Amazing Grace

Mick had a hangover. He walked through Norwich Market passing the corner where the kilted one  played bagpipes.  The piper was a man in a Jimmy Wig, with no musical talent and a lethal instrument in his hands. He played the only tune he knew, again and again.  Mick crossed the market and headed for the garden in front of the Town Hall and peace and re-hydration. Sugar and caffeine restored some functioning level of awareness. He saw the  shamboling man, carrying two  sports bags, headed for his bench. The flight path meant touchdown in ten seconds! He could not be arsed and began to turn away. Landing with a bump Mr Shambolic  groaned - “Stapped” - stoned more like -  and  pissed himself but when it hit the floor it was red! Phone, ambulance, police, he needed help. This was not Mick's problem. The last words to Mick were - “No phone, take...”
Oh god what, bombs, guns, drugs, dead babies? The late lamented didn't move, he was doubled over,  chest on his knees looking at the bags with sightless eyes, one hand on each bag, offering them. 

He should phone but moving to the body he  zipped back the flap of one bag. Bundles, money bundles, foreign money bundles.  There was no six foot two copper saying Hello! Hello!  No one wanted to say hello to them and no one was near enough to notice! Taking one bag in each hand Mick heaved and walked off, slowly. Terror, fear, guilt, excitement, I don't care, ran through his mind  as he  passed the library. How much money, what type of money, where can you spend it? CCTV cameras, where are they, how can you avoid them, where can you go? Get a taxi.
The man in the grey hoodie was confident that his movements about the city would not be seen or recorded. They had paid for software and an operator to do this. In any case he was not 'known' in the UK. His mother would not recognise him today. He watched Mick  and spoke briefly into a mobile. A car drew up and the hoodie disappeared into the back seat as  Mick hailed a taxi.
The controller in the CCTV centre had  a lousy day. The senior coppers   breathing down her neck. Words half caught between them “big”,  “going south”, “where the f...”.  The cameras blanking in what appeared to be random fashion and a fatal stabbing. She was confident the cameras were sound, they were regularly checked and rechecked. It must be the software and the communications links. That was the job of Mr Algorithm, the condescending nerd who made her life a misery. God, he would pay for this! 
When she got home the local TV news had the body count at 3 now including a taxi driver and a young man, no pictures of course.