Sowerbutt"s Art Gallery

“We could open an art gallery, Jo-Jo,” Angel grinned. “Charge an admission fee, something off for bomb victims.” Jo-Jo said: “That would be an eye-opener. Most of these paintings don’t exist. Disappeared at some stage in their illustrious careers and ended up in the clutches of private collectors. That one, Crucifixion with Mary, St. John, Magdalen, was supposed to have been destroyed a couple of hundred years ago but was in the hands of some blue-blood who Mr Sorbay knows."

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Sowerbutt's Painting

“Careful, lads, slowly does it,” Jo-Jo said as the men lifted the narrow wooden crate off the back of the army lorry onto a trolley. “We’ll do them one at a time.” He looked at the label on the box and checked his manifest. “That will be the Rubens. Worth a few bob.”

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Sowerbutt's Scoop

Brendan Bracken glanced at the newspaper. “Hitler was a Red,” thundered the headline with the rest of the front page devoted to the story and a photograph of the letter from Hitler to Rosa Luxemburg, dated January 2 1919, applying to join the new German Communist Party.
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Sowerbutt's Promotion

Turning to the colonel, the squat man muttered in Russian. The woman bowed and said to General Williams: “Comrade Stalin picks your man as a born soldier, sir. He says he is high calibre and should be a sergeant. He would be an officer in our glorious Red Army.”

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Sowerbutt's Salute

A parade-ground voice boomed: “Present arms.” The butts of the Lee-Enfields smacked onto the driveway gravel as one.
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Sowerbutt's Belt

It was the work of seconds for Vershinin to strangle the 20-year-old; his belt looped around the soldier’s neck, the other hand clamped across his mouth.
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Sowerbutt's Nemesis

Vershinin, dressed in black with mud smeared across his hands and face, peered through the metal gate; his eyes searching the allotments for movement in the dark. Silence. 
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