Only the police and the prison service knew who it was carrying. The two policemen in the Panda car were enjoying the drive and speculating on different things, matters that had nothing to do with the sweatbox before them.

Wives and kids, DIY and rugby were the talk for the two PCs, who were unaware that the sweatbox was to be jumped in less than thirty minutes.

Parking the skip lorry in the small slip road, Eric lit a cigar and sat back reading the Guardian, every so often looking into the mirror beside him to gauge the traffic. Jonnie H. had parked the Mercedes twenty yards away behind the bushes on a grass verge. It was practically invisible from the road.

They waited, the tension in the Mercedes mounting and the men getting jump sweat in their thick boilersuits and knitted hats.

Harry Hutchins and Freddie Carver sat in an L-reg Cosworth by the footbridge two miles down from Devil’s Bridge. Both were calm, not to say bored. Harry was to drive the Cosworth and Freddie was to drive the Granada. Both were experienced drivers, both had their creds and both were used to the pressure.

Harry was one of the best drivers in the business; he was also a good friend of Eric’s so consequently had worked all over the world on snatches, from Turkey and Egypt to Dubai. He had taken weeks driving the different roads around this area to find the route he wanted. To the casual eye he looked nondescript; with his sandy hair and eyebrows, and regular features, he looked like everyone’s dad or brother.

Freddie was small and dark. Like Harry he was a good driver and didn’t panic easily. And like Harry, he took the job seriously and was well-prepared for it; even though it was only his task to remove the McAnultys, not Georgio, he had arranged for them to pick up their car within five miles of the jump. The police wouldn’t know what had hit them.

All the men would disappear off the face of the earth.

The drivers included.

Peter Jones was singing as he drove the sweatbox along the A1. Even though it was against regulations, he always brought a small cassette-player with him and sang his heart out to country and western music, ignoring the shouts from the back of the van and the banging on the wall behind him.

‘Fuck ’em’ was his attitude. He was the main man in these cases. He knew it and the screws knew it.

He locked them in and he let them out. He was the Big Cheese and he loved every second of it.

Dolly Parton was next, singing I Will Always Love You. It was one of his favourites so he turned it up even louder, distorting Dolly’s voice to drown out the shouts from the box behind him.