Sowerbutt's Streets

Churchill's eyes twinkled. "Are we on the verge of revolution? Will the Reds seize the streets of London and murder us in our beds? I will call the Army out, round them up and shoot them. Or would it be more tactful to  send them to the detention camps with the Mosleyites?”
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Sowerbutt's Champagne

Bracken smiled: “Yes Prime Minister, Pol Roger is the perfect soul-soother before a Chief of the Imperial General Staff sob session.”

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Sowerbutt's Deal

Churchill gripped the railing, tears in his eyes. “The heart of our great empire ravaged night after night by these evil Jerries. Death and destruction raining down on our innocent London families. I will not have it, Brendan. The deal with that Hess chap was worthless.”

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Sowerbutt's Bomb

Nero spotted the plump figure of Dave Handiman, local secretary of the Docks Office in High Bob. He had recently moved to new rooms. Some said the old office had been hit by a bomb; Nero remembered Spaghetti being involved.

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Sowerbutt's Joke

Nero's sister always joked that nobody ever spotted Nero in her wedding photographs and he was her late husband’s best man.

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Sowerbutt's Cake

The Professor, whom Polly thought of as a crow with his black clothes and his habit of nodding his head, put on a rare smile. Cake was his soft spot.

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Sowerbutt's Slap

Sowerbutt frowned: “He’s muttering. Spaghetti, shut him up.” With a grin, Spaghetti slapped McGaskie’s face hard. Silence.

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Sowerbutt's Job

Sowerbutt said: “Good job done. Worth the fifty quid I gave Wal Macdonald to keep the Elephant and Castle Mob sweet. Their manor after all."
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Sowerbutt's Pledge

Sowerbutt kissed Franco’s hand. “We fought together in the war, Paco. We fight together now."
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Sowerbutt's Honour

Franco said: “You are an honoured citizen of our Spanish State. Driven out of England by the godless Reds; a fake burial, indeed. In Spain, we line the scum up against the wall."

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Sowerbutt's Stew

Over bowls of steaming bean stew at Benavente, a picturesque medieval town, the Guardia Civil commandant whispered about the terrorists in the Galician mountains. “The region is loyal; officially the El Piloto brigands don’t exist, senor. But we must be careful, my men are on full alert.”

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Sowerbutt's Generosity

"You were too generous to the scum who murdered your poor wife. I would have crucified him and left him as carrion," Franco said.

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Sowerbutt's Friend

Generalissimo Franco walked heavily across the reception room in the Pazo de Meiras at Sada, put his hands on Sowerbutt’s shoulders and kissed both his cheeks.

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Sowerbutt's Invitation

Sowerbutt sat down quickly, well aware of the Spanish leader’s sensitivity about his short stature. “El Caudillo, I am honoured to be invited to your summer home in Galicia.”

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Sowerbutt's Orders

Four experienced members of the SAS, on special detachment, were infiltrated into the prison several years after it opened; their orders were to break out - using non-lethal force as necessary. 
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Sowerbutt's File

The file’s former occupants were separately stamped “Never To Be Released” and driven under close escort some miles from Kew to a tightly-guarded anonymous storage facility, designated under the Official Secrets Act of 1989.
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Sowerbutt's Anger

The well-furnished suite was more familiar with erudite conversations about high matters of state and the acquisition of KCBs than shrieks of anger over ancient East End road accidents.
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Sowerbutt's Finger

A chubby pink finger in a Horse Guards office trembled on its way down the list followed by a spectacular explosion.
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Sowerbutt's Salute

The hawk-faced man swept the bowler off his mop of bottle-yellow hair, held it out in silent salute and bowed low as the gravediggers began shovelling the soil into the grave.
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Sowerbutt's Girls

The boy blushed bright red when a blonde among a group of attractive girls wearing colourful shawls, daring necklines and flouncy skirts winked at him and raised her eyebrows.

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Sowerbutt's Funeral

The mourners at the funeral of the Poplar businessman were a curious assortment.
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Sowerbutt"s Cemetery

Hackles rising and teeth bared, the dog watched as the latecomers made their way across the old cemetery.
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Sowerbutt's Dog

The low growl at the back of the Dalmatian’s throat was enough to send shivers up a brave man’s spine.
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Sowerbutt's Chill

“Sir, it is freezing up here. You will give yourself a chill; at this juncture Britain cannot afford to have her Prime Minister bed-ridden,” Brendan Bracken said. 
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Sowerbutt's Letter

“We’ve have gone to much trouble to get here to Rhodos,” the colonnello from the 2^nd Blackshirt Division said. “This letter is of the highest importance. His Majesty trusts you to deliver it in Ankara as soon as possible. Guard it with your life, my friend.” 
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Sowerbutt's Disguise

Sowerbutt turned to Madame Komarovski: “I know you want to smack the bastard, but this is a contract. We’ll bleach his hair and cut it. You’ve got the glasses with plain lens."
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Sowerbutt's Milk-Cart

“I don’t like this, Fred,” the pasty-faced driver muttered. He braked hard. “I’m turning round. We’ll high-tail it back to the prison.” Crashing his gears into reverse, he saw in his mirror a milk-cart had been manhandled across the road.

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Sowerbutt's Mourners

Originally headed towards the main throng of mourners, Hawk-Face changed direction at the last minute when he spotted the blond man and his menacing dog. 
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