Sowerbutt's Secret

Churchill said. “The die is cast, dear boy. Your Argies in Edinburgh know about our visitor.” “Yes, sir,” Bracken smiled. “We’ve recorded two telephone conversations with the Embassy and the Foreign Office has been notified a diplomatic bag is going out on the next Lisbon clipper. We’ll check it.”

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Sowerbutt's Photograph

"Yes, Prime Minister, I so love that look,” the photographer said, glancing through his camera. “A little more powder, a little more light and we are ready.” Churchill growled: “You see what I have to put up with, dear Brendan, for your publicity photographs. Mr Beaton powdering my nose.” “A fellow Harrovian, sir, as well as  an inspired photographer,” Bracken smiled. 

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Sowerbutt's Lady

Sowerbutt gulped his whiskey. He could deal with the worst of the East End thugs or a fight-to-the-finish with the Reds, but he was never sure about Polly’s reactions. He felt familiar shivers up his spine.

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Sowerbutt's Diamonds

The King’s Messenger had handed the letter from the Ankara Embassy to the Brigadier while still on board the Lodestar. He made no mention of the bags of uncut industrial diamonds, worth about £5,000, strapped to his legs.

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Sowerbutt's Uncle

As the motorcade pulled out of the RAF station’s gates, a RAF Regiment guard standing rigidly to attention whispered to his mate: “Cor blimey, I’m going to tell my grandchildren I was feet away from Uncle Joe.”

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Sowerbutt's Landing

The dot in the sky grew steadily bigger, the large twin-engine aeroplane making a slow glide down towards the River Eden and a perfect landing at RAF Leuchars on the Fife coast.
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Sowerbutt's Barber

“Know a bloke called Pietro Chipolina?” “Of course, I do, Pop,” Bernie nodded. “My brother-in-law,  a caporalmaggiore with the Italian lot in Libya.” “Dark hair, brown eyes, scar on the back of his left hand?” The barber looked gobsmacked. “You’ve seen him, Pop. Where is he?” “Done better than that, lad. I bought him.”

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