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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