Sowerbutt's News

“The good news is that the stoppers, the local WarAg and all the other nosey-parker officials have been told we are off limits – national security. No-one is to come here. Which means, gentlemen, that as long as we are discreet, we can do what we like."
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Sowerbutt's Frown

Sowerbutt frowned: “He’s muttering. Spaghetti, shut him up, will you. We need to concentrate in case anyone is following us.”
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Sowerbutt's Door

Spaghetti heaved and heaved again, the clasp finally coming away; its brass padlock dangling uselessly. Three revolvers were aimed at the door. 
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Sowerbutt's Shooter

Spaghetti jammed the crowbar inside the backdoor clasp and heaved. Sowerbutt stood to one side, his Webley pointing at the door. 
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Sowerbutt's Knife

The slight woman hair stood well; she had once danced with the Imperial Russian Ballet. “Given the choice, I would have used a sharp knife, Mr Sorbay. But we will do as you ask, we’re professionals.” Several of the men in the room took her meaning and slipped their hands between their legs.

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Sowerbutt's Crowbar

Two muscular-looking men ran to the side-door of the two-ton van. One carried a crowbar, the other a Webley pistol.

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Sowerbutt's Hold-Up

The driver swallowed his shout, “It’s a hold-up”, as a giant, wearing a balaclava with eye-holes, wrenched the van door open and pointed a Webley revolver at his head. 
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Sowerbutt's Roadblock

Crashing his gears into reverse, the driver saw in his mirror a milk-cart had been manhandled across the road.

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Sowerbutt's Fireworks

Bursts of red, gold, silver and orange shot over the suburban street, a stone’s throw from Clapham Common.  Sprays of glittering stars, splashes of colour. To the side, bunches of crackers, tied together with rafia, snapped and fizzed as they jumped along the pavement.
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Sowerbutt's Fight

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

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 Danger

“The region is loyal; officially the El Piloto brigands don’t exist, senor. But we must be careful, you are armed. My men are on full alert.”

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Sowerbutt's Whispers

Over bowls of bean stew at Benavente, a picturesque medieval town, the Guardia Civil commandant whispered about the terrorists in the Galician mountains. 
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Sowerbutt's Pain

Sowerbutt kept memories of his first wife and the pain he had inflicted on her killer locked away.
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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."

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Sowerbutt's Kiss

Generalissimo Franco walked heavily across the ornate 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 Prison

Four experienced members of the SAS 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”, repeatedly checked, placed in an acid-free archival storage box and driven under close escort to a tightly-guarded anonymous storage facility, designated under the Official Secrets Act of 1989. 
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Sowerbutt's Grave

The latecomer 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 heavy soil into the grave. 
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Sowerbutt's Direction

Originally headed towards the main throng of mourners, the latecomer changed direction at the last minute when he spotted the blond man and his menacing dog.
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Sowerbutt's Bodyguard

To one side stood a fit-looking man in his forties, a couple of flecks of grey adding distinction to his slicked-down black hair. He had once been Sir Oswald Mosley’s bodyguard.
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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 Dalmatian

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 Ruses

Churchill growled. “Your ruses are paying off, Brendan. After your conference at Luton Hoo, my golden geese at Bletchley tell me that Jerry troops are on the move from France to Romania."
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Sowerbutt's Coup

Bracken peered through his pebble glasses. “A Blackshirt coup, Prime Minister. You in the Tower, the Empire handed over to Jerry on a plate, the Wehrmacht paddling across the Channel unmolested.”

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