The shorter one scuttled around them like a crab, holding open the mouth of his sack, as, white-faced and teary-eyed, they knelt up and threw what they could into it.

‘Don’t be clever,’ he hissed at Paddy Drinkwater, grabbing him by his mass of shaggy, dyed-yellow hair and yanking his head from side to side. ‘Wedding ring!’

‘That’s personal stuff,’ the club owner protested.

‘So personal, it nearly stops you shagging the arse off every grateful little dolly bird that gets through your exclusive front doors, eh?’ the taller bandit sneered, stepping in and dragging Drinkwater to his feet by his tie. ‘Most of ’em underage, I’ve no doubt …’

‘That’s a lie …’ Drinkwater tried to protest, but the taller bandit dealt a right-hook rocket to his temple, the resounding smack echoing from the bullet-ravaged walls as the club owner dropped to the carpet. The bandit then pinned his hand down with a foot, covering the rest of the hostages with his sub-machine gun, while his shorter confederate worked the ring off Drinkwater’s finger with brutal efficiency, unconcerned that he tore flesh and snapped bone in the process.

The other captives wept and gibbered, hardly daring to watch.

‘Anyone else fancy holding out on us?’ the taller bandit wondered.

Now, even the strippers coughed up, depositing platinum anklets, pearl necklaces and golden earrings in the bag. But when Lori and Kerry, the two maids, tried to hand over the few quid they had in their purses, the shorter bandit prevented it with a raised palm.

‘You two … sit over there,’ the taller one said, indicating an armchair across the room.

Sniffling fearfully, they did as he told them.

With the canvas sack now heavy at his shoulder, the shorter bandit retreated to his companion’s side, re-training his firearm on the captives.

‘All you ladies,’ the taller one said. ‘You beautiful babes who just live to show it off to scum-sucking pigs like these … get up.’

The strippers, both naked and dressed, did as they were told, watching their captors through terrorised, tear-sodden eyes.

‘Right side of the room … on the sofa!’ he said.

They hurried to comply.

‘We can’t all fit,’ said a buxom redhead with a nasally Salford accent.

He chuckled. ‘If you can squeeze into that cute little dress, darling, you can squeeze into anything … now do as I say!’ He drilled another blast into the ceiling, plasterwork erupting downward.

With frantic yelps, the girls scrambled all over the sofa, and each other, skilfully and sinuously managing to accommodate themselves.

‘Now, the rest of you,’ he said to the men. ‘Get up! Left side of the room.’

Northwood, who, after vomiting his entire day’s intake of food and booze, had come around sufficiently to glare balefully at the intruders through the one eye that wasn’t glued shut with congealing red slime, was the last to rise to his feet. Even then he hesitated to follow orders.