A few years ago – quite a lot of years ago in fact – I carried out a spate of petrol station robberies.
Picture the scene: It’s night-time, lashing with rain, and a twenty-something lad sits in his car on a petrol station forecourt. He whispers to himself as he intently watches the customers come and go. “One out. Two in. One in. One out. Two out”. He sucks on a Marlboro to help him concentrate as he counts. He has intensely blue eyes, which flicker left and right as he closely observes the scene through the drenched windscreen, his focus interrupted every few seconds by the wipers as they squeal back and forth. He has short scruffy stubble, and the jawline of an Adonis. His phone rings and he flips it open with one hand, cooly bringing it to his ear.