Eric was standing on the wheel arch of the sweatbox now and he had lit a piece of rag. He shouted out as loud as he could, his face screwed up in hatred behind the balaclava: ‘Get out of the van, or I’ll burn you where you fucking sit! I’ll burn you alive! Now GET THE FUCK OUT!’

Peter Jones opened the door of the van in double quick time. Dragging him out, Eric was now all reassurance and friendliness, the screaming hatred gone from his voice.

‘You just open the back of the van, mate, and you’ll be home tonight eating your dinner with the wife and kids, all right? Now take it easy, just do what we ask, OK?’

Fumbling with the keys, Jones began to open the back of the van. His hands were stiff with fright and he was having trouble remembering the combination of movements that opened the doors.

‘It’s a combi lock, mate. I have to remember the combination, the movements that open the lock, otherwise it’ll just jam.’

Eric, expecting this, said gently in his ear, ‘Just relax, mate, and open the door. No one will get hurt, all right? I give you my word.’

While Eric was handling the driver, the McAnultys had finished taking the car keys and were getting out the bikes ready for the off.

All they kept repeating, over and over, was: ‘Come on, come on,’ under their breath like a mantra.

The two policemen were lying on the ground by the sweatbox, their arms cuffed behind their backs. Listening out with all their might for names, accents, anything that might be of help.

Jonnie H. spotted a man getting out of his car. He was parked behind the Mercedes van and trying to see what was going on. He had a mobile phone in his hand. Walking over to him, Jonnie H. slammed the butt of the shotgun into his face. The man crumpled and Jonnie stood looking at the line of cars, daring anyone else to get out and have a look. The woman in the Mercedes Sports was crying.

Jonnie H. turned away and went back to the bikes, saying in an incredulous voice, ‘You always fucking get one, don’t you? Can’t people keep their fucking noses out of nothing?’

The man dragged himself back to his car, his face bleeding profusely.

The lock popped and the double doors sprang open. Inside the dimness of the sweatbox four faces were looking out.

Eric shook his head in amazement. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Big Ricky, grinning widely, said, ‘Who the fuck are you? Come on, man, gimme a break. Let me out of here.’

‘Unlock him.’

The screw nearest Ricky unlocked both feet and hand chains and Ricky, standing with difficulty, made his way over to the doors. Outside, the men all looked at him in shock.

‘Who the fucking hell’s that? Where’s Georgio?’