The security guard stepped back from the minibus. He waved across at his colleague and the white pole barrier with its STOP sign rose. Two uniformed policemen, wearing bullet-proof vests and cradling black Heckler and Koch automatics, were standing at the gatehouse. They watched the minibus drive by, their fingers inside the trigger-guards of their weapons. The driver gave them a friendly wave and drove towards the warehouses. Overhead, a British Airways 747 swooped low, its landing gear down, wheels ready to bite into the runway, engines roaring in the night sky.

The man with bad teeth ducked involuntarily and one of the West Indians laughed and slapped him on the back.

‘Don’t fuck around,’ said the man sitting next to the driver. He was wide-shouldered, in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair cropped close to his skull. He scanned the darkness between the warehouses. He wasn’t expecting trouble: virtually all the security was at the perimeter of the airport.

In the rear of the minibus, the men were pulling sports bags from under their seats.

‘Right, final name check,’ said the front-seat passenger. His name was Ted Verity and he’d been planning the robbery for the best part of three months. ‘Archie,’ he said. He opened the glove compartment, took out a portable scanner, switched it on and clipped it to his belt.

‘Bert,’ said the man directly behind him. His real name was Jeff Owen and he’d worked with Verity on more than a dozen robberies. Owen pulled a Fairy Liquid bottle out of his sports bag. He sniffed the top and wrinkled his twice-broken nose.

Verity took a second scanner from the glove compartment, switched it on and placed it on the dashboard.

‘Charlie,’ said the man next to Owen. He was Bob Macdonald, a former squaddie who’d been kicked out of the army for bullying. Verity didn’t know Macdonald well, but Owen had vouched for him and Verity trusted Owen with his life. Macdonald pulled a sawn-off shotgun from his holdall and slotted a red cartridge into the breech.

‘Doug,’ said the man next to Macdonald. He shoved a clip into the butt of a handgun and pulled back the slider. He was the youngest of the West Indians, a career criminal who’d graduated from car theft and protection rackets to armed robbery after a six-month stretch in Brixton prison. That was where Verity had met him and spotted his potential.