Sowerbutt's Packages

“Your Government will resign, Sire, if you have lost confidence in us,” Churchill growled.  He had hastily put on a morning suit after receiving an urgent summons from the Palace. “We are straining every sinew, stretching every muscle to restoring the packages to their rightful owner. Mr Bracken has flown to Nelson’s county this morning to resume command of this operation. Hundreds of your finest troops, Sire, and several police forces have been mobilised for the search."
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Sowerbutt's Job

“Do him over, John," Brendan Bracken said. "Photographs, documents, drugs, whatever you can manage.  Take Sorbay and a couple of his men with you. They are good at that sort of venture. I want Senor del Pozo on his knees and talking. Quickly, you understand, no time for niceties.”

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Sowerbutt's Spies

"These spies are professionals," Brendan Bracken said. "They’ve slipped through our fingers too many times. There will be all hell to pay if they get on board a U-boat with the packages. We have had reports that U-38 has put to sea from Lorient. Could be here off the Norfolk coast in a day or so."

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Sowerbutt's Flight

“Good flight back, sir?” the slight military man smiled as Brendan Bracken strode into the conference room at the Bell. “Pig’s arse,” snapped the flame-haired man as he poured himself a glass of Old Bushmills. “Why can’t our engineers design a comfortable aeroplane?"
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Sowerbutt's Transmission

Paul Longhurst raised his glass. “Nineteen seconds to transmit the code. No English surveillance could track that and who would be monitoring the airwaves up here?"
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Sowerbutt's Target

Left hand clamped to his right arm holding the revolver steady, Chief Inspector Le Clay aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger of his Webley, the red face in front of him disappearing in a burst of blood.

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Sowerbutt's Siege

Chief Inspector Le Clay peered around the tree, watching the angry red face and the gun bobbing up and down behind the pile of bricks. Behind him, uniformed police were blocking the road and a mother with two young children was being escorted away to safety.

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Sowerbutt's Horse

"Mr Pero, a moment if you please,” Chief Inspector Le Clay bawled in a voice that would have made a drill sergeant proud. The man looked around wild-eyed, running into an abandoned building site. “Just a few questions, Mr Pero. Nothing more,” Le Clay shouted, dodging a horse and cart as he hurried across the Norwich Road. As a shot rang out, the horse reared, its hooves narrowly missing Le Clay. 

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Sowerbutt's Dancer

“This is a strange one. I was over in The Cock in Shaftesbury Avenue, enjoying a lunchtime beer. They’ve tarted it up and called it The Avenue. Large as life, Sebastian Droste walks in. He was a German dancer and actor, bit of a wild boy.” Sowerbutt sipped his tea: “Perhaps he’s a refugee, a few artistic types legged it over here when the Fuhrer came to power. Don’t suppose all of them were detained.” “No, no Jimmy. He lived life on the edge, associated with some of the Berlin gangs and, it was said, was an early member of the Nazi Party. More importantly, he was supposed to have died 12 years ago."

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Sowerbutt's Anger

It was a frozen tableau. Nero stood in the middle of the lounge, strangling his cap and hopping from one leg to the other. Spaghetti and Jo-Jo sat stony-faced on the leather sofa, they had rarely seen the guv so angry. 
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Sowerbutt's Prisoner

“I don’t know why women do such dreadful things. My poor hubby has been banged up in a Jerry prisoner camp since the fighting in France last summer. But I wouldn’t dream of cheating on him,” Cynthia said with a twinkle in her eye.

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Sowerbutt's Submarine

Churchill beamed: “Splendid, dear boy. We cannot have a Jerry sub landing on our Norfolk coast and whisking away His Majesty and the Royal Family. Our defences must be impregnable, the county must be made safe.”

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Sowerbutt's Plan

Brendan Bracken's voice hardened. “You don’t have any plans for women, police work is too dangerous for the fairer sex. Well, well, Grantham, a little more dangerous than rural Norfolk I suspect, swore in its first woman police officer 25 years ago. You will have a plan by tonight, Chief Constable."
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Sowerbutt's Meal

As the couple sat down to eat, Polly said: “The meat is from Arthur Fisher’s butcher’s shop in High Town,  who owns this hotel.” Sowerbutt nodded, trying to look intelligent. “I’m selling him some, shall we say, off-ration chickens from the farm. Fisher supplies most of the local gentry. Can’t let rationing interfere with their fat stomachs, can we?”

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Sowerbutt's Informer

Maxwell Mercy continued: “We have had the pleasure of a Harriet Warfield from Baltimore staying with us. She must be a cousin.” Sowerbutt frowned: “Why would she be in Luton? Not here for the sights.” Maxwell nodded: “Cynthia, one of our cleaners, lives in the Irish Quarter and saw Miss Warfield, dressed in a duffel coat and tweed cap, walking alone near Hibbert Street, not the best area."

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Sowerbutt's Warning

"Sire, I have never doubted the loyalty of the Brecklands. Your subjects would turn out in their thousands to welcome a Royal visit. However, a trigger-happy Jerry gunman on the loose is a different matter. Your Majesty and His First Minister know the terrible secret and what this gunman has in his possession."
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Sowerbutt's Fall

A smudge appeared in the gap in the hedge and Paul gently squeezed the trigger, firing two shots as he had been taught. “Dear God, that was close,” Sowerbutt sighed as he fell back against the hedge. “The bastard has sharp eyes. Another inch and Polly would have been an unhappy lady.”

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Sowerbutt's Hunt

Longhurst had spotted the two cyclists when they were about half-a-mile away, coming out of the forest. One had a long bag on his back; what else but a rifle. They were foreigners, as the locals called everyone from outside the Brecklands. Hunters, not cyclists or twitchers.
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Sowerbutt's Birds

After the shots, long seconds of silence followed, then a high-pitched “chic, chic, chic” as the wagtails started chattering again in the nearby marshy field. 
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Sowerbutt's Bicycle

Sowerbutt dived off his bicycle, drawing his revolver as he fell into the hawthorn hedge, the bicycle toppling on top of him. 
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Sowerbutt's Bullet

The .455 bullet thudded into the beech tree, which had stood as a sentinel over the fields north of the forests on the Fakenham road for years.
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Sowerbutt's Escape

Minutes later, the panniers and rucksacks were packed and the empty crates were back in the wrecked car. 

“No trace of any cyclists having anything to do with this. That track along the field is hard with the frost. No footprints to find, not that the bobbies will look that far. They’ll pass it over to Scotland Yard and the detectives will arrive too late to find anything.”

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Sowerbutt's Roadblock

Smiling, Paul Longhurst ran over to the wrecked car. Opening the driver’s door, he switched off the engine and pocketed the keys. Pushing the driver’s bloody body back into his seat, he pulled the handbrake hard. “Perfect, the road is blocked without us having to do anything." 
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Sowerbutt's Crash

Out of control, the car, which had been travelling at more than 50mph along the narrow road, side-swiped the hedgerow, then swerved across into the other bank, the right headlamp shattering as it smashed against a large beech tree.
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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Harriet Warfield screamed as four .455 bullets shattered the Singer’s windscreen and hit Bobby in the head and chest. Dying instantly, the blond 20-something slumped forward onto the wheel.
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