Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter One

From up here, it's like you're king of the world. Emperor of the known universe. That's what David Carter was thinking in a rare moment of solitude as he gazed down through the floor-length windows at the sea of emerald green below him. All the way up in the director's box, the roar and rumble of the crowd was little more than a muted hum. He could see them all, heads bobbing and feeble attempts at a Mexican wave rippling limply around a few of the rows. But he was not one of them, not anymore.

He checked his watch; six minutes to kick-off. Now that he ran the place, he knew he should no longer feel nervous about an insignificant match like this one. But at the end of the day, he was still a footie fan, in spite of everything. And Mile End was his club. It always would be. The players were all on the pitch, making a show of their warm-up stretches for the crowd. Wayne was down there among them, waiting for the ref's whistle. Waiting for the match to begin.

Someone behind David cleared their throat, and he turned slowly to see Rochelle, one of his media consultants, hovering agitatedly. "Mr Carter? I wanted to let you know, sir – Lorenzo has just touched down at Heathrow. He's got his entourage with him and they're coming straight to the stadium."

"Thanks, Rochelle."

"I've prepped the media hub, and we're going to interview him after the match."

"Perfect. You're a gem."

Rochelle smiled and politely withdrew, closing the door behind her as she clicked away on Stiletto heels. David watched her go with sense of satisfaction. Rochelle was young, but she was ambitious. As soon as she first set foot across the threshold of the Mile End stadium, she'd done whatever it took to get to the top. Bit by bit, day by day, he saw her getting closer to what he knew she desired.

Colombian striker Fabian Lorenzo was quite an acquisition for little old Mile End Athletic. Not because of his (admittedly mixed) record on the football pitch, though; but because of what else he'd brought with him on his private jet – besides his entourage, that is.

"It was a hell of a risk, you know." Max Linley was sitting at the far end of the director's box, sipping whisky from a cut glass tumbler. Max was David's second-in-command. His right-hand man. They had been friends for decades, and each man trusted the other implicitly. Max was intuitive. In some ways, he was like an extension of David's own personality. A man who could finish his sentences for him. But to look at them, they could not have been more different. David was forty-seven but looked a good decade younger. He had a head of thick, dark hair without so much as a hint of grey. His face was thin but sharp-featured. Like Shakespeare's Cassius, he had a lean and hungry look. He wore exquisitely tailored suits, the finest Saville Row had to offer.

Max Linley, on the other hand, was rotund and balding. He dressed exclusively in tracksuits, which was ironic, as he could scarcely get up a flight of stairs without running out of breath. He drank and he chain-smoked. He also just happened to be the cleverest man David knew. Someone David would trust with his life.

Max and David were now alone in the box, so they could talk freely. "I know," said David, "and I respect the lad for it."

"No, I mean he took a real risk. Maybe you weren't aware, Dave, but this is the largest single shipment ever to arrive on English soil by private jet."

David looked over at Max and winked. "The largest shipment people know about, anyway. But it's not such a big risk as you might think, Max, my old man. I took a few extra precautions, you see. This morning I put in a call to the Met with a tipoff about a couple of mules arriving at Stansted. Dopey backpackers with a couple of bricks of coke up their jacksies. So the boys in blue have got their hands full."