The three men stopped and listened. Off to their right they heard a soft whistle. Verity pointed and they headed towards it.

The warehouseman was in his early thirties with receding hair and wire-framed glasses. He was holding a palm computer and making notes with a small stylus as he whistled. He was so engrossed in it that he didn’t see the three masked men until they were almost upon him. His jaw dropped and he took half a step backwards, but Verity jammed his gun into the man’s stomach. ‘Don’t say a word,’ hissed Verity. ‘Do as you’re told and we’ll be out of here in a few minutes.’

He grabbed the man’s collar with his left hand, swung him round so that he was facing in the direction of the office, then frogmarched him towards it with the gun pressed into the base of his spine. ‘There’s no m-m-money here,’ the man stammered.

‘I said, don’t talk,’ said Verity. He rammed the barrel into the man’s back for emphasis.

When they reached the office the two fork-lift drivers were lying on the ground outside the door, gagged and bound. Owen was standing over them, his gun in one hand, the Fairy Liquid bottle in the other.

Verity pushed the warehouseman to the floor next to them. He rolled on to his back and his glasses fell off, clattering on the concrete. Verity pointed his gun at him. ‘The Intel chips,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘The ones that came in from the States this morning.’ Voices buzzed in his earpiece. A Police National Computer check on the Arab, name, date of birth, nationality. Iraqi. ‘Bastard ragheads,’ muttered Verity.

‘What?’ said the warehouseman, confused. He groped for his spectacles with his right hand.

Verity nodded at Owen, who sprayed the contents of the Fairy Liquid bottle over the three men. Macdonald frowned as he recognised the smell. Petrol. The fork-lift drivers bucked and kicked, but the warehouseman lay still in shock, clutching his spectacles.

Owen emptied the plastic bottle, then tossed it to the side. He took a gunmetal Zippo from the pocket of his overalls and flicked it open. ‘You heard what the man said, now where are the chips?’ He spun the wheel of the lighter with his thumb and waved a two-inch smoky flame over the three men.

‘Archie, what the hell’s going on?’ shouted Macdonald. He took a step towards Verity. ‘No one said we were going to set fire to anyone.’

‘You’ve got a shotgun in your hands, this is no different.’

‘Have you seen what third-degree burns look like?’

Verity levelled his weapon at Macdonald’s legs. ‘Have you seen what a kneecapping looks like?’

Macdonald raised the barrel of his shotgun skywards. ‘Just wished I’d been fully briefed, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re right. In for a penny . . .’