Alan had listened with interest and growing excitement. Now he grinned widely at Eric.

‘I think it’s fucking excellent, mate. Excellent. It’s as sweet as a nut.’

Eric was pleased. Throwing his cigar on to the roadway, he stamped it out.

‘I’ve already got the ballies and the boiler suits. I’ve also purchased five red polo-neck sweaters. We’ll cut the tops out and just wear them - that way, any witnesses will describe us all the same: red sweaters, black boiler suits and black balaclavas. At least two witnesses will say we were black, they always do when guns are involved. We’ll wear black knitted gloves and boots too. They won’t see fuck all. When everyone is dressed alike it just confuses the witnesses more. There’s no eye colour, hair colour, nothing to be seen. Only Georgio, and the Old Bill already know what he looks like.

‘It’s the witnesses we want to confuse,’ he went on, ‘so we shout all the time, except for me when I’m reassuring the driver to get him to open the door. Shouting is the best form of communication on a jump because your voice is completely different from normal. It also intimidates people, and that’s what we have to do, ain’t it? Scare them shitless, the Old Bill included. I’ll put on an accent for the driver, he won’t know me from Adam. I’ll have the door open and promise him he’ll be home in time for tea if he just cooperates. The driver is the worst to look after, see? He is sure that no one can get to him through the bulletproof screen. Once he sees the Armalite he’ll be terrified, he’ll drop down under the dash. And when the smell of petrol hits him, he’ll just disintegrate before our eyes. No one wants to be burned alive, do they?’ Eric laughed at his own cunning. ‘He’ll be as meek as Mary’s little lamb!’

Alan laughed with him, excitement giving way to euphoria. ‘I can’t wait to see the fucking Old Bill’s faces, can you?’

‘As long as they don’t see ours,’ Eric joked. ‘That’s the main thing! Come on, let’s get going. There’s a Happy Eater along from here and I could murder a cup of tea.’

They went back to the car. Alan stood for a few seconds enjoying the view of the golf course and the surrounding countryside. He smiled and said to the breeze: ‘The Devil’s Punchbowl, eh?’ And, chuckling, he got into the car beside Eric. ‘What a name for the Old Bill to write in their statements. Not a bad name, in the circumstances.’