[b]Acton, London
11:25 PM[/b]

[center]“We’ve won the cup,
We’ve won the cup,
Eey, aye, addio,
We’ve won the cup.”[/center]
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.

[center]“We’ve won the cup,
We’ve won the cup,
Eey, aye, addio,
We’ve won the cup.”[/center]
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?”

[center]***[/center][b]12:08 AM[/b]

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.”