The burglar climbed out of his soft-top convertible. He felt good stepping out, standing, looking around. He hoped that someone would be looking at him, even though he was embarrassed about having a bandaged hand. It was a new car. He’d bought it with a large cash deposit, courtesy of Didier François, and put the rest on his credit card.
But no one was looking: the car park was empty. That meant the game would have started and he’d missed the beginning. But he wasn’t bothered about that.
In fact, today, the little things were not bothering him at all. Because the thing that was bothering him was big. Very big. And that thing, or person, was Paul Wire. And to think he used to worship the man.
He had heard the news on the radio, then checked it out on the Internet. Paul Wire had been arrested burgling someone’s house. And he’d confessed. To all the robberies. All of them! So now everyone thought Wire was the famous burglar.
Not him.
‘Who does he think he is?’ the burglar said, letting loose a string of swear-words.
A pair of women walking two dogs gave him a wide berth. He knew they’d heard him swearing to himself. Maybe they thought he was mad. But he didn’t care what people thought. And maybe they were right: maybe he was mad. Maybe he was going to do something extremely mad.
He walked along a tarmac path that had a fence on each side, overgrowing woods beyond them. He was heading for the City FC training pitches to watch the youth team play.
The glory should be his. Not some washed-up, drug-dealing footballer. Why should Paul Wire get it all? Hadn’t he already had enough? He carried on talking to himself about what he was going to do. How he was going to make sure that everyone knew that Wire was just an amateur.
On the City FC chat rooms that he hated, but read because he liked the way the fans thought they knew who was burgling footballers, they were saying it was gangsters.
Gangsters?
Idiots. They didn’t even know what a gangster was.
He wanted everyone to know it was him. Not gangsters. Not Paul Wire.
On one of the chat rooms he had read a bit more. It had actually been very useful. A City fan had seen Wire being arrested. Apparently he had shouted to the police that there was someone else in the house. He’d been ranting and raving about some teenager who was in there too. Short dark hair. Fourteen or fifteen. The description sounded familiar. The burglar thought he had a good idea who that was.
It was obvious.
That was something else he was going to have to sort out.
He had reached the gates of the training complex now. As he walked through them, the security guard nodded to him.
‘All right, Peter,’ the burglar said. He knew the security guard. Because he used to come here every day.
‘Now then, Ian. Come to watch the lads?’
He nodded.
Once he was over the car park and on to the edge of the pitches, he stood at the side of the mobile canteen. It was put there to feed the families of the players, and other people who came to watch.
Who could he see?
The first thing he noticed was there were loads more journalists. He could see three or four he’d met before. He looked on to the pitch. He recognized a few players he knew there.
And then he saw him: Danny. So he was here.
And look who was with him: the girl. The nice one. What was her name? Charlotte. That was it. She’d been a bit of a tease when they’d met before. But he knew she liked him. It was the way she looked at him.
He smiled for the first time in hours. This was going to be an interesting afternoon.
But first he had a bit of business to attend to. There were still a few minutes to go before half-time.
Making sure everyone was watching the football, and not him, he backed behind the mobile canteen and headed towards the dressing rooms the footballers had come from.
They’d be empty now. All he needed was the code to the door. And he knew that well enough. 1-9-2-7. The year City FC had been formed. How stupid a code was that? People always chose something obvious. They were asking to be robbed.
Once the burglar was inside the complex he found the home dressing room. Benches round all four walls, hooks above the benches hung with jackets and bags. He patted each jacket to check for a wallet or some money. But there was nothing. No one would be stupid enough to leave money around. Even teenage footballers would not be naive enough to make such a mistake.
Then he looked at the bags on the benches. He immediately saw a bag that stood out. It was a deep green holdall. Mock leather. Cheap and nasty. Not the kind of bag any self-respecting footballer should have.
It was, of course, Kofi Danquah’s bag. No question.
The man unzipped it quickly. He found hard pitch boots, a towel, a phone, a watch, a wallet. A history book about the city they lived in. Other things, bits of paper.
He couldn’t believe the wallet. He looked inside it. Lots of money. Cash. At least £200. So someone was stupid enough to leave a wallet here, after all! The young man zipped up the bag and lifted it off the bench.
That would do nicely.
Very nicely indeed, thought Ian Mills.