Dessie put his arm around her and walked her over to the pub. ‘My name’s Eugene, Eugene O’Doughall.’

The woman exclaimed loudly, ‘That’s a bleedin’ mouthful!’

Dessie, always hopeful, said, ‘We’ll see about that later, eh? Now you sit yourself down and order a drink while I go for a Jimmy Riddle.’

Dessie slipped outside the pub and made the call he was getting five hundred pounds to make. He dialled Eric’s mobile and said, ‘The box is in place. It’s five past one.’

Eric grunted and Dessie shut off the phone and went back to the lovely Cathy and the Sporting Life.

All in all, it hadn’t been a bad day.

Eric began the laborious drive to Devil’s Bridge in the skip lorry. He drove in the slow lane, allowing plenty of room for people to overtake him, even going so far as to wave them past as a good plant-driver was apt to do. His balaclava was rolled up like a bobble hat and pulled down over his brow and he was wearing the dark overalls.

He felt under the front seat for the Armalite and smiled to himself. He loved jumps best of all. He enjoyed the snatching of children being brought up by arsehole foreigners in arsehole countries, but it came a poor second.

It was excitement he craved, he adored. It was like being in the Falklands again or the Gulf. Not that he was in the Gulf with the British Army, or not officially anyway. A mercenary was called on by all sorts and the British government were not averse to a bit of a tickle now and again themselves. It was a habit they’d got from the Yanks. Something he had learned in Korea, something that had stood him in good stead and filled his pockets for over thirty years.

Behind him drove Jonnie H. and the McAnultys. The bikes were primed and ready to go, the weaponry all accounted for and within arm’s reach.

All they had to do now was arrive at the destination and wait.

And the waiting was the hard part.

The police were aware that a top security prisoner was on his way, and as usual in these cases they sat at roundabouts and crossroads along the route. The vehicle was not to stop at any time. On the sweatbox’s arrival at Portsmouth, it was allowed off the ferry and watched closely by a large traffic vehicle which followed the sweatbox to the next destination where it was handed over to a small Panda car.

From there the sweatbox picked up speed as it hit the A1 and the panda car followed at a distance of three vehicles. Unless you were in the know it looked like a normal police vehicle that could have been carrying C-grade prisoners to an open jail.