GEORDIE SKELTON LIVED in a stone-built Georgian mansion near Longtown, right on the edge of the Brecon Beacons where Herefordshire met Wales.

It always made Carr chuckle to see this giant, rough-arsed son of a Newcastle foundryman standing on the steps to his beautiful country pile like a member of the landed gentry, but he’d earned the money to buy it the hard way.

As their Squadron’s Quartermaster Sergeant, Geordie had been in line to take over from Carr as Squadron Sergeant Major when he finally knocked the Army on the head and left to earn some real money.

But on the final operation of Carr’s final tour, Skelton had taken a round to his femur while clearing a house alongside Carr in Baghdad.

It was a horrendous injury, and he’d been left with a slight limp despite three operations.

That had put paid to his hopes of leading a Sabre Squadron, and while he could have stayed in – the SAS never discharges a man for injury – desk jobs were not the big northerner’s style.

He’d left Hereford shortly afterwards.

And in one sense it had been the luckiest round anyone ever took – as soon as he was out, Skelton had started up a private security firm, just as the Americans were looking for civilian operators to take over key positions in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Within a year he was rich; within three he was ludicrously rich.

He’d recently sold the business to an international outfit run by a bunch of ex-SEALs and based on the east coast of the USA, and was now keeping himself occupied fighting his ex-wife in the courts, and finding clever ways to hide his cash from her.

Carr had known that it was driving him mad, and would have bet good money that he’d jump at the chance to hear more about the job in hand.

And he’d been right.

Carr had firmed up the other members of the team the previous night, and then got his head down.

He’d left London at 05:30hrs to beat the traffic, and it was just after 08:30hrs when he turned into the long private road which led up to Skelton’s pad.

A quarter-mile later, he drove through a pair of stone gateposts in his Range Rover and on into a sweeping, semi-circular gravel driveway.

Skelton was standing on the steps, grinning.

Carr crunched to a stop on the gravel and got out.

Skelton took his hand in a giant paw and shook it firmly, before pulling him into a bear-hug.

‘Good to see you, man,’ he said. He looked Carr up and down. ‘Still spending your life in the fucking gym, are yous?’

‘Superior genetics,’ said Carr.

Skelton laughed. ‘Good trip?’ he said.

‘Boring fucking motorway,’ said Carr.

‘You should move out here, man,’ said Skelton. ‘Clean air, green fields…’

‘Aye, and cow shit, and you,’ said Carr. ‘No, ta.’

‘What time are the boys here?’