Their guns hung from leather shoulder straps, making them immediately accessible. They’d spaced out so they were about two yards apart, making a more difficult target of themselves and yet at the same time easily able to cover the whole room. Their stance was solid, unflinching; they wielded their weapons with the look of expertise.

Professionals, then. Resistance would be extremely ill-advised.

The slightly shorter of the two stood on the left; he now circled around the kneeling figures of Turk and Pugh, before heading around Shankhill’s desk, where he took possession of the shotgun. He backed away, cradling it under his right arm while balancing the SIG in the left, in effect, covering the three hostages with both weapons. The taller one, meanwhile, let his SIG hang from its strap, while he took a rolled-up black canvas bag from his coat pocket, shook it open, came forward and commenced sweeping the money off the table into it.

This took no more than twenty seconds. The kneeling captives could do nothing, fresh blood still trickling down the front of Turk’s shirt, Pugh hunched forward, eyes screwed shut, a pool of yellowish fluid spreading out around his sodden knees.

When the taller gunman had cleared the desk, he dug into a large holdall alongside it, lifting out several more bricks of banknotes and cramming them into his sack.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Shankhill couldn’t resist asking.

‘I couldn’t care less if you’re Donald Trump’s condom supplier,’ came a voice from behind the taller intruder’s scarlet ski-mask. ‘Open the fucking safe.’

Shankhill pursed his lips and gave a tight shake of his head.

The gunman’s eyes widened in the holes in his mask – not so much with anger, Shankhill felt, as with fascination. ‘Seriously?’ the guy asked.

‘Seriously,’ Shankhill replied in a stern but patient tone, like a teacher trying to impart a lesson. He’d decided that he was going to tough this thing out. ‘You’re on very fragile ice, boys, let me tell you. Time is not on your side, and if you actually do know who I am … you wouldn’t even be here. Now, I strongly suggest you don’t push your luck any more, and you get out while the getting out’s good. As it is, you’re going to be hunted for the rest of your life.’

The taller gunman regarded him with apparent deep interest. ‘The safe?’

Shankhill shook his head again, slowly and deliberately.

The gunman seemed to consider this, and then whipped around, grabbed Turk by the collar of his jacket and yanked him up to his feet, before pushing him hard towards the far corner of the room. ‘Turn around!’ he barked.