‘Jesus, man,’ said Skelton, shaking his head, and grinning. ‘What kind of a dickhead uses his own area code to unlock his phone?’

But the grin dropped from his face as he began scrolling through the phone’s contents.

‘Jesus, John,’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘Have a look at this.’

As Carr took the phone, the skinny guy in the yellow T-shirt started crying.

The first video showed the guy with the beard cutting the throat of a young man whose hands were tied behind his back, while a group of others – including the skinny guy – laughed.

The second showed the stoning of two women, who were buried up to their waists, in some village somewhere.

Carr scrolled no further.

Geordie lowered his weapon and put three rounds straight into the back of Beard’s head.

It exploded like an overripe melon.

Yellow T-shirt vomited through his crying.

Carr gave him a moment, and then said, ‘Do you want to talk now, Brummie?’

‘Yes. But please…’

‘What’s your name and address?’ He nodded to the lifeless Beard. ‘And his?’

Geordie pulled out a notebook and wrote them down.

‘Who were your UK contacts? How did you get here?’

Geordie’s pen moved across the page.

‘And are you the only Brits in this little party?’ said Carr.

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘There’s one Australian and five Chechens as well. The other four were locals.’

Geordie looked at Carr, eyebrows raised.

‘Five Chechens, eh?’ he said. ‘And how about back at base?’

‘Three or four more Chechens. A few other Westerners. The others are mostly from Pakistan.’

‘Names of the Chechens and all the Westerners,’ said Carr. ‘Quick, I havenae time to fuck about.’

Yellow T-Shirt gave them up, as far as he knew them.

‘And how far away are these men?’

‘Twenty miles. Maybe thirty.’

Carr looked at Geordie. ‘Could be the group our friend at Six warned us about down near Sinawin,’ he said.

‘Yes, mate,’ said the man, nodding frantically, trying to build a rapport. ‘Sinawin. That’s where they are.’

‘Any of them following you up?’

‘No. We were… We were just out looking for people we could tax.’

Carr scratched his chin and looked over at Kev McMullen.

‘Nearly there, Kev?’ he shouted.

‘Sixty seconds, John.’

‘This lot’s last vehicle’s a Hilux,’ said Carr, over his shoulder. ‘When you’ve finished, take their spare to replace that one of ours. Then chuck all their weapons and kit in the back and set the fucker on fire.’

‘Roger.’

Carr focused back on Yellow T-shirt.

‘What can you tell me about Argun Shishani?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’

The guy looked genuinely mystified.

‘Khasmohmad Kadyrov?’

A momentary look of recognition shot across his face.

‘I’m getting tired of playing games,’ said Carr, testily. ‘You are thirty seconds from me turning you into dinner for them fuckers.’