Sowerbutt's Sparklers

Pop shook his head: “I bumped into an army mate at lunchtime, he does some cleaning work over at Hatton Garden for Mr Riba, one of the best cutters in the business. The thing is Mr Riba was killed last night in the bombing, blown to smithereens. Lived by himself, no family. Came over from Poland after the first lot, my mate said.” Bernie looked serious. “You’re going to tell me there’s stock in his office, begging to be looked after.” Pop nodded. “Shame to let it go to waste. Big Milners safe there, according to my mate."

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Sowerbutt's Spy

“This Jerry allegedly died a dozen years ago," Sowerbutt said. "Which means he was given a new identity. I gather he was also popular with the Fuhrer’s lot which can only mean one thing. He is a top spy, someone who will stop at nothing to achieve whatever his goal is.”

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Sowerbutt's Thanks

“Miss Nobbe,” Bracken called. The tall woman looked startled. “Yes, sir? Is anything wrong?” “This afternoon the Prime Minister asked me to speak to you.” “Yes sir? Nesta’s voice had gone up a notch. “He told me to thank you, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, for your willing help. This operation is vital to Britain winning the war and you are playing a very important part. Please pass on Mr Churchill’s personal thanks to your excellent cook.” Nesta Nobbe was flustered. She curtsied, said “Oh, thank you, sir” and hurriedly backed out of the room.

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Sowerbutt's Mission

The Prime Minister stubbed his cigar out. “Brendan, we face an unimaginable disaster if what you say is true. Find the goods, use whatever powers you need, mobilise as much manpower as necessary. The future of our ancient island kingdom rests upon your young shoulders. Do not let the goods fall into the hands of Jerry.”

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Sowerbutt's Speech

Churchill growled: “Every road in Cambridgeshire is blocked, every airfield patrolled, every nearby port secured. We have mobilised every member of your Armed Forces in a wide radius. The conspirators will not escape; they will not flee our shores. These evil men will be brought before the justice of your courts, Your Majesty.”

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Sowerbutt's Manhunt

Brendan Bracken sipped his whiskey: “Your Majesty, we are closing in on the perpetrators of this terrible crime.  Suffolks are sweeping the countryside and more troops were being called in as I left Cambridge Aerodrome this morning. The police forces of Cambridgeshire and West Suffolk have been mobilised. One of the country’s leading trackers will be on the scene shortly."

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Sowerbutt's Flight

“What a day, guv," Spaghetti said. "I’m trying to get over being up in the air in that aeroplane. What was holding us up? Every time I looked out the window, there was nothing underneath, just the earth miles away. I don’t know what’s happened to my stomach.”

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Sowerbutt's Mystery

Sowerbutt looked puzzled. “So what have we got?  A bad lad who mixed in the wrong circles in the Reich or was he a plant? Someone the Jerries like and who now turns up in the Smoke in the middle of a war. Something funny going on."

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Sowerbutt's Magazine

The bookseller rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a copy of Der Eigene. On one page was a large photograph of a man about 30, heavily made up. “Bad news, this one, Mr Sorbay. The article talks about drugs, wild parties, nude dancing, wearing women’s clothes, all manner of things."

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Sowerbutt's War

“Jerry's just up the road, Hatter. Been shooting at our lads,” Brendan Bracken said. “Let’s pin this down.” Hatter nodded to the Norfolks major. “Sergeant-major. Men in the MLs at the double, rifles, Brens, grenades. Anyone with their pants down, leave behind,” the major roared in a parade-ground voice. “The Brigadier will lead. Chipperfield, the Brigadier’s car at the double.” The camp broke up into a mass of movement, soldiers grabbing rifles and Brens, NCOs organising boxes of ammunition and grenades, MLs revving.

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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Sowerbutt got off his bicycle. “Thanks for the offer of lunch, Mr Bracken. We deserve a slap-up meal after spending the last hour dodging bullets.” Bracken’s mouth dropped: “You made contact with the Jerry. Dammit, where, man, where?  Did you shoot him?” The slight military man waved a soldier over. “Call Brigadier Hatter, Private. He is in the tent. Mr Bracken wants him urgently. Double, man, double.”

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Sowerbutt's History

Churchill growled. “We are close to a resolution. All details of this operation will be buried in the archives, as you command. As you say, Sire, the pages of history will be wiped clean.”

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Sowerbutt's Plot

The Prime Minister paused, seconds ticked by. “Sire, we have already outlined the extent of this evil conspiracy. The IRA and senior civil servants or politicians will be ruthlessly hunted down. Another member of this conspiracy is a Miss Warfield, whom we believe is a cousin of your sister-in-law. She is dead, gunned down by this Jerry madman.” The King shot to his feet, staring at Churchill. “You know what this means, Winston. T-Treason against the King.”

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Sowerbutt's Gunman

“Sire, I have never doubted the loyalty of the Brecklands," Churchill growled. "Your subjects would turn out in their thousands to welcome a Royal visit. However, a Jerry gunman on the loose is a different matter. He would not hesitate to pull the trigger as you and Her Majesty pass by in your motor car.”

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Sowerbutt's Ghost

The blood drained from Sowerbutt’s face, he had seen a ghost, a ghost from his past. Dropping his copy of the Daily Express, he pushed through the passers-by on the Calle Major, which spears through the medieval heart of Alicante. Checking his Smith & Wesson, he glimpsed the face again a dozen or so yards away and then the man was gone, lost in the sweep of the crowds.
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