‘We’re not going to get caught,’ Jeff assured him with a smile. ‘Relax and trust your Uncle Jeff.’

They didn’t get caught. In Jeff Dekker’s capable hands the aircraft kept up an average ground speed of a hundred miles an hour, covering the distance from the Normandy airfield to their north Wales destination in just over three hours. The town of Wrexham lay between the Welsh mountains and the Lower Dee Valley, surrounded by peaceful patchwork-quilt countryside that looked as green as Ireland from the air.

The sixty-acre farm belonging to Jeff’s old SBS friend Reaper Rigby was three miles to the west, just a couple of miles from the border with England. Reaper’s passion was for all things equestrian, and he operated a successful stud and breeding centre for Arabian horses. His eighteenth-century farmhouse stood at the end of a long driveway flanked either side by white-fenced paddocks where his prized collection of Arabs pranced and grazed in the late morning sunshine. At the rear of the property was the well-drained, relatively smooth and level field, empty of horses, where Jeff was to make his touchdown. ‘Hold onto your hat,’ he told Tuesday over the headset as he lined them up and reduced altitude. ‘This’ll be a little bumpier than landing on asphalt.’

‘But you’ve landed on grass before, right?’ Tuesday asked nervously.

‘There’s a first time for everything, mate.’

The Cessna came down too fast, bounced twice, sending up divots of grass and earth, and overshot the runway, almost skimming a line of trees as it scrabbled to regain altitude. Jeff said, ‘Whoops.’ He banked up again and made a second pass, and on this attempt managed to get the plane down safely. As they trundled to a halt in the field, a mud-spattered four-wheel-drive came tearing across the grass to meet them. Jeff cut the plane’s engine. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ Tuesday said, never happier to get his feet back on solid ground.

Reaper Rigby pulled up beside the stationary aircraft and got out of his vehicle as they clambered from the cockpit. He was only slightly older than Jeff but looked ten years his senior, with a bulging belly and a fleshy, doughy face covered in white bristles. ‘Jesus wept,’ he said gruffly. ‘What kind of landing d’you call that? Thought you were a couple of fuckin’ goners there for a minute, I did.’

Jeff warmly shook hands with his former comrade. ‘Good to see you again, Reaper. Got to say you’re looking like shit, but that’s nothing new.’

‘Hey, try looking in the mirror, old son. If my dog had a face like yours, I’d shave its arse and teach it to walk backwards.’

Swapping insults was obviously an old tradition for these two, Tuesday observed. He was beginning to understand where Jeff had got some of his colourful expressions from.