Mal remained in the driving seat with his engine ticking over in case he needed to take off suddenly. Toad grabbed the handles on the other end of section one. Together with Rick he carried it into the stable. I seized the SCR canister from the boot and staggered in with that. A moment later Toad and Rick brought in section two. Last out of the car was my bergen, containing lightweight hoist, ladder, nets, rubber bags, dry-suits, digging tools, head-torches, spare batteries, overalls and other essential paraphernalia. The pack alone was one hell of a weight.

‘That’s it,’ I hissed at Mal through his open window. ‘See you later.’

He eased the Volga gently forward, through the bend into the rear yard, swung round and came back past us. We saw his brake lights glow for an instant before he nosed out on to the main road. Then he was gone.

In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger – of having the hardware discovered in the car – was over. Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.

The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. Nobody moved or spoke. Then I whispered, ‘OK.’

Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pav, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.

We’d just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss. Torches snapped off. Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem – women crossing the yard from the church – and in a moment we moved again.

With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.

Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly. ‘Looks good,’ I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes. ‘Rick?’

‘Hello.’

‘I’m going down. We’ll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we’re not back, try again every half-hour.’

‘Roger. Happy landings.’

Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.