Sowerbutt's Guest

Polly said. “We have a guest arriving at the cottage in the next day or two. Angel, get the place aired, beds made up. Professor Harold Whistler from London University.He’s some sort of expert on the Jerries, working for the Gingernut on special projects. 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. Which means, gentlemen, that as long as we are discreet, we can do what we like."

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Sowerbutt's Promise

Sowerbutt turned to the prison van driver and his mate, their hands raised. “Sorry about the trouble, lads. I’ll see you right when this blows over. Mum’s the word.” He turned to One-Line and Panda. “Sit them down by the wheel, rope and gag them. Don’t want the stoppers thinking they were part of it.”

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Sowerbutt's Break-In

Spaghetti jammed the crowbar inside the clasp and heaved. Sowerbutt stood to one side, his Webley pointing at the prison van door. 

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Sowerbutt's Knife

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

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Sowerbutt's Snatch

The pasty-faced driver swallowed his shout, “It’s a hold-up”, as a giant, wearing a balaclava with eye-holes, wrenched the prison van door open and pointed a Webley revolver at his head. On the other side, a slight man, dressed in a long leather coat and a balaclava, aimed a shotgun at his grey-haired companion.

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Sowerbutt's Fireworks

“Blimey, Bonfire Night. What’s going on here?” The grey-haired man stared through the windscreen of the Leyland prison van. Bursts of red, gold, silver and orange shot over the 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. Fountains whooshed gold, silver and green stars towards the overcast sky. 
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Sowerbutt's Funeral

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 cemetery.
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