Sowerbutt's Body

The second the bullet hit, Nero let in the clutch and the van rolled forward. One-Line jumped out the back, picked up the body and slid it inside in one smooth movement. Within seconds the van was speeding away, heading for The River. The Ghost had already vanished into the remaining shreds of morning mist. 
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Sowerbutt's Shot

The cottage door opened and Sal stepped out, accompanied by the blond young man. She kissed him quickly on the cheek and walked across to the farmhouse without looking back. Algernon stood admiring her swaying hips.It was the last thing he did. A single 8x57 bullet thudded into the centre of his forehead.

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Sowerbutt's Oak

The Ghost blended with the great oak tree that grew on the edge of the Essex field. As a sapling, the tree had witnessed soldiers wearing redcoats marching with their muskets and building defences against a Napoleonic invasion. More recently, old men wearing Home Guard armbands had admired the tree as they took part in training exercises and manned roadblocks. They, too, were armed with muskets – the same muskets.

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Sowerbutt's Bench

The Brigadier patted the park bench. “At least, we saved this, best view in the park. The vandals at Westminster Council were going to take it away for scrap - war effort. Rang the Town Clerk’s office from No 10 and shared with them that this seat was a favourite of the King’s late father as a young man and that the Palace would view its removal with displeasure. You could almost hear the poor man stand up and salute. Next day, the frame was repainted and the slats sanded and re-stained.”

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Sowerbutt's View

“Look at this desecration,” the Brigadier said, pointing to a rise on one side of St James’s Lake, now scarred by two parallel trenches lined with mounds of earth. “The most beautiful spread of snowdrops and croci would herald the first signs of spring to be followed by blazes of daffs and jonquils as the weather improved."

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Sowerbutt's Bedrock

Gulping his whiskey, the King said: “Frankly, we have given up on our foolish brothers. Ignore them as long as they keep quiet. But the Throne, Winston, the Throne. It is the bedrock on which our Empire is built. It must be protected at all costs. What would Papa have said?”

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Sowerbutt's Anger

Few people had seen Sowerbutt lose his temper; over the years he had learnt to keep tight control on his emotions. Spaghetti and WO jumped as the half empty bottle of Old Bushmills was smashed on the desk. Shaking the neck of the bottle, Sowerbutt shouted: “Got Tipper? By all that’s sacred, this is war. I’ll gut that teacher myself and string his mates up twitching.”

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Sowerbutt's Message

WO smiled wryly: “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, old son. The Reds - the Stepney lot - have got young Tipper. That smart-mouthed teacher and his mates. They set him up and snatched him."
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Sowerbutt's Friend

Sowerbutt looked up with a start from his desk in the private office of the East India Dock Road brothel. “WO, what a pleasant surprise. Good to see you, my friend, take the weight off and have a glass of something."
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Sowerbutt's Adversary

Leopold Gerhard sat in the Captain’s cabin of U-boat 99 which had left Lorient in southern Brittany a couple of days earlier. He wore the uniform of a Leutnant zur See, but the crew had noticed that Kapitänleutnant Otto “Silent” Kretschmer listened to him carefully. 

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Sowerbutt's Submarine

Billy Boyle was tired of mouldy bread and dehydrated cabbage, the stink of oil and urine and, above all, the overcrowding on HMS Otus, an Odin-class submarine. But as he told his friend, the torpedo petty officer: “Light at the end of the tunnel, Dusty. We’ll be tied up in Pompey in a couple of days."
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Sowerbutt's Stick

The long stick thwacked down across the white buttocks, leaving a red stripe across the flesh. The sweating body shook in shock and the burly man’s head snapped around. “Madame Komarovski, to be sure,” the Irish voice gasped. Preoccupied, the Irishman had not realised a third person had entered the room.

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Sowerbutt's Bomb

Tipper’s world dissolved into an artist’s palette of yellow, orange and black. Wide-eyed, the teacher flew backwards onto a wall, the knife somersaulting away in the air. The bushy-haired docker stood rigid with blood running down his face and his shirt in shreds. Shockwaves from the bomb blast blurred Tipper’s vision.

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Sowerbutt's Agony

The hawk-faced teacher, who was wearing a bright blue blazer with yellow stripes, spat in Tipper’s face. “Bourgeois sell-out. Fascist scum. I’ll teach you to cross our path, the proletariat’s path of destiny. I’m going to put my mark on you, swastika boy.”

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Sowerbutt's Enemies

Two stocky ex-dockers punched, slapped and kicked the half-naked man in front of them, his badly bruised body hanging down in a crucifixion pose. Blood dripped from his nose and his swollen mouth, his lips split.
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Sowerbutt's Mate

The young man with a blond crew-cut hung between two concrete columns in the ruins of a Whitechapel factory, his swollen wrists lashed high with ropes.
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Sowerbutt's Visit

“Majesty, your presence here does great honour to your First Minister and our household. I fear I was presumptuous in suggesting your visit, particularly through an anonymous side entrance to No 10. I have put the dignity of the Crown at risk.” “Nonsense, Winston,” the King, who was pacing the Cabinet room, said. “We were pleased at your suggestion. Nobody knows we are here. Besides, you have the teleprinter, the direct telephones, our army signals with their transmitter. We shall be kept informed minute by minute as this terrible situation unfolds.”

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Sowerbutt's Airfield

“John has persuaded the Spaniard to talk. Had him over a barrel, so to speak. We are off to some godforsaken village called Langham near the coast. Unmanned satellite airfield there and that’s where the Jerries will be.” Hatter downed his whiskey. “You mean, sir, the Luftwaffe are flying in a plane to collect the spies. Landing on English soil?” “Exactly, Brigadier. Much less risky than a U-boat. Limited RDF around here, virtually no anti-aircraft defences and the nearest night-fighters are based in Lincolnshire."

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Sowerbutt's Inquiry

“The visit by the Italians was a real palaver,” the landlord said. “How do you mean palaver, Harry? They wanted Italian food or they didn’t like the accommodation?” “No, nothing like that sir. They loved our English beef, couldn’t get enough of it. And the drink. The first night they almost drank us dry. Had to send over to The Crown to borrow extra supplies. It was the ladies. They kept trying to smuggle local girls upstairs. I told them, we don’t allow that sort of business here. We are a respectable hotel."

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Sowerbutt's Meeting

Bracken said: “Thank you, Chief Inspector. We’re missing something or at least the cloak and daggers missed something. We know how close to the BUF Musso and his merry men were. Thousands of pounds in Italian subsidies finding their way into Mosley’s coffers. The trade delegation visits Fakenham of all places and has a secret meeting with local members. They could easily have brought a transmitter with them.”

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Sowerbutt's Promotion

“Push Hatter up to acting Brigadier. Lots of brass will try and get involved in this operation and we haven’t time for issues to be referred to us every five minutes. I want Hatter in tactical command.” John nodded: “That will be the most rapid promotion on record, sir. Major to Brigadier, almost overnight.” Bracken snapped: “I could not care less. I’m more than happy to tread on the toes of our geriatric generals. These packages must be found, at whatever cost."

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Sowerbutt's Plans

“The Jerry spies have pedalled from Wilbraham to Thetford, then headed north. Why? Hiding place in some godforsaken area? They’ve arranged to pass the goods to another Jerry ring? I want an arc of troops to the north of this place. Every road, track, farm, hut. We’ll push up from the south and trap them." Brendan Bracken said.

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Sowerbutt's Decoy

Bracken snatched a corona from the box. “Right John, let’s get cracking. A medal for the soldier who spotted the Jerries. Any airfields nearby?” “Yes sir, a secret RAF base at a place called Lakenheath. It is a proper airfield, but we are using it as a decoy to draw the Jerries away from our Mildenhall base.”

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Sowerbutt's Search

Brendan Bracken started at a knock on the door. “Come in, come in. What’s happening, man? No sign of these Jerries and nothing from your brothel-keeper. None of the road-blocks, the house-to-house searches or the patrols has spotted anything. These damn Jerries are elusive."

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Sowerbutt's Shortages

Brendan Bracken paced the apartment at the Victoria Hotel in Newmarket.  Among the papers just delivered by dispatch rider were the latest sinkings in the Atlantic by U-boats. Britain was heading for starvation and industry would run out of raw materials if the rate continued.
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Sowerbutt's Wireless

Elsa said. “No wireless?” Paul shook his head: “Not that I know of. But remember the Italians distributed a few last year, perhaps we’ll be lucky. I agree, it would be good to fine-tune our pick-up."

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Sowerbutt's Cyclists

“It is time the cyclists disappeared,” Paul said. “That’s who they are looking for. We’ll go to ground and make some changes. One of our emergency contacts lives in Thetford, remember the one with the funny name, Pierce Pero. He’s got a large house on the London road. Fingers crossed that he is still there."
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Sowerbutt's Adversaries

“Paul, Paul,” Elsa shouted. “Spotter aircraft.” Two dots flew towards them from the west, growing larger and larger. The Longhursts dived into a small copse, pulling the bicycles behind them. “They couldn’t have seen us with the hedge,” Paul said. “Lysanders, look at their huge wings. We must keep a sharp lookout, there’ll be fighters around, ready to gun us down.”

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Sowerbutt's Logic

Sowerbutt said: “The first job is to work out why they are in Norfolk and where they are going. Lee Gerard is of the view they are heading for Weybourne and a U-boat - they would not know the wireless there is in our hands."
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Sowerbutt's Orders

“Capture him if you can, kill him if necessary, Sorbay. Whatever you do, secure the packages. The Emergency Regulations will take care of any problems."
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Sowerbutt's Pledge

Sowerbutt spoke quietly. “I don’t take kindly to being shot at, Mr Bracken. In fact, no-one has ever shot at me before and survived. I’ve a reputation to maintain. I’d serve you up the Jerry for breakfast if this was the Smoke. Different in the countryside - trees, fields, lots of space. But I’ll bring my lads up and we’ll catch him. He’s a townie, not a country boy. He’ll leave a trail; we’ll pick it up and shoot him.”

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Sowerbutt's Lunch

The Crown, which traces its origins back to the days of Oliver Cromwell, sprawled across one side of the tiny village of Mundford, running off the A1065 to Fakenham. “Pork tourtière and Pol Roger champagne in the back of beyond,” Brendan Bracken grinned. “The Old Man would be in seventh heaven. How do I drag the horse to water, Sorbay?” Sowerbutt, who was enjoying a large helping of crusted cottage pie made with local lamb, said: “Sandringham, Mr Bracken. Transport the Crown chef, the Prime Minister and yourself to the Royal estate. You are right, millionaires would relish this food.”

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Sowerbutt's Packages

Bracken shouted: “Capture the spy or kill him if you have to, Hatter. Ring the area with troops if he has made a run for it but find him. A matter of national security if you locate his bike or any packages. You may not approach them, seal off the area under trusted guard until I arrive. Nobody, repeat, nobody must touch any packages."
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Sowerbutt's Attack

Brigadier Hatter strode up, followed by a couple of Norfolks officers. Saluting smartly, he said: “Yes, sir. You wanted me.” “Jerry is just up the road, Hatter. Been shooting at our lads,” Brendan Bracken said. “Let’s pin this down once and for all.” Hatter nodded to the Norfolks major. “Men in the MLs at the double, rifles, Brens, grenades. Anyone with their pants down, leave behind,” the major roared in a parade-ground voice. “The Brigadier will lead. His car at the double.”

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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Sowerbutt got off his bicycle. “Thanks for the offer of lunch, Mr Bracken. We deserve a slap-up meal after spending the last hour dodging bullets.” Bracken’s mouth dropped: “You made contact with the Jerry. Dammit, where, man, where?  Did you shoot him?”

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Sowerbutt's Return

Brendan Bracken peered into the distance through his pebble-glasses. “Sorbay, sir, and our turned Jerry at last. Pedalling back, hell for leather,” the slight military man murmured. They were standing outside what had become a cluster of bell tents on the field by the Mundford rossroads. “Sorbay, dear chap. I thought you were hot on the heels of this Jerry spy. Hatter has just been explaining his plan to sweep the countryside and flush out the spy and his accomplice.” The village was a hive of activity with MLs parked alongside the roads, soldiers erecting more tents and Signallers running an aerial up one of the nearby pine trees. Bren-gun emplacements had been dug around the crossroads.

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Sowerbutt's Security

Jo-Jo said: “We need a security squad in the Smoke, like the old Blackshirts’ I-Squad. We keep our manor tight but lots of strangers around when the bombs drop. Rescue squads, fire brigade, ambulance. We’ve got to protect our houses and our people as well as our larders. Look at those auxillaries the other day, 10 of them went down for looting."

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Sowerbutt's Convent

“Problems, Miss Polly?” the well-built-man asked. “Who do you think? Missionary’s kept his promise not to touch the nuns, but he’s won the hearts of a couple of servant girls. All the sordid details came out in an unedifying cat fight. The Mother Superior says she cannot risk the peace and sanctity of her convent. As much as he has worked hard, she has to let him go."

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Sowerbutt's Walk

The nondescript street was edged by rows of small houses thrown up by a successful Victorian developer. Heading for a two-up and two-down, Nero glanced over his shoulder. Panda was leaning against a lamppost a few yards away, his shotgun concealed under his overcoat.
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Sowerbutt's Count

Rosetta cocked her revolver and placed the tip of the barrel against Pero’s forehead. “Thirty seconds, senor. And I have to confess, sometimes my finger twitches.”

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Sowerbutt's Suspicions

“Allay any suspicions,” Chief Inspector Le Clay told the Special Branch sergeant. “We don’t want a lynch party if I’m right. A long shot but this bloke had a lot to do with the Italians before the war. Somebody else mentioned to Nero about him working with the Italians as well. Must be the Butters with the transmitter.”

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Sowerbutt's Exercise

Two junior officers were reassuring curious housewives that they were merely conducting an exercise. “A routine exercise, ladies. We’ll be gone soon,” a lieutenant, barely out of his teens, told two women, gossiping over their front fence. “Exercise, is it you want?” one of them said. “We’ll give you some exercise, my lad.” They laughed as the lieutenant blushed.
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Sowerbutt's Strategy

The quiet street which straggles across the north of Fakenham had never seen so much activity since the local builder had subdivided the fields and begun building in the early 1920s. Two Bedford MLs had pulled up across the street where it joined one of the main roads out of town; a bren-gun carrier blocked the street half-way down.

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Sowerbutt's Offer

The slight military man said: “Let me recap, senor. On the debit side, illicit sex, drugs and a Republican conspiracy. The firing squad, I think. On the credit side, work with me. I will supply you with useful information and pay you. US dollars if you prefer.”
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Sowerbutt's Plot

The slight military man said in a silky voice. “We could continue our chat in your flat in Athenaeum Court? But I am informed you keep a supply of cocaine there which I would be obliged to report. And I hope you have hidden your letters from Senor Albornoz, President of the Spanish Republic in exile. I am sure General Franco would not be pleased.”

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Sowerbutt's Mess

“Right,” snapped Sowerbutt, slamming his hand on the table. “We are running round in circles like headless chooks, finding out details about where the Jerry spies have been but not where they are. It is a mess."

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Sowerbutt's Threat

De Pozo’s eyes blazed. “I am going nowhere. You would not dare to shoot me in a crowded club in the middle of your capital.” Nodding at Sowerbutt, the slight military man’s voice was icy. “I will have this club cleared in two minutes with a bomb scare and then my friend here will do exactly that. In the leg first, perhaps the kneecap. Where next? Are you a brave man, senor? Can you stand pain?”

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Sowerbutt's Shooter

The slight military man put his hand on the Spaniard’s arm. “No rush, Senor del Pozo. This chance meeting is most fortunate. I have a business proposition for you.” Sowerbutt unbuttoned his leather jacket, his shoulder holster and revolver visible. Across the crowded club, Cocker and his cousin, who were polishing glasses, watched closely.

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Sowerbutt's Adversaries

Paul Longhurst shivered as the couple walked along the edge of the woodland towards the white-rendered control tower on the deserted Langham airfield. The scarves and gloves helped to keep out the cold winds that swept across the fields from the North Sea.

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Sowerbutt's Details

Elsa kissed Joe Butters on the cheek. “A man after our own hearts.  Attention to detail is half the battle. Those of our agents who have been caught by the English have made stupid mistakes. Trying to buy train tickets in a suit soaked in sea water, I ask you.”

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Sowerbutt's Secret

Elsa Longhurst lied: “The invasion is top secret, of course, Mrs Butters. But we have been put on full alert from March. Once this operation is all over.”

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Sowerbutt's Wireless

Elsa Longhurst beamed: “It is a relief to be with people who share our views. We cannot, of course, mention a word about our operation, Mrs Butters. Suffice to say, it will help end this terrible fratricidal war. We will not risk your security by staying here but a brief message on your wireless could make the difference between our success and failure.”

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Sowerbutt's Ring

Lee Gerard took one last glance at the coffin as the gravediggers began shovelling the clay soil into the grave. Was the other signet ring with the reverse Royal Cipher on its face in the coffin or was it now in the hands of Sowerbutt's family?

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Sowerbutt's Funeral

Gerard kept a smile fixed across his face and squeezed his wife’s hand. None of the mourners had shown the slightest interest in him. He had taken a risk in coming to the funeral, but he owed it to the Poplar businessman. 
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Sowerbutt's Authority

Sowerbutt handed the Sergeant their passes and letters. “Mr Sowerbutt, you are acting under the authority of the Cabinet in London. My men are at your command, sir.” “Pronounced Sorbay, Sergeant.” “Sorry, sir. Mr Sorbay.” “We are following two cyclists, a man and a woman, who are a serious threat to national security. I believe you have been warned to keep an eye out for them. We know they came up the Thetford road this morning.”

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Sowerbutt's Guard

“Sarge, Sarge,” called the skinny youth, poking his head into the tent. “Private Futter, how many times do I have to tell you. When you approach a senior rank, you march up smartly, salute and wait to be spoken to,” Sergeant Acorn said wearily. These conscripts were not a patch on the men he had served with in the 1^st battalion, the Norfolks, in India. Too many had fallen in the shambles in France earlier in the year; CSM George Gristock had been awarded a posthumous VC. Private Futter hastily saluted. “But Sarge, two blokes are at the road block. Foreigners, but they’ve got passes and want to speak to the officer.”

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Sowerbutt's Cyclists

Sowerbutt snapped alert. “He mentioned cyclists,” he said to Gerard. “We’ve got them.” The two men had fallen into a daze with Jacko, on his third mug of crab apple brandy, mumbling endlessly. They had finished the delicious stew and were sitting round the fire. Every few minutes, Gerard checked the road.

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Sowerbutt's Warning

Taking a Black Cat from the packet, Polly walked up to Angel Daley. “You come recommended by Spaghetti, Mr Daley, but I am not impressed so far. The sparklers were Missionary’s responsibility, but any idiot should have spotted the pickpockets at St Pancras. Both of you were playing the fool."

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Sowerbutt's Lady

Her face inches from Missionary, Polly pushed the barrel under his chin. “You haven’t seen me use one of these, have you, stupid boy? I won’t give you the satisfaction of blowing your head off.” Staring at him, she lowered the revolver and rammed it between his legs. The colour of purple from the welt on Missionary’s cheek spread across his face.

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Sowerbutt's Ambush

Sowerbutt suddenly noticed Gerard was slowing down. He stopped by a large pine tree, pulled his Gewehr 98 off his shoulders and pointed to a clearing 100 yards down the road. Clipping on the telescopic sights, he whispered: “Someone there. Well-camouflaged tent.”

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Sowerbutt's Packages

“Your Government will resign, Sire, if you have lost confidence in us,” Churchill growled.  He had hastily put on a morning suit after receiving an urgent summons from the Palace. “We are straining every sinew, stretching every muscle to restoring the packages to their rightful owner. Mr Bracken has flown to Nelson’s county this morning to resume command of this operation. Hundreds of your finest troops, Sire, and several police forces have been mobilised for the search."
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Sowerbutt's Job

“Do him over, John," Brendan Bracken said. "Photographs, documents, drugs, whatever you can manage.  Take Sorbay and a couple of his men with you. They are good at that sort of venture. I want Senor del Pozo on his knees and talking. Quickly, you understand, no time for niceties.”

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Sowerbutt's Spies

"These spies are professionals," Brendan Bracken said. "They’ve slipped through our fingers too many times. There will be all hell to pay if they get on board a U-boat with the packages. We have had reports that U-38 has put to sea from Lorient. Could be here off the Norfolk coast in a day or so."

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Sowerbutt's Flight

“Good flight back, sir?” the slight military man smiled as Brendan Bracken strode into the conference room at the Bell. “Pig’s arse,” snapped the flame-haired man as he poured himself a glass of Old Bushmills. “Why can’t our engineers design a comfortable aeroplane?"
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Sowerbutt's Transmission

Paul Longhurst raised his glass. “Nineteen seconds to transmit the code. No English surveillance could track that and who would be monitoring the airwaves up here?"
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Sowerbutt's Target

Left hand clamped to his right arm holding the revolver steady, Chief Inspector Le Clay aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger of his Webley, the red face in front of him disappearing in a burst of blood.

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Sowerbutt's Siege

Chief Inspector Le Clay peered around the tree, watching the angry red face and the gun bobbing up and down behind the pile of bricks. Behind him, uniformed police were blocking the road and a mother with two young children was being escorted away to safety.

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Sowerbutt's Horse

"Mr Pero, a moment if you please,” Chief Inspector Le Clay bawled in a voice that would have made a drill sergeant proud. The man looked around wild-eyed, running into an abandoned building site. “Just a few questions, Mr Pero. Nothing more,” Le Clay shouted, dodging a horse and cart as he hurried across the Norwich Road. As a shot rang out, the horse reared, its hooves narrowly missing Le Clay. 

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Sowerbutt's Dancer

“This is a strange one. I was over in The Cock in Shaftesbury Avenue, enjoying a lunchtime beer. They’ve tarted it up and called it The Avenue. Large as life, Sebastian Droste walks in. He was a German dancer and actor, bit of a wild boy.” Sowerbutt sipped his tea: “Perhaps he’s a refugee, a few artistic types legged it over here when the Fuhrer came to power. Don’t suppose all of them were detained.” “No, no Jimmy. He lived life on the edge, associated with some of the Berlin gangs and, it was said, was an early member of the Nazi Party. More importantly, he was supposed to have died 12 years ago."

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Sowerbutt's Anger

It was a frozen tableau. Nero stood in the middle of the lounge, strangling his cap and hopping from one leg to the other. Spaghetti and Jo-Jo sat stony-faced on the leather sofa, they had rarely seen the guv so angry. 
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Sowerbutt's Prisoner

“I don’t know why women do such dreadful things. My poor hubby has been banged up in a Jerry prisoner camp since the fighting in France last summer. But I wouldn’t dream of cheating on him,” Cynthia said with a twinkle in her eye.

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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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Sowerbutt's Birds

After the shots, long seconds of silence followed, then a high-pitched “chic, chic, chic” as the wagtails started chattering again in the nearby marshy field. 
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Sowerbutt's Bicycle

Sowerbutt dived off his bicycle, drawing his revolver as he fell into the hawthorn hedge, the bicycle toppling on top of him. 
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Sowerbutt's Bullet

The .455 bullet thudded into the beech tree, which had stood as a sentinel over the fields north of the forests on the Fakenham road for years.
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Sowerbutt's Escape

Minutes later, the panniers and rucksacks were packed and the empty crates were back in the wrecked car. 

“No trace of any cyclists having anything to do with this. That track along the field is hard with the frost. No footprints to find, not that the bobbies will look that far. They’ll pass it over to Scotland Yard and the detectives will arrive too late to find anything.”

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Sowerbutt's Roadblock

Smiling, Paul Longhurst ran over to the wrecked car. Opening the driver’s door, he switched off the engine and pocketed the keys. Pushing the driver’s bloody body back into his seat, he pulled the handbrake hard. “Perfect, the road is blocked without us having to do anything." 
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Sowerbutt's Crash

Out of control, the car, which had been travelling at more than 50mph along the narrow road, side-swiped the hedgerow, then swerved across into the other bank, the right headlamp shattering as it smashed against a large beech tree.
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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Harriet Warfield screamed as four .455 bullets shattered the Singer’s windscreen and hit Bobby in the head and chest. Dying instantly, the blond 20-something slumped forward onto the wheel.
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Sowerbutt's Sparklers

Pop shook his head: “I bumped into an army mate at lunchtime, he does some cleaning work over at Hatton Garden for Mr Riba, one of the best cutters in the business. The thing is Mr Riba was killed last night in the bombing, blown to smithereens. Lived by himself, no family. Came over from Poland after the first lot, my mate said.” Bernie looked serious. “You’re going to tell me there’s stock in his office, begging to be looked after.” Pop nodded. “Shame to let it go to waste. Big Milners safe there, according to my mate."

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Sowerbutt's Spy

“This Jerry allegedly died a dozen years ago," Sowerbutt said. "Which means he was given a new identity. I gather he was also popular with the Fuhrer’s lot which can only mean one thing. He is a top spy, someone who will stop at nothing to achieve whatever his goal is.”

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Sowerbutt's Thanks

“Miss Nobbe,” Bracken called. The tall woman looked startled. “Yes, sir? Is anything wrong?” “This afternoon the Prime Minister asked me to speak to you.” “Yes sir? Nesta’s voice had gone up a notch. “He told me to thank you, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, for your willing help. This operation is vital to Britain winning the war and you are playing a very important part. Please pass on Mr Churchill’s personal thanks to your excellent cook.” Nesta Nobbe was flustered. She curtsied, said “Oh, thank you, sir” and hurriedly backed out of the room.

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Sowerbutt's Mission

The Prime Minister stubbed his cigar out. “Brendan, we face an unimaginable disaster if what you say is true. Find the goods, use whatever powers you need, mobilise as much manpower as necessary. The future of our ancient island kingdom rests upon your young shoulders. Do not let the goods fall into the hands of Jerry.”

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Sowerbutt's Speech

Churchill growled: “Every road in Cambridgeshire is blocked, every airfield patrolled, every nearby port secured. We have mobilised every member of your Armed Forces in a wide radius. The conspirators will not escape; they will not flee our shores. These evil men will be brought before the justice of your courts, Your Majesty.”

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Sowerbutt's Manhunt

Brendan Bracken sipped his whiskey: “Your Majesty, we are closing in on the perpetrators of this terrible crime.  Suffolks are sweeping the countryside and more troops were being called in as I left Cambridge Aerodrome this morning. The police forces of Cambridgeshire and West Suffolk have been mobilised. One of the country’s leading trackers will be on the scene shortly."

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Sowerbutt's Flight

“What a day, guv," Spaghetti said. "I’m trying to get over being up in the air in that aeroplane. What was holding us up? Every time I looked out the window, there was nothing underneath, just the earth miles away. I don’t know what’s happened to my stomach.”

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Sowerbutt's Mystery

Sowerbutt looked puzzled. “So what have we got?  A bad lad who mixed in the wrong circles in the Reich or was he a plant? Someone the Jerries like and who now turns up in the Smoke in the middle of a war. Something funny going on."

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Sowerbutt's Magazine

The bookseller rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a copy of Der Eigene. On one page was a large photograph of a man about 30, heavily made up. “Bad news, this one, Mr Sorbay. The article talks about drugs, wild parties, nude dancing, wearing women’s clothes, all manner of things."

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Sowerbutt's War

“Jerry's just up the road, Hatter. Been shooting at our lads,” Brendan Bracken said. “Let’s pin this down.” Hatter nodded to the Norfolks major. “Sergeant-major. Men in the MLs at the double, rifles, Brens, grenades. Anyone with their pants down, leave behind,” the major roared in a parade-ground voice. “The Brigadier will lead. Chipperfield, the Brigadier’s car at the double.” The camp broke up into a mass of movement, soldiers grabbing rifles and Brens, NCOs organising boxes of ammunition and grenades, MLs revving.

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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Sowerbutt got off his bicycle. “Thanks for the offer of lunch, Mr Bracken. We deserve a slap-up meal after spending the last hour dodging bullets.” Bracken’s mouth dropped: “You made contact with the Jerry. Dammit, where, man, where?  Did you shoot him?” The slight military man waved a soldier over. “Call Brigadier Hatter, Private. He is in the tent. Mr Bracken wants him urgently. Double, man, double.”

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Sowerbutt's History

Churchill growled. “We are close to a resolution. All details of this operation will be buried in the archives, as you command. As you say, Sire, the pages of history will be wiped clean.”

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Sowerbutt's Plot

The Prime Minister paused, seconds ticked by. “Sire, we have already outlined the extent of this evil conspiracy. The IRA and senior civil servants or politicians will be ruthlessly hunted down. Another member of this conspiracy is a Miss Warfield, whom we believe is a cousin of your sister-in-law. She is dead, gunned down by this Jerry madman.” The King shot to his feet, staring at Churchill. “You know what this means, Winston. T-Treason against the King.”

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Sowerbutt's Gunman

“Sire, I have never doubted the loyalty of the Brecklands," Churchill growled. "Your subjects would turn out in their thousands to welcome a Royal visit. However, a Jerry gunman on the loose is a different matter. He would not hesitate to pull the trigger as you and Her Majesty pass by in your motor car.”

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Sowerbutt's Ghost

The blood drained from Sowerbutt’s face, he had seen a ghost, a ghost from his past. Dropping his copy of the Daily Express, he pushed through the passers-by on the Calle Major, which spears through the medieval heart of Alicante. Checking his Smith & Wesson, he glimpsed the face again a dozen or so yards away and then the man was gone, lost in the sweep of the crowds.
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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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