Sowerbutt's Break-In

Spaghetti slipped the latch on the scullery window with his knife and seconds later the two men were heading up the stairs to start checking the four-storey townhouse in Cheyne Walk; the young owner was safely ensconced in a farm cottage, well away from the bombing.
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Sowerbutt's Transmitter

As the minutes ticked by, Nero wondered where the spy was heading. He guessed the heavy backpack, that he could just make out in the moonlight, contained the transmitter. A transmission to Hamburg, a clandestine meeting or breakout and heading for the Irish ferries.
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Sowerbutt's Shadow

Nero glided along the country lane, barely leaving a mark. He slowed to a standstill when Gerhard stopped and he accelerated when the former soldier got on his way again. Nero would have admitted that he had never tracked anyone cross-country before. His experience was the tough streets of East London.
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Sowerbutt's Spy

Gerhard stood still, like a gamekeeper’s dog; sniffing the wind, ears alert and eyes peering through the darkness. Nothing, a whiff of manure and the sickly scent of rotting leaves. Wind rustled through the trees, a dog barked in the distance. The former soldier stiffened as a branch creaked in the nearby woodland. Silence.

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Sowerbutt's Robbery

“My constitutional duty, Majesty, is to furnish you with what information I have to hand. I must confess that I possess very little. I am informed that Commissioner Game’s officers have questioned several witnesses with little result and they have the two stolen motor vehicles in their possession. The Metropolitan Police Force has failed to locate the van in which the robbers fled or the stolen money, some £300,000. A considerable fortune,” Churchill growled.

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Sowerbutt's Help

“We’ve put a couple of toffs on the Thurrock farm; they pay a good rent to avoid the bombing. I’ve got a couple more seeking the quiet life lined up.” Jo-Jo nodded: “Not a problem, guv. I can keep an eye on anyone you want to send here.” Sowerbutt puffed on his corona. “Win-win, Jo-Jo. While the toffs are safe and sound in their bolthole, we check out their houses. Just to help with storage, of course.”

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Sowerbutt's Farm

“I’ve been thinking about a couple of farms near here. More and more hungry workers in Luton and easy to train goods down to the Smoke.” Polly grinned: “You’re two steps behind us, Sorbay. Jo-Jo is already having a scout around. Good properties on the market - near the aerodrome, out on the Hitchin road, up towards Bedford. People walking off the land with the well-paid factory jobs, they want the easy life, then there’s the call-up."

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Sowerbutt's Justice

Polly sat on a chair by the door, waving Sophie, who was barely 16, to sit in the armchair in the middle of the room. “Good morning, Mr Rutt. This is your lucky day,” Polly smiled at the overweight man who was sweating profusely. “I put a bullet in the head of the last man who raped one of my girls; his body has never been found. I thought you should know that.” The fat man began to whimper. “You have been forcing your attentions on this young girl and I gather all the hard-working women here, too.”  Jo-Jo grinned, the thin-bladed knife tapping on the palm of his hand. “Sophie,” Polly said. “I’m sorry about that twitch in your leg. Don’t be embarrassed about it.” The slight girl suddenly grinned and kicked out at the overweight man, catching him under his chin. Turning red, the rage took over and she hurled herself at him, clawing, scratching and spitting.

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Sowerbutt's Transmitter

“Two Irish blokes in Lutterworth, one with a heavy suitcase. You can guess what’s in it,” Sowerbutt said. Brendan Bracken swung his legs off the desk. “Explosives? Aaaah, dear God, a transmitter. How do you know that? Doesn’t matter. The point is you know and our damned security service knows jack-all. I’ve had it with these pompous fools. The Ghost has been holed up just north of Lutterworth and we couldn’t work out why. Thought he was waiting for his U-boat. Can’t allow him to have a wireless and spill the beans to Jerry about what‘s really going on here. If they knew how weak our defences were, they’d pop over on the ferry.” Rising, he said: “This is serious. Must get back to No 10, immediately."

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Sowerbutt's Challenge

“The Ghost, Sorbay, the damned Ghost. As you know he’s completed his business. Wing-Commander Whittle is dead as far as Jerry knows and we’ve put out a story that he has had a breakdown. Jerry will think that is a cover story. The Jerry prisoners, whom you managed to find out about, are also dead. Really dead, but we are happy about that. All this is Official Secrets stuff.” Sowerbutt unbuttoned his leather jacket. “Of course, Mr Bracken.” “We want to turn him, Sorbay. Persuade him to work for us, while Jerry continues to think he’s working for them. I won’t bother you with all the ins and outs, but it’s going to be a tricky job. All a matter of timing, I’d say.”

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Sowerbutt's Fate

Brendan Bracken swung his legs off the desk and strode over to a small wooden window. “Out there on Tower Green, Sorbay. Henry VIII’s wives and various others. Axes were blunt, executioners nervous or drunk. Took 11 blows to get rid of one old lady, barbaric, I’d say. Hanging, these days, is much more humane. All over in an instant.” Sowerbutt shuddered: “Firing squad for me, you’d say, if I step out of line?” He hadn’t missed the  guardsman with rifle and fixed bayonet, outside the Governor’s office as he was shown in.

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Sowerbutt's Tower

The room smelt damp. The Public Works team had done their best; plaster here, institution blue and cream paint there. Regulation office furniture; hardly attractive, but hard wearing and cheap carpets on the wooden floor. The Old Bushmills jug and ashtray and the sweet smell of coronas provided some welcome relief. Blowing out a plume of smoke, Sowerbutt smiled: “Lived in the shadow of the Tower all my life, but I’ve never been inside before. A few royals lost their heads here, didn’t they?”

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Sowerbutt's Witness

The best witness story to the robbery that Nero, who was watching in the background, heard was from a World War One veteran with a row of medals pinned to his jacket.  “It was the Invisible Man, like they had at the flicks a few years back. They had bandages on. When they take them off, there’s nothing there. Just their clothes, see.”

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Sowerbutt's Mail-bags

A giant of a man, wearing a tweed cap, a scarf around his face and gloves, jumped out of the Austin, ran across to the post office van, broke open the rear doors with a crowbar, grabbed two large mail-bags and threw them across into the Austin. Repeating the process twice, the giant hurled himself back into the Austin. To the startled onlookers, the robbery was over almost before it had started.

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Sowerbutt's Robbery

Kevie Acheson, who had run the pie stall for years, watched, mouth agape, as two men leapt out of the cars as they jerked to a halt, their heads swathed in white bandages with slits for their eyes. One raced to the mail van, pulled the driver onto the road, gagged and roped him. He leant inside the van, switched the engine off and pocketed the keys. The other grabbed the stunned assistant in front of the pie stall. As he gagged and roped him, the bandaged man gave a thumbs-up to a bewildered Acheson.
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Sowerbutt's Action

Panda's world exploded into action. The van drew up alongside the pie stall with a jerk. How do they keep to the same time every day, he thought as he pulled the large handkerchief out. He sneezed, making sure the handkerchief was waved around. To the second, a Ford A-Model and a Morgan sports car raced out of the nearby side streets, blocking the mail van. From just along Coleman Street an Austin van backed out at speed from an alleyway, its rear doors flapping and tyres screeching.

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Sowerbutt's Soldier

None of the regulars in the Manor House would have believed it, but Panda looked every inch a soldier in the Tower Hamlets Rifles, the well-pressed uniform borrowed from Sowerbutt’s NCO mate at the depot in Bow. Coach had shaken his head and retreated to his office after watching Panda marching up and down his gym, WO snapping out orders from an armchair. 
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Sowerbutt's Chain

Sowerbutt laughed: “I enjoy your bike-chain, Panda. It’s like the cowboys on the flicks with their lassos.  Hope the message gets through, it’s fun rattling McGaskie’s cage. We’ll deal with him in our own good time. Deal with him permanently.”

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Sowerbutt's Punch

As Sowerbutt walked slowly back towards the pub's main entrance, the bar was silent, all eyes watching him. “Fascist filth,” a tall, skinny man sneered as he passed by. Sowerbutt did not turn his head, his powerful right fist shooting out and connecting to the skinny man’s chin with a crack. Wide-eyed, the man sailed backwards, crashing against the counter. His mates scurried out of the way.

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Sowerbutt's Message

Sowerbutt laid his Webley revolver on the counter. “My colleagues may have caused some damage in your pub recently. Time to make amends.” Reaching into his leather jacket, Sowerbutt took out a small bundle of notes and handed them to Harry Knight. He turned to face the remaining regulars. One-Line, the man mountain, stood by the main entrance, Panda with his bike chain guarded the side door. “No problems, gentlemen, no repeat of the other week. My message is for McGaskie. Leave the Smoke and disappear. Stay here and I will introduce you to The River. That’s the message.”

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Sowerbutt's Smile

Looking up, Harry Knight groaned: “Oh, no. Not again, this will be the end of us.” A giant of a man was standing by the main entrance, a slight man with black rings under his eyes manned the side door. He was whirling a bike chain in his right hand. The Reds were edging their way into the corners; a couple were sizing up the bar, ready to make a rush and escape through the kitchen. As Harry Knight eyed the cricket bat under the counter, a tall, well-built man with long brown hair walked in. “No trouble, Mr Knight,” Sowerbutt smiled. 

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