Sowerbutt's Guest

Sowerbutt had been listening to the 7 o’clock news read by Alvar Liddell with more gloom and doom about the continuing bombing. “Time for a quick whiskey, Mr Sorbay,” said the smiling face as the military man popped his head into the private office at the brothel.
“Why John,” Sowerbutt said. “Pull up a glass, always good to see you.”
The military-looking man smiled. “A quick whiskey before you catch your train. I hope you can make the 8 o’clock Weymouth express tonight. The 9 o’clock at the latest, I've checked they are running. I have a car outside and my other driver is collecting your colleagues.”
"Kind of you to invite us down to the seaside, John,” Sowerbutt smiled, pouring two glasses. “A few days enjoying the sea air at Poole no doubt, some fish and chips and a walk along the sands?”
“Something like that, Mr Sorbay,” John nodded, downing half of his whiskey in one gulp. “Just had a radio message from the embassy that our Senor Gonzales is a passenger on tonight’s BOAC service from Lisbon.
“We would like you to keep an eye on him, from the moment he steps off the launch at Poole to when he signs in at the Savoy. Just in case, a watch on any contacts he might make.  A wink and a nod to someone, a slip of paper passed in the railway carriage corridor.
“Rather you and your friends didn’t go unarmed, old boy, this could be the real thing. If he does meet someone along the way, I’d be more than happy for you to hold onto them. Some firepower could be jolly useful, don’t you think,” the slight military man smiled.
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Sowerbutt's Surprise

“Pour yourself a whiskey, Nero. Sit down and spit it out,” he told the scrawny little man twisting his tweed cap in the middle of the lounge-room in the Cheapside flat. “There’s still some of those Kit-Kat crisps in the box.”  Nero said: “I went back to see that Irish tart. To cut a long story short, she’s shacked up with this big Irish bloke while her old man is stuck in the PoW camp. Tough on the outside, but heart of gold on the inside, she said. Eamonn is his name. She said people take advantage of him, especially some of the IRA supporters in Luton. After a couple of glasses, she told me that first thing this morning, he was up at Luton Hoo with some IRA bloke whom she doesn’t trust. A real mean bastard.” Sowerbutt was on his feet, strapping on his shoulder holster. “Christ, Nero. An IRA attack on Luton Hoo. An attack on the army base."

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Sowerbutt's Visit

The atmosphere in the fashionable Café de Paris in Coventry Street was different to his last visit, Sowerbutt thought. Quieter, more sombre. A lot of the men were in uniform, one with a black patch over an eye, another with his sleeve neatly pinned across his chest, glinting with several medals. He spotted several women in smart ATS uniform; women in the army took some getting used to. The chatter and laughter seemed forced, but perhaps he was tired, Sowerbutt thought. The bombing in London was non-stop, night after night after night. Several families he had known for years had disappeared under the rubble and a couple of his London larders had gone up in smoke.

He had volunteered most of the Family, still in London, for ARP service to help local families and protect the larders. Some of the girls were working part-time as volunteers in the overcrowded wards at Mile End and Poplar hospitals.
Sowerbutt relaxed with a glass of Old Bushmills, George Melachrino and his resident band playing the new Tommy Dorsey number, Indian Summer.  Before he left, he would check with Martin Poulson, the maitre d’hotel, about how the club’s liquor stocks were faring. He knew of several central London residences with fine wine cellars whose occupants had vanished to more remote parts of the country “just for a couple of weeks to re-charge the batteries, don’t you know”.
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Sowerbutt's Suggestion

“I’m probably on a wild goose chase, Mr Sorbay, but one of the bosses at New Scotland Yard has a theory,” Sergeant Le Clay, who worked for Special Branch, said. “About the Croydon robbery. Between you and me, they got away with a fortune ˗ more than £200,000, not that we’re letting on. He thinks it is an underground Blackshirt group, planning to use the money to finance a pro-Jerry coup. Says it was too clever and too big to be ordinary crims. His report has gone up the ladder to Commissioner Game and caused a panic.

“I’ve been landed with checking out the theory on the ground, I’m supposed to be an expert on Blackshirts. Load of tosh, I’d expect.”
Sowerbutt smiled:  “Nothing on the grapevine, sergeant. You’d hear something on the street if one of the London gangs was responsible or even one of the provincial gangs for that matter.”
“I was afraid you’d say that, Mr Sorbay. They got away as clean as a whistle, nobody saw or heard anything untoward.”
Sowerbutt sipped his whiskey. “What about the IRA, sergeant? They generally keep themselves to themselves and they need money for their bombs and guns.”
“Good point, Mr Sorbay. They’ve been busy here on the mainland and over in Ulster, as we all know.  I might have a word with the Garda, we’ve got good relationships with Dublin, go back a long way. More likely than our home-grown Fascists, I’d say.”
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Sowerbutt's Pride

Polly smiled: "Come here and tell me what you have been up to, you bad boy. I read about that big robbery in the Mirror. One of the South London gangs, I suppose.”

Sowerbutt nodded: “You’d say so, wouldn’t you? Whoever it was, you and I don’t have any more financial worries.”
She laughed: “Just make sure you don’t get caught, that’s all. I don’t want you disappearing for years on end. It is bad enough at the moment, you disappearing for days and days. But I like the you and I, Jimmy.
“Now I’m going to tell you all about the fabulous fashion show that your funny friend George organised and you completely missed, you mean man. We were a big success.”
Sowerbutt poured himself a whiskey and sat down on the sofa. He was very proud of his lady.
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Sowerbutt's Welcome

The front door creaked slowly ajar. Polly smothered a chuckle as a hand appeared from behind the door dangling a dazzling silver necklace. One Agatha Christie novel smacked into the wall, wide of the target. As Sowerbutt’s worried face peered around the door, Polly snapped: “Come in here this instant, you bastard.”

Sowerbutt was never sure of his lady’s reactions. As he slowly entered the room, another Agatha Christie cart-wheeled across the room and caught him in the groin. He groaned and the necklace tinkled to the floor.
“Don’t drop my present, you rude man. I presume the trinket is for me, not for whomever you have spent the last few days with.”
Sowerbutt looked thunderstruck. “There’s no-one else, Polly, you know that. I’ve been working flat out.” He suddenly smiled as he saw Polly was laughing.
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Sowerbutt's Advice

The slight military man sipped his Old Bushmills. “We were worried about you, Mr Sorbay. The bombing has been serious in your patch, I’m led to believe.”

Sowerbutt laughed. “I’m impressed, John. You motored all the way up here on your scarce coupons to enquire after my health?”
The military man looked sheepish. “The thing is, old boy, my masters want to know how people are taking the bombing. What happens if it goes on for a while? They’re your people, don’t you know.”
Sowerbutt nodded: “How is London taking it? That’s a question and a half, John. You can’t do much about the families who have lost loved ones and there are lots of those. Some cope, some don’t. As you are asking, something for your masters to consider, John. Goods are plentiful in the West End, scarce in my patch. You wouldn’t know there’s a war on in some of the posh hotels and restaurants. Protest marches in the East End streets put on for the foreign newspapers? Can’t rule them out, can you? Shops and warehouses looted? Food riots? It may come to that if all the stuff stays in the West End. Your masters would do well to sort that one out."
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Sowerbutt's Success

Sowerbutt’s well-polished boots rested on the desk in his private office, he had a glass of Old Bushmills in his hand. Across the desk, Spaghetti was reading the early afternoon edition of the Evening Standard.

“Two days, Spaghetti, two days before anyone noticed. The trail, if there was one, has gone cold, freezing cold,” Sowerbutt smiled.
“I love this bit, guv. The Royal Mail lads thought there’d been a cock-up and went back empty-handed. Their boss didn’t check until the next day when the lads spent their time searching the warehouse.  The boss says it wasn’t his fault; he rang Edinburgh and the manager there had just been called up, Birmingham had suffered a hit-and-run air raid and in Newcastle the phones were down. Only the bloke in Manchester asked where his mail-bags were.”
Sowerbutt chuckled. “What about the headlines? ‘The Great Plane Robbery’, ‘Thousands Vanish In Mystery Snatch”. Thousands? We’ve tucked away more than a quarter of a million, can you believe. Way more than enough for all of us and we’ll make sure the local families are sorted out when the bombing stops. We’ll all be in Easy Street when the fighting is over.”
Spaghetti nodded: “Some inspector from Scotland Yard says he is still not sure there has been a robbery, the mail-bags might have been misplaced.”
Sowerbutt laughed: “The longer the to-ing and fro-ing goes on, the better. I might pop round to see my mate, the superintendent, and find out what he has heard. I’ve got some tins of pineapple for him."
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Sowerbutt's Wait

The worst of it was always the waiting, Sowerbutt thought to himself. He remembered the never-ending night he had spent frozen against the wall of a deserted building in Carabanchel during the Siege of Madrid in the Spanish war while three young idiots from the Anarchist Brigade sat on the dusty road nearby and drank themselves silly with a case of Russian vodka. When they finally passed out, he had been sorely tempted to use his clasp knife. But what would have been the point?

The robbery had gone smoothly so far, he had nothing to worry about, he told himself. Two mail bags were stashed in the car boot and one on the back seat, covered with an old blanket. The lads would head back in the Chevy truck painted in the livery of a non-existent transport company and the Austin builder’s van. The plan was to drop some canvas over the truck’s side on the way back to the Smoke; the builder’s van had been smothered in mud and sand to obscure any names.
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Sowerbutt's Companion

Walking over to the burr walnut drinks cabinet, Polly poured herself a large gin and tonic. “Did I tell you about One-Line’s contribution, Jimmy? It was a classic.

“I fight my own fights, Jimmy, as you know,” Polly smiled. “But some of the suppliers here aren’t used to women running their own businesses. They tell you they will only deal with your husband.”
Sowerbutt laughed out loud. “That would have gone down well.”
Polly nodded: “I took One-Line along to see the man who is now my best and most enthusiastic supplier. It was all over in seconds, One-Line had a small altercation with the supplier’s prized car. Whatever reservations people had about supplying women in business have suddenly gone. One-Line is the greatest salesman.”
“Priceless,” Sowerbutt grinned. “I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall.”
Polly looked serious for a moment. It was the look that terrified Sowerbutt. “The suppliers all accept me now, hopefully other ladies will be dealt with properly in the future. Otherwise, we will have to help them and it does make me cross to give lessons twice. If there is a next time, One-Line won’t be so gentle.”
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Sowerbutt's Good News

“Genial George was very excited. More than that, Polly, he’s wetting his pants to meet you. Prices, delivery dates, all that stuff. He absolutely loved the hat designs and he said the workmanship was first-class.

"Marshall & Snelgrove will launch the new ladies’ look, then the other posh department stores will tear their hair out to get part of the action. Out in the wings, the exclusive milliner’s shops will be chasing around to place orders with you for the latest look. You and your Luton ladies have arrived..”
Sowerbutt grunted as Polly jabbed him in the ribs, then put her arms round him. “I don’t know a thing about hats, Jimmy, apart from what I like and don’t like. You drag me up here, you bad man, and now I’m running a hat factory. Have you seen the warehouse, it looks so much better. We’ve turned a male pigsty into a pleasant workplace for ladies. And yes, we’ve had some profitable orders from a number of society ladies.”
Sowerbutt kissed his lady on the cheek. “It is all working out well. Luton was a good choice, as long as the Jerries don’t target the motor works too often. If the bombing stops, we can spend more time in the Smoke - if there’s anything left that is.”
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Sowerbutt's Opportunity

Grinning, Nero grabbed a couple of his favourite chocolate bars. “It is like this, Mr Sorbay. I heard something last night that might earn us a couple of bob.

“I was visiting a lady friend up in town. She has a room in one of those big buildings overlooking Soho Square that the Malts have taken over.
“I could hear a couple of them talking outside the door, I came up the fire-escape on the quiet like, Mr Sorbay. One of them said he was working for the Post Office.
“Said he was sent down to the aerodrome at Croydon the other day to help out with some mailbags for the banks. They still use it for a few civvy flights. Said to his mate he should have taken a shooter with him and some lads. The bags were full of bank notes.
“The bags are brought down by the Brylcreem Boys on one of those Dragon planes, he said. The Brylcreem Boys are armed, but the bags are dumped on a cart and taken to some storage place. No security, just an old caretaker. No hurry or anything. The Malt and his driver load the bags into their Post Office van and drive them back to a sorting office in the city and then they are delivered to the banks. The driver told him they used to have a police escort, but the boys in blue are so short-staffed these days.”
“Well, well, Nero, an interesting tale. We had better act quick smart before your Malt spreads the story too far.”
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Sowerbutt's Offer

A bucket of cold water had revived the two Russians. Bound and blindfolded, the two men were stretched out on the floorboards of an empty shop in Whitechapel.

Speaking through her scarf to disguise her voice, Madame Komarovski asked the men in Russian what their names were. A string of short words answered her. She mouthed, “Expletives” to Sowerbutt who winked at One-Line. The giant man knelt over one of the Russians, clamping his left hand over the man’s mouth. Pushing the strong fingers of his right hand into a point, One-Line began systematically jabbing the Russian’s ribcage, armpits, neck and groin. Sweating profusely, the Russian rolled on the floor in agony, muted screams and grunts could be heard behind One-Line’s huge hand.
After a couple of minutes, One-Line got nimbly to his feet and walked around to the other Russian who was struggling to and fro in terror. Squatting beside the blindfolded man, One-Line pulled his American Ka-bar knife noisily from its sheath and stroked the blade along the man’s thigh. Every time it rose towards his groin, the man whimpered and began gabbling in Russian.
Madame Komarovski nodded to Spaghetti. As another bucket of water hit the two men, her voice snapped: “Games over, gentlemen. You die here and your bodies are taken on a one-way trip down The River. Or you go quietly to the West India Docks where a merchantman is sailing tonight for Liverpool and an Atlantic convoy. In Halifax, you will be released to do whatever you want.”
It took seconds for the Russians to grunt and nod their agreement.
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Sowerbutt's Adventure

“Russian crown jewels inside, I suppose, guv,” Spaghetti whispered. “Never seen such security - barbed wire, trip wires, electrified wire, broken glass, traps, strips of nails, armed guards. I even spotted a couple of sound detectors, don’t see many of those about. Wonder which of the 20 bedrooms His Gloriousness the Ambassador, Maisky isn’t it, kips in?”

Sowerbutt smiled and shook his head. The two men watched like hawks as Tipper, ghost-like, slipped through the shadows on the manicured lawns of the Italianate mansion in South Kensington. He froze, waiting for a couple of armed guards to pass, then picked his way towards the marble steps up to the imposing front entrance.
The three men had brought sacking with them to cover the broken glass as they climbed over the high brick wall surrounding the Soviet Embassy. All three were experienced burglars, but it took them much longer than usual to get in, past the endless obstacles.
Tipper, a black balaclava pulled over his blond crew-cut, sidled up to the edge of the steps. Pulling a cloth bag from his jacket pocket, he emptied the contents on one of the steps and pushed the items one-by-one across to the middle. Two plain gold rings, two wallets with papers but minus several pound notes which were safe in Tipper’s pocket, a miniature Orthodox icon and two bloody thumbs that he had bought from the elderly undertaker at the end of High Bob for two pounds.
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Sowerbutt's Manor

As the government Daimler sped along Fleet Street, Churchill said: "Halifax informs me that he has received a formal letter of protest from Ambassador Maisky.”

Bracken snorted: “What, one of our backbenchers telling the truth about Uncle Joe, the kulak killer?”
“Two large men, stark naked and badly beaten, were found chained to a lamppost near Toynbee Hall. That’s our Deputy Prime Minister’s hobby-horse, I am led to believe. Their bodies were daubed with some sort of dye and rotten fruit and mud had been splattered all over them.”
Bracken smiled: “We cannot be held responsible for public acts of sado-masochism, Prime Minister. A matter for the Metropolitan Police and the courts. Were they close friends of Ambassador Maisky?”
Churchill puffed his cigar. “Members of the Soviet Embassy with diplomatic immunity, as Maisky points out. Accuses our security services of an unprovoked attack on his innocent staff. Claims it will threaten our cordial relations unless we find and punish the culprits immediately.”
“Probably Finnish sailors or Poles, someone with a grudge against the Reds,” Bracken said. “The Bolsheviks should worry about their cordial relations with the Jerries, not with us.”
“Quite so,” Churchill nodded. “Your brothel-keeper, Sorbay, might have knowledge of the event. He runs that part of our Empire’s capital, doesn’t he?
“I am informed the two Bolshevik thugs - clothed, I trust - have returned to Moscow or wherever it is that Aeroflot takes those fallen from favour.”
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Sowerbutt's Guests

He turned the key to the Cheapside flat as quietly as he could and tip-toed in. He could hear noise, people talking. Inside the flat was a hive of activity. Three women were sitting at a trestle table, chattering and hand-sewing pieces of colourful material; a couple of large sewing machines stood on top of the table.

“There you are, James. And about time,” Polly smiled, holding a tall toque with a spread of blue feathers. “This is a demonstration of what we can do, great isn’t it? You and I are buying a millinery company which has fallen on hard times. We can sell utility hats in the Smoke and employ some of our girls in safety.
“These talented ladies will teach our girls what to do.” Polly quickly pinned her hair up, placed the toque on her head and walked around the room. As the three women workers clapped, Polly smiled at Sowerbutt and said: “What do you think?”
He was rarely at a loss for words.
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Sowerbutt's Bath

Sowerbutt knew that he had a bad habit of drifting off to sleep in a hot bath. Many times he had jerked awake in cold water. In recent years, he had been awoken by Polly banging on the bathroom door. This time it was different. A huge shuddering explosion sent the water surging from one end of the bath to the other, and then another blast and another. Seconds later, a fist pounded on the door. “Guv,” Spaghetti shouted. “The Jerries are back. Incendiaries have dropped just round the corner. We’ve got houses there.”

Pulling on his clothes as he raced down the stairs after Spaghetti, Sowerbutt feared this was the end game. London could not survive wave after wave of Jerry bombers, there were no defences that he had seen. Churchill would have to do some sort of deal.
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Sowerbutt's Bombs

East India Dock Road was almost deserted by the time the two men got there. A couple of familiar buildings had disappeared, flames licking at the ruins and rubble strewn across the road. A trolleybus leant drunkenly against a line of warehouses, the blast from a bomb having pushed it sideways. A couple of bodies on the pavement covered in bloody sheets were evidence of the mounting death toll. A solitary ambulance zigzagged along the road, bell ringing, heading for Poplar Hospital. As the two men looked around, the whistles of bombs falling and the steady crump, crump of explosions could be heard; rubble and smoke shooting into the sky. Daylight had become a black and yellow pall. The sky over the Docks was blood-red, criss-crossed by huge plumes of thick black smoke. The warm afternoon sun had disappeared; a commentary on the future, Sowerbutt thought, shaking his long hair.

“This is the big one, Spaghetti. The beginning of the end unless we can do a deal. Let’s check the remaining larders and our houses."
He spun round, a sudden movement near the Admiral Fish shop catching his attention. “Jack, you little bastard,” he shouted at the small urchin running along the pavement clutching a bag. “Forget stealing chips from Mrs Harris, get in the shelter now. More bombs are coming our way.” The small boy waved and headed across the deserted street towards the council shelter.
The two men heard a loud whooshing noise and a huge blue pillar of flame shot into the sky to the north. “That’ll be one of the gasometers going up at the Gas Works. We’ll feel it if they all go up,” Spaghetti said.
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Sowerbutt's Time

“I’ll send a message to Dipper to see what stock he has to hand,” Sowerbutt said wearily, his face covered in white dust and streaks of grime. “You won’t be telling much time with that.”

Spaghetti looked down at the Omega watch that his Mamma had given him. The glass was shattered and the hands stuck forever at 8:35, a few minutes after the second wave of bombs started falling. The two men had kicked in the front door of one of the Family’s houses, just off East India Dock Road, seconds after an incendiary bomb had landed in the street and exploded into flames. Spaghetti hit his wrist against the brickwork as he pulled some of the terrified tenants to safety.
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Sowerbutt's Luton

“Plenty of shops here, down in George Street. A few places selling hats. Lovely day for a walk, Plait Hall is just round the corner with its markets. Then there’s the new Savoy cinema, opened a couple of years back.”

Polly stretched out on the settee: “You worry too much, Jimmy. I shall be fine as long as you are not away for too long. You won’t be, will you?”
“I’ve bought you a brand-new Ferguson wireless for company, you know the American one. Supposed to have a good reception.”
“I saw it, Jimmy. Love the gold trim. Fits in perfectly with our décor. We’ll be featured in Women’s Illustrated.”
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Sowerbutt's Holiday

Sowerbutt said: “Spaghetti and another of my associates saw the motor-bike and sidecar the Palestinians used to whisk the Jerry general away. Fake number-plate. However, the Luton boys in blue could keep an eye out for it and I have some friends in the town who will also keep their eyes peeled. We’ll sniff them out and get your general back for you.”

Bracken smiled: “Splendid, Sorbay. Then you can take another of your Irish holidays and deliver the package for us. A higher fee if you have to use bullets with his associates, but don’t use that as an excuse.
“I want him alive in Dublin if you can manage it. Another cigar, anyone? Mine’s gone out.”

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Sowerbutt's Thoughts

“Two things, Mr Bracken. The Soviets would not want your Jerry general in their embassy. A photograph as he goes in is too risky. They’d want him in one of their back street properties. You’d have a list, we can seal them off for you.”

“Good point, Sorbay. John will give you the list. Your second suggestion, Sorbay?” Bracken asked, sipping his Black Label.
“You say the snatchers have been in touch with some Zionists. Do we know from where?”
Bracken nodded. “This is all hush-hush, old boy. And, of course, subject to the Official Secrets Act of 1911. Occasionally, very occasionally, we listen in to the Zionists’ phone calls.”
Sowerbutt grinned: “Bugging as the Americans say in the films.”

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Sowerbutt's Story

Brendan Bracken glanced around the elegant drawing room, through the French windows to the wide terrace and the beautifully maintained gardens beyond. “I do enjoy Luton Hoo, an oasis of elegance and calm in today’s troubled times. The Old Man and I, and dear Clemmie of course, came here several times to dine with the Wernhers before the Army managed to get their hands on the house for Eastern Command.

Bracken pointed to the terrace. “We all discussed Munich out there. Neville the Undertaker’s finest hour, you might say. What a misguided man, never in touch with the British people.”

He blew a series of smoke rings. “Your men were right, Sorbay, to let the Haganah take the Jerry general. Saved everybody a lot of trouble. The only difficulty is they have not gone to Ireland with him.
“They are threatening to deliver Herr General to the Soviets and expose our double-dealing. Not that we owe anything to the Russians but the propaganda onslaught would not be helpful. The Commons would not be impressed and it would give the Isolationists across the Atlantic a field day. The lunatics want us to open the Palestinian borders to Jewish refugees from Europe. That’s not going to happen, we need the Arab oil for the war effort. All we can do in the Middle East as ever is a balancing act."
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Sowerbutt's Surprise

“Another thing, James,” Polly said angrily, jabbing her man painfully in the ribs with her fingers, a trick she had learnt from her mother when she ran the brothel. “I haven’t seen your wonderful little house, have I? Has it been painted or is there a single stick of furniture there? Do they have proper bathrooms in Luton, I am not using a lean-to. Nor am I living in a slum. You go off buying these places without talking to your partner - is that what I’m called or not these days?”

Sowerbutt was not game to tell her that the builders had been working from dawn to dusk on the building in Cheapside. The outside toilet had been demolished and a new bathroom and American kitchen complete with refrigerator put in. The latest furniture from John Lewis in Oxford Street had been transported by army lorries up the A1; a local contractor, supplied with petrol coupons, bringing the loads across to Luton.
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Sowerbutt's Excuse

“First we are going, then we we’re not. Or at least you say you’re not, James, you are dumping me in the back of beyond, then swanning off somewhere by yourself. I’ve told you before I am not going anywhere by myself. We go together or not at all.” The redhead stood in the private office at the back of the brothel bar, arms planted on her hips.

Her look with her thin smile sent shivers up Sowerbutt’s back. Standover merchants, hard cases, the Stepney Reds did not faze him, but Polly. One look and he was helpless.
“It’s not like that, Polly. We’re leaving London to make sure you are safe from the bombing which is about to start at any tick of the clock. Gingernut has offered me a fistful of readies to do a job which will take a few days. Then I’ll be back, that’s all. Tipper and Nero are staying in the new house with you to make sure everything is good."
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Sowerbutt's Revenge

“Spaghetti, will you deal with a couple of roaring boys for me?  Take One-Line and Cocker and whoever else you want. Put anyone you need for the job on the payroll.”

Sowerbutt pushed the list of Haganah addresses from Jack Shakes across the desk.
“Two bastards, big beefy boys, roughed up Jack Shakes and no-one touches my friends. No-one. They were after his tenant who may have scarpered to one of these addresses. It’s a question of checking where the roaring boys have visited, where’s left and springing them.”
“Farewell them, guv. You are not worried about how they go?”
“No, Spaghetti, no goodbyes. Give them a beating they won’t forget, strip them and chain them to railings, a fence or whatever, and throw away the keys. Take a bucket of strong violet gentian with you and give them a good daubing. That’ll get them twitching. I’m sending a message to their boss that nobody pokes their nose into the Family’s patch.”

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Sowerbutt's Pleasure

“What is it, old friend?” Sowerbutt looked puzzled.

Spaghetti said: “I legged it round to make sure that Annie was alright with the bombing after I left you, guv. She was home and she opened the door. I was so relieved to see her that I blurted out about getting married. I popped the question, it just came out and she said yes. In fact, she asked me why had I kept her waiting so long.”
“Spaghetti, you old bastard,” Sowerbutt shouted and put his arms round his lieutenant. “I’m so pleased for you both. We'll split a bottle of champagne. I kept some of the Pol Roger bottles here for special occasions. This is a 1911, it is supposed to be one of the best.”
“Thanks, guv,” Spaghetti beamed.

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Sowerbutt's Anger

Jack Shakes nodded. “They were Russians, I know the Russian language, the language of my father. They were after my Haganah man upstairs.”

“He’s disappeared. Left a week’s rent and a few old clothes and went off in the night. I told them that. In English, of course. I was not letting on that I speak Russian. That’s when they punched me, said I must know where he had gone.”
“One of the roaring boys said their boss wanted our Haganah lad urgently. He had something important for them."
“This pair of thugs need an urgent lesson in good manners. Nobody touches my friends, but nobody. Poor Shiny’s killers are no longer with us and the men who killed Soap are roasting in hell. I won’t have it,” Sowerbutt said.
The tailor watched the hard-faced man walk back towards Whitechapel Road, he remembered the same expression when he was shouting orders to his Blackshirt I-Squad section during the Battle of Cable Street four years earlier.
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Sowerbutt's Compassion

Sowerbutt put his arm around Jack Shakes’ shoulders. The tailor was sitting at the small desk at the front of his shop in Whitechapel.

“I try and widen my client base, Mr Sorbay, attract new customers,” the dapper little man with brilliantined black hair said with a lop-sided smile. “And this is what I get for my pains.”
The tailor had been punched in the face, his eye rapidly closing and a red welt across his cheek. His two apprentices were re-hanging and brushing down recently-completed jackets, trousers and waistcoats which had been thrown on the floor.
“Came as soon as I heard, Jack. Streets blocked off everywhere with the bombing,” Sowerbutt said. “Who was it? Strangers trying to rob you? Everybody on the street knows you are off-limits.”
The tailor tried his lop-sided smile again. “You are a dear friend, Mr Sorbay, a mensch. No, no robbery. Two big beefy individuals with cheap trilby hats and badly-cut suits. It upsets me to have such rubbish on my premises.”
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