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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Sowerbutt's Diamonds

The soldier struggled: “What’s all this about? A robbery? I’m a soldier, I’ve only got a few coppers.”

Spaghetti smiled: “No fibs, son. You’re Mr Riba’s apprentice and you’re just helping out with a bit of storage.” “How do you know that? You’re not stoppers, are you?” “No, son. We’re thieves and we’re taking what’s in your bag.” “Blimey, just my luck. Once I heard Mr Riba had died, I thought I’d make a few quid from the stones, scarper and hide up somewhere for the duration. I’ve had enough of this army lark.”

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Sowerbutt's Snatch

In the gloom of the foyer, Spaghetti and Missionary watched a man in a baggy uniform step out of the lift, carrying an army kitbag. The two men worked as one; Missionary gripped the kitbag strap and Spaghetti grabbed the soldier around the neck and put his Smith & Wesson to his head.

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Sowerbutt's Noose

“I flew down to London this morning, sir, to interrogate an accomplice of the Jerry spy. I have learnt more details about his activities as well as the woman. Faced with the prospect of the hangman’s noose, the accomplice has chosen to work for us."

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Sowerbutt's Hunt

John chose his words carefully. “As we speak, Prime Minister, we are hot on the trail of this Jerry conspiracy. We have identified the ringleader, we have a photograph taken 10 or 15 years ago and an artist’s impression of him today. We have just organised an artist’s impression of his accomplice whom we believe is his wife."

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Sowerbutt's Sleepers

The Ghost smiled: “The sleepers, if that’s what they are, trained in Hamburg, as I did, Mr Sorbay They would have been told about the non-existent security in Ireland and the Cork-Lisbon run. Would they have not been told about Weybourne Hope, the U-boat access and plans for a transmitter?"

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Sowerbutt's Lift

They froze as a small orange light started blinking in the darkness. From upstairs, a clanking noise could be heard and steel ropes screeched around pulleys. Spaghetti waved his revolver at the lift, the two men taking up position on either side of the metal doors.
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Sowerbutt's Blitz

The nightly performance had started. The drone of Dorniers and Heinkels, the occasional large flash as Jerry bombs hit a sugar warehouse or paint store, tongues of flame and billowing clouds of smoke, searchlights streaking the night sky, tracer from the anti-aircraft defences arching upwards.
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Sowerbutt's Safe

The plan was for One-Line to check the back of the Victorian building, Panda to watch the street and Spaghetti, Missionary and Captain Morgan to slip up the stairs to Mr Riba’s second-floor office. Blowing the safe was to be coordinated with the Luftwaffe bombs falling.
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Sowerbutt's Explosion

Johnny Knox peered into the pothole. “Lovely,” he said. “I’ll pack it with gelignite and it’ll send the first lorry sky-high, crashing back into the second. That’ll leave two for you, Tommy lad. If you haven’t done this before, you’ve got about 30 seconds of surprise. Then the soldier boys will start shooting - to kill.”

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Sowerbutt's Count

Sowerbutt counted six men turning out of Mill Road onto the A11. In front was a man in his 20s accompanied by an older man with a bag over his shoulder and carrying two dead rabbits. Two men were carrying Thompson sub-machineguns, the others carried bags. Tommy Cahill stopped: “There, Johnny, a perfect spot. A nice pothole for your gelignite and trees on either side to cover our lads.”

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Sowerbutt's Lunch

Sowerbutt, whose long hair was tied up under a battered trilby, munched on a hunk of fresh bread and some chicken wings. Suddenly, he froze and held his hand up. Voices could be heard, men walking along the main road. The two men pulled revolvers out of their shoulder holsters and rolled along the bank. 
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Sowerbutt's Job

Sowerbutt and Spaghetti had been ditching since before dawn, hacking back roots, digging out grass and shovelling out soil and dead leaves. Their gloves were sodden, their hands red. The farmer was paying 4/- a day, plus food and a barn to sleep in.

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Sowerbutt's Convoy

Major Hatter did not wonder long why the other lorries were half filled. As the convoy headed into Leytonstone, the second member of the convoy began juddering with smoke pouring from its bonnet. Ordering his men to redistribute the cargo, the young lieutenant said: “Always the same, sir. We lose a lorry most weeks. The repair team will patch it up, but there’s no spares, string and chewing gum only go so far.”

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Sowerbutt's Anger

The Ka-Bar knife that Sowerbutt had bought from an American sailor at the brothel whistled past Nero’s ear and thudded into the door in the Cheapside flat. “The Irish lad’s house is empty. You went there by yourself, you idiot,” he shouted.

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Sowerbutt's Manager

Sowerbutt knew better than to interrupt Maxwell Mercy in full flight. The George in Luton was lucky to have a man of his experience; his training as an under-manager at the Dorchester cut short by a scandal with a duke’s daughter.

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Sowerbutt's Colleague

“A word, sir, if I may,” Maxwell Mercy murmured to Sowerbutt. The two men worked well together. Their most recent project was Maxwell taking impressions of the house keys of a Chelsea man who spent a weekend at the George hotel in Luton with his neighbour’s wife. A Gainsborough from the townhouse in Cheyne Walk was on its way across the Atlantic on a Spanish freighter. 

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Sowerbutt's Adversary

Paul kissed his wife on the cheek. “A genuine contact from our supporters at the Spanish Embassy. We haven’t been set up by the English authorities or our cover exposed. We’ll proceed according to the instructions that milady left in her book. With caution, of course.” 

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Sowerbutt's PoW

Pop smiled: “Your sister's old man is in the Desert, isn’t he? Now that the Tommies are advancing, let’s hope he’s captured and sent over here, safe and sound. Lots of Eyetie lads are in the bag, according to the papers.”
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