Sowerbutt's Raid

Grabbing a sandwich, Spaghetti said: “We’ll keep the plan simple. Half-a-dozen of us will go in the first lorry which will back in at speed. Maximum violence, shouting, shock them into submission. One-Line, I’ll have a couple of smoke grenades for you from the soldier boys at Bow, but confined spaces only. Say Shapiro’s office, the general office. Pull the telephone lines before you throw them."

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Sowerbutt's Body

Scraping the soil away, Spano let out: “Oh, dear God. Look at that.” Shining their torches into the hole, Spaghetti and Panda could see the gruesome head of a large middle-aged man; the blow from the spade adding to his injuries. The face was black and blue with part of one ear cut away. 

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Sowerbutt's Blood

Unholstering his revolver, Spaghetti hurried over to the shadowy figure of Panda who was crouching beside a large stain on the floor. Holding up his finger, he whispered: “Blood, lots of it. Still damp in the middle. This morning, last night; I’m no expert.”
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Sowerbutt's Club

Sowerbutt devoured another scone and jam. “Your Blackshirt resistance group? How does Lee describe your lot?” “We are information-hunters, Jaimie. Enthusiastic idealists with ears everywhere. No chance for any sabotage with the soldiers boys around. We call ourselves the Pier Chess Club and we meet weekly above a sympathiser’s shop in Pier Avenue. Our records of matches are, in fact, coded details of troop movements, equipment, manoeuvres and so on."

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Sowerbutt's Designs

June, a slight girl of 18, smoothed her floral dress as she sat down. Peering through her severe-looking horn-rim glasses, she opened her sketchpad on the coffee table. The Marshall & Snelgrove buyer squeaked and clapped his hands. “Look at this. Wide brim with a matching rose, a pill box with a feather bird and this, a topaz turban with a peak. I do declare, ladies, where do these ideas come from? Genius, simply genius. I’ve never seen anything like them. June, dear, you are the designer of your generation.”

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Sowerbutt's Warehouse

“Well, I do declare, Miss Polly, this is a picture-perfect palace. I love your spotted curtains, the pastel walls and the floorboards are polished to a treat,” George, the chief clothes buyer at Marshall & Snelgrove, beamed as he looked around the warehouse. “A temple for turbans, a shrine to sequins, a residence for ribbons, a mecca for millinery."
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Sowerbutt's Trench

Spaghetti swung his pickaxe in the four-foot deep trench in a side-street running east from West Ferry Road. Dressed in an old tweed suit, he looked the part of a council worker. He, Spano, one of his cousins, and Cocker had been there a couple of days, digging, filling in, watching and enjoying tea breaks in the corrugated shed. Across the road in one of the Family’s terraces, One-Line and Panda kept watch behind the lace curtains. One-Line’s Webley revolver was in his holster; Panda’s shotgun rested against the wall, his bike chain coiled in a canvas bag. Spaghetti had chosen the site carefully. From the trench, they could watch the open loading bay of Shapiro’s new warehouse. 

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Sowerbutt's Monarch

“Thank you, Prime Minister. A most succinct report,” King George said to Churchill, who was sitting across the desk in the private study at Buckingham Palace. “We are most pleased by the attacks on the Admiral Hipper at Brest. One less Jerry ship would be welcome. The Brylcreem Boys have done well. With your concurrence, Prime Minister, we shall telephone Air Chief Marshal Portal.”

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Sowerbutt's Bait

The slight military man finished his whiskey. “Mr Bracken says this operation, if successful, will change the course of the war. Mr Gerard has to be seen as a genuine Jerry agent who is arranging a coup. Juicy bait that will attract your adversary. And the gold coins, which you will flash in London, will help."

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Sowerbutt's Acquaintance

“In Clacton last year, a postal worker was jailed for defeatist talk; the magistrate made an example of her. After serving her time, she’s upped roots and is now living in Hammersmith – under surveillance, of course. We’ve set up a notional group there around an old acquaintance of yours, Rosetta, who is posing as the postal worker’s friend," the Brigadier said.

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Sowerbutt's Secret

Smiling at Gerard and Sowerbutt, the Brigadier said: “The Norwich Blackshirt group is centred around a man called Eric Pleasants. In fact, the group, who are all my people, are notionally getting over his absence. A well-known Blackshirt, he went to sea to avoid the call-up and has stayed on in Jersey of all places. Beyond the reach of any Red checking credentials. We thought that going ashore on the Jerry-occupied island underlined his commitment."

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Sowerbutt's List

The Brigadier spread a sheet of paper on the table. “Another contribution from the Scribe, gentlemen. A list of what we’ve described as active Blackshirt groups across East Anglia and London. In other words, the sort of information you would reasonably expect Jerry to know. One of our friends in the Swiss Protecting Power team borrowed a typewriter and paper from the closed-up  Jerry Embassy in Carlton House Terrace."

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Sowerbutt's Wallet

Putting on a pair of cotton gloves, the Brigadier slid an oilskin wallet across the table to Gerard. “This is the letter to show the notional Blackshirt groups. We have an inspired writer and the Scribe is better than the original. The wallet is German, taken from a Kreigsmarine officer now in our custody. It is clean of fingerprints, so only yours will be on it, Mr Gerard. Your adversary is a careful man."
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Sowerbutt's Grave

The latecomers, a hawk-faced man wearing a Lock bowler hat and a black cloak accompanied by a worried-looking man with metal-frame glasses and grey hair, took up position near the Tabby minister. He 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 clay into the grave.
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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. Hackles rising and teeth bared, the dog watched as the latecomers made their way across the old cemetery.
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