Northwood was dragged groggily but unceremoniously to his feet and hurled at the door to the lounge. It burst open, and he staggered through, still in a daze.

Lori, was thrown in after him, her whimpers rising to a panic-stricken shriek.

The two bandits followed, unscrewing the silencers from the ends of their barrels, and drilling thunderous gunfire into the lounge ceiling and then across the room into the boom box mounted on the wall, which exploded in a shower of wiring and circuitry.

There was brief stunned silence, which immediately blew apart in a percussion of screams and shouts. The three girls on the podium to the bandits’ left, all of whom had been gyrating naked apart from their jewellery and high heels, froze like mannequins.

‘Get on the fucking floor!’ the taller bandit bellowed at them, entering the room properly, kicking the stumbling Northwood in front of him. ‘Face down, now!’

A secondary blast of gunfire raked the top of the walnut sideboard, destroying the crystal goblets and bottles of champagne arrayed there, not to mention the dishes and plates piled with delicacies. At the end of it, a generous mound of pure white powder sat on a silver platter, alongside several pre-rolled fifty-pound notes. It turned to fog as the slugs hit it.

The guests – Drinkwater, Klinsman, Grimshaw, Carmichael, Newman – the other maid, Kerry, who had a tray of canapes in her hands, and three girls who, not yet having taken turns to strip, were still in their party dresses, had clustered in front of the podium, egging on the performers, but now fell on top of each other in their haste to hit the deck.

‘Stay down and no one gets hurt!’ the tall bandit barked, at the same time kicking Northwood viciously in the backs of both his legs.

The householder, still in a stupor, blood streaming down his face, tumbled to the carpet alongside the others.

The shorter one let his weapon swing by the shoulder strap as he hurried the length of the hangar-like room. At the far end, the poker table was set up, a huge trove of cash and jewellery still heaped in the middle of it. He drew and unravelled a black canvas sack, and shovelled it full of goodies. As he did, there were moans and doglike whimpers from the cowed victims. Acrid smoke from the gunfire and the bitter dust of the coke mingled in a hanging curtain which stretched clear across the room.

‘Shut your fucking mouths!’ the taller one instructed, and for emphasis, landed a savage boot in Northwood’s stomach.

The gangster gasped and gagged, blood-laced vomit splurging from his mouth.

‘Okay … the rest of you!’ the taller one added, as his mate came back down the room, his sack now clinking with valuables. ‘Everything you’ve got. Wallets, watches, jewellery … do it now!’