on about?"

"There was a girl in the counting room," said Red. "You hit her upside the head."

"Yeah," said Charlie. "She was eyeballing me. The rest of them were keeping their eyes on the ground like I said. But she was watching and remembering so I had to get her to stop. I hit her across the noggin with my gun and--"

"Killed her."

"What?" Charlie asked with a scowl.

"You fucking killed her. She bled out internally from the knock."

"FUCK!"

Charlie ran his hands through his head and started to pace the floors of the flat. He knew that a civilian getting killed elevated things. The heat was already going to be massive thanks to the scope of the robbery, but the girl changed things. The coppers would be after them even more now that someone was dead.

"Why didn't she fucking listen to me?" Charlie asked aloud. "It's her own goddamn fault she died. If the bitch had stopped looking at me--"

"Steady on," said Red. "You fucked up. Make that, we fucked up. Not just you. The heat is gonna take awhile. But if we lay low and don't make noise, it'll pass. It always does."

"What about your man?" Charlie asked. "Cecil. You said he'd stand tall when Old Bill came 'round. What about now?"

Red shrugged and groped for something in his pants. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and started to slide on into his mouth.

"He's pissed. He fancied the girl. He blames you for it. I don't think he's in any state to be questioned again. Coppers get near him, they're gonna smell blood in the water."

"Little wanker."

Red exhaled smoke from his nose and kept a passive look on his face.

"I'm getting him out of the country tomorrow." He raised his hands when he saw the questioning look on Charlie's face. "The money I need will be out of my share."

Charlie nodded and bummed a smoke off Red. Suddenly, these walls felt very tight and small. Even tighter and smaller than usual. He could hear a ticking clock from somewhere close. Cecil out of the country wasn't a sure thing. He could be eventually picked up and brought back. Murder charges never went away.

"I'm going out," said Charlie.

"We're laying low."

"Just to the pub up the road," Charlie flashed a reassuring smile. "I need a drink after this shit. Wanna come with?"

"No," said Red. "Think I'll stay in."

Charlie was relieved. The offer had been a bluff and Red hadn't called it. He finished up his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

"I'll lay low, mind my P's and Q's, and be back before close."

Red grunted, already lost in thought. Charlie went to the coat rack where he kept his jacket and shoulder holster. He quietly slipped the gun out the holster before he put on the jacket. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and walked out into the night.