Sowerbutt's Shooting

The slight military man looked serious. “There’s been an incident, sir. A nasty one.” “Spit it out, man,” Brendan Bracken snapped. “A barn off the Newmarket Road to Bury St Edmunds, sir. Farmer heard some noises early this morning and went to investigate. As he opened the barn doors, he was shot dead. His distraught wife had the presence of mind to get on her bike and pedal a couple of miles to where a village constable lives."

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Sowerbutt's Explosion

Captain Carman gasped as he saw a small black spherical object land in the yard outside the barn doors. “Cover,” he bawled, dropping to the ground with his hands over his head. The courtyard dissolved into a volcano of orange and red, clumps of earth and broken paving stones hurtling skyward, then cascading back to the ground. A clap of thunder rolled around the farmyard. His ears ringing, Captain Carman looked up. Through the swirls of smoke and dust, his men were still in positions some the worse for wear. The Captain signalled to the Bren-gunners and a torrent of .303 bullets poured intothe barn.

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Sowerbutt's Warning

The captain shouted through the megaphone: “This is your last chance. Come out with your hands up or I open fire.” His orders from his Colonel were clear. “Secure this farm, Captain Carman, no more civilian deaths and certainly no military casualties. Won’t go down well with the GOC. Blow up the place if you have to, kill or capture the perpetrators. Just get on with it.” From inside the barn, an Irish voice shouted: “Tiocfaidh ár lá. That’s Our Day Will Come, you ignorant English bastards.”

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Sowerbutt's Order

Sprawled across the barn entrance were two bodies, criss-crossed with bullets - Arthur Dresser, the ruddy-faced farmer, and Detective-Sergeant James Crock of the West Suffolk Constabulary.The young Suffolks captain shouted into the megaphone: “Come out with your hands up, you are surrounded. Come out and drop your weapons now.”

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Sowerbutt's History Lesson

The stone barn had stood on the small farm, a mile off the Newmarket Road, for more than two centuries, storing at various times wheat, sugar beet and beans and, in years gone by, housing cattle and pigs during the bitter winters. It had only witnessed violence once before when an escaped French prisoner-of-war had raped a girl against the wall during the Napoleonic wars. A musket ball fired by a private from the West Suffolk Militia ended the Frenchman’s reign of terror over the local villages.
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Sowerbutt's Goblins

“Eerie place, isn’t it? You can see why in the olden days they believed in goblins, giants and wicked witches. That dark shadow behind the tree could be a werewolf,” Elsa Longhurst laughed as the pair pedalled though Thetford Forest, pine trees towering above them. Shafts of sunlight stabbed at the narrow road, piercing the gloom. The pair rode carefully, trying to avoid the never-ending potholes and ruts. With many road-workers called up, gravel was used to make good the worst of the damage. It was a losing battle against the log carts and the occasional army lorry.

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Sowerbutt's Offer

Spaghetti lit  the coronas. “Here’s an offer, son. Know anything about farming?” Angel scowled: “I know the vegie game. I worked on the old man’s allotment after school until he ran off. Mum died of a broken heart.”

Spaghetti said: “Friends of ours are buying a couple of farms north of the Smoke. We need blokes with a bit of get up and go to run them. At the same time, Private Daley can disappear. We’ll help out with papers, dyeing your hair and so on. And what about setting up a jewellery workshop on the farm?"

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