Still with his arms out, Turk shuffled around until he was facing them, eyes expanded to an amazing size in a face not just bloodied but now pale and damp with fear. Without warning, the taller gunman raised the SIG and, single-handed, fired a deafening burst at his legs.

Both limbs were visibly shattered as the shells ripped through them, hammering into the wall behind, spraying it with blood and bone and meat. Turk fell full-length onto his side, gagging in almost unimaginable pain. Malcolm Pugh screamed in terror, clapping his hands to his ears, fresh streams of piss seeping through the front of his trousers. Shankhill, who’d banked that his temporary tough talk might do the trick, could only goggle in horror. He too had half put his hands to his ears, and now, as the echoes died away and the dust cleared, could do no more than blink in rapid-fire shock at the sight of his fallen comrade.

‘He gets the next lot in the head,’ the taller gunman said. ‘After that, we start on the little fella.’

‘No … please!’ Pugh squawked.

‘Be quite a fucking mess for you to clean up given that you run an unlicensed money-lending business from these premises,’ the gunman added. ‘And you won’t even be able to call a friend when your own knees and elbows are shot through, will you? Because trust me, pal … we’ll get round to you too before we leave here.’

Shankill’s mouth sagged open as he gaped first at one, and then at the other.

This was serious. This was absolutely for real. Roy ‘the Shank’ Shankhill was being robbed inside his own office.

‘The safe!’ the taller one said again. ‘You fat, greasy-headed fuck!’

The money-lender held his position for another moment – just long enough for the various bits and pieces to finally fall together inside his stunned mind. Beaded with sweat, he stumbled away from his desk to the safe and squatted down, where he adjusted a dial, turning it back and forth to listen to the requisite number of clicks. When the door clunked open, Shankhill rose to his feet and backtracked away.

At the far side of the room, the wounded Turk gave a low, animalistic whine. The gunmen ignored him, the shorter one stepping in front of Shankhill so that he could cover him with the SIG while keeping the shotgun trained on the fallen henchman. The taller, meanwhile, hunkered down at the safe, and began lifting out rolls and rolls and rolls of banknotes, all of which he shovelled into his sack. After that, he helped himself to jewellery – bracelets, brooches, necklaces – quality stuff too, not of the bling variety that Shankill generally adorned himself with, but platinum and white gold, embedded with diamonds and other gems. When he’d finished, he straightened up and turned to face the Shank.