Ron McTierney and Scott Bee emerged from Wembley Park tube station, two small ants in a huge army of people heading towards the famous stadium. As they inched along Wembley Way the towering arch came into view long before the main building. The iconic white steel structure, curving elegantly over the stadium was illuminated against the night sky casting a soft glow. It was late July, and the sun hadn’t yet disappeared, but it couldn’t compete with the brilliant LED light show that the stadium was flaunting to herald the first of the long-awaited Oasis concerts to hit London. The lighting added a sense of grandeur and energy, like a beacon calling people to the site.

   A thousand yards away Scott and Ron, striding towards the light had succumbed to the aroma of fried onions and stopped at a dubious looking burger van.

   “Get extra onions on mine will you, and a slice of cheese.”

Scott nodded his understanding as he reached the front of the queue. He pressed his debit card against the small money machine, took a burger from a young Asian lad and passed it across to Ron, then shuffled to the side to the rickety table stacked with condiments. It wasn’t quite the height of English cuisine but on a night like this, it hit the spot. The two friends munched through their burgers, smiled warmly at each other and continued their slow amble to the stadium. The nearer they got, the more they could feel the anticipation in the air, the crowd’s excitement palpable. It had been 16 years since Oasis had played live in London and this was the hottest ticket in town. After the euphoria around their recent concerts in Manchester, the expectation was sky high.

   The boys edged towards their Mecca as the numbers around them grew.

   “It’s not quite Bruce Springsteen, but I’m looking forward to this,” said Scott throwing the greasy burger wrapper into a bin.

   “That’s a bold admission from the man who never looks forward to anything.”

   Scott frowned, “Bruce was magnificent. He gives everything at every performance. The last time he played here, he was on stage for just short of four hours. That’s more than you do most working days.”

   “Great. But back to tonight, we’re in entrance E, that’s over there, come on. I hope they play ‘Cigarettes and Alcohol’, I think ‘(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?’ is their best album.”

   “That track is on their first album, ‘Definitely Maybe’, I think you’ll find.”

   Ron narrowed his eyes at Scott’s pedantry but let the comment pass. Eventually the friends found their seats.

   “I don’t know how you managed to get these tickets, they’re superb, we’re only a couple of rows from the royal box,’ said Scott looking around admiringly.

   “Don’t mention it. I thought it was about time I got you out of the house and listening to some decent music for a change. You can’t spend your life listening to Springsteen all day, every day.”

   “These must have cost you a fortune. I remember the outcry at the time about the ticket price going up as the queues got longer. How long did you spend hanging on the internet?”

   “Not long. Now don’t worry, you’re worth it. You’re a good friend.”

   “But I feel I owe you, come on tell me how much you spent?”

“Scott, will you drop it. You’re becoming a bore. Just sit back and enjoy the music. It’s a present, don’t ruin it.”

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Ron wasn’t having it. “You’re not a politician, so you can accept a gift without breaking the law or feeling guilty.”

   Scott nodded, “Okay, thank you.”

   “But you can buy the beer tonight,” said Ron leaning back into his seat.

   Scott Bee doesn’t do spontaneity, he’s out of his comfort zone, and he’s babbling away to cover his anxiety. This is a switch for the friends because ordinarily Ron McTierney does the talking. But tonight, they are off duty. Scott Bee, the daytime detective inspector had dressed down in a lightweight fawn jacket on top of brown corduroy trousers, Ron, his detective sergeant was wearing jeans and his ubiquitous black leather jacket.

   The lights dipped, a fog machine kicked in creating a haze on the stage, a roar of expectation floated around the stadium and built into a crescendo. The first bars of ‘Cigarettes and Alcohol’ broke through the hubbub, a familiar silhouette strutted across the stage to the microphone and the crowd erupted.

   As the first song ended, Liam Gallagher slouched back to the microphone and grunted to the audience. “Good of you dickheads to turn up.”

   The rest of his diatribe was lost amongst the cheering of the crowd. A tall man in a black coat pushed his way along the row in which Scott and Ron were sitting, accompanied by the usual moaning as people were forced to stand up to let him pass. As he reached Scott, he grabbed his right wrist with one hand and shoved an envelope into his hand, no words were spoken, and the man moved on quickly before reaching the end of the row and heading for the exit.

   “What’s he doing? They’re just getting started,” said Ron.

   But Scott didn’t answer. Ron turned to him expecting a reply, but Scott was staring at the envelope in his hand.

   “What’s that?”

   “I don’t know that guy just shoved it in my hand.”

   “Maybe it’s an invite to the after-show party.”

   Scott raised his eyebrows, turned the envelope over in his hands, but there was nothing written there. He picked at the seal, then tore it off and pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded in half. He opened it and read the four printed words.

   LOOK UNDER YOUR SEAT

   Scott and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

   “Go on then.”

   Scott leaned forward and stretched under the seat; he moved his right hand around. “I think there’s something here.” He tugged at a package. “It’s stuck.”

   “Give it some welly.”

   Scott got up from his seat and crouched on the concrete, he squeezed his arms under the chair and wrenched at the package, which came away in his hands. He passed it up to Ron and returned to his seat. “This is starting to get a bit suspicious.”

Ron looked alarmed, turned it over in his hands, there were no markings on the khaki package. He put it to his ear. “It’s not ticking. Have a quick look and we can get back to the concert.”

   Scott broke the seal and looked inside. He gasped and pushed the package back down on his lap, and grabbed Ron’s shoulder, “Where did you get these tickets from?”

   “I told you, off the internet.”

   “Did you actually buy them, or is this some scam of yours?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Take a look - there’s a stack of £50 notes inside the package, taped to the bottom of the seat, you mysteriously bought on the internet.”

   “Cash! Wow! How much?”

   “Sssh. Keep your voice down, we don’t want a panic.”

   “Huh. No one is listening to us, while the band’s on stage. How much?”

   “I don’t know, I’d guess £20,000 pounds.”

   Ron’s eyes bulged. “It’s mine by the way.”

   Scott rolled his eyes. “There’s something else in here.” Scott pushed his fingers deep into the packet and pulled out a thin white envelope. He showed it to Ron.

   “Maybe it’s the name of the person who left the money.”

   “Don’t joke,” said Scott as he opened the envelope, “it’s a ticket for a train journey to Exeter for tomorrow.”