“They called themselves the Puddy Muddles,” Burrowes said. “Just a neighborhood-league amateur cricket thing.”

Edwards was tapping out his report as he talked. “Any good?” he said.

“Not really, no. Middle of the league, not great, not terrible, but even the top team–Fidgets Shrewesbury–is mostly old-age pensioners and kids. There isn’t even a cash prize or trophy for winning the league. Very low stakes.”

“And forensics is sure about all this?” said Edwards.

“Very sure. Just forwarded you the report, again,” Burrowes said, a hint of annoyance peeking through. “The coach had been tampered with. Brakes. The technical details are in the report.”

“That’s all right, I trust mechanics to handle the greasemonkery. What else?”

“There were traces of accelerant in the wreck as well. Bobby with forensics has given me a peek at the report they’re working on. They think a piece of luggage was smuggled in with the team’s bags with accelerant and a mercury tip switch.”

“So the question is,” Edwards said, “who wanted an entire cricket team of pensioners and teens dead.”

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