Sowerbutt's Find

A low whistle stopped Spaghetti in his tracks. Unholstering his revolver, he hurried over to the shadowy figure of Panda who was crouching beside a large stain on the floor. He whispered: “Blood, lots of it. Still damp in the middle. This morning, last night; I’m no expert.”

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Sowerbutt's Watch

Outside in the side street, One-Line leant against a wall, his hand on the Webley inside his donkey jacket. In West Ferry Road, Cocker was keeping watch from another warehouse doorway. The main road, busy with lorries and carts in the daylight hours, was deathly quiet; Cocker was expecting an ARP patrol at some stage. Lucky, who was barely 18 and had papers saying he had a heart condition, was admiring an attractive housewife, who was busy knitting, through a chink in her black-out curtains.

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Sowerbutt's Burglary

The delivery yard behind Piper’s warehouse was pitch-black. Despite occasional glimpses of the moon through the clouds, it was hard to see further than your hand in front of your face. The only other light was from the flashes from the Luftwaffe bombs – tonight was the turn of communities further east to suffer, Dagenham, Barking and Ilford.
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Sowerbutt's Jam

Sowerbutt devoured a scone with jam. “Your Blackshirt resistance group?" “We are information-hunters, Jaimie. Enthusiastic idealists with ears everywhere. We call ourselves the Pier Chess Club and meet weekly above a sympathiser’s shop in Pier Avenue. Our records of matches are coded details of troop movements, equipment, manoeuvres and so on. We are waiting to hand them over to the Flieger Division and the advance units."

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Sowerbutt's Clacton

Rosetta smiled. “Your Mr Churchill, he takes his invasion seriously. All non-essential civilians were evacuated from Clacton last year. Most of the hotels and B&Bs are full of officers. They’ve taken over Butlins holiday camp as a barracks. Taking care of the gardens though. What do your soldier boys call it? Fatigues.”

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Sowerbutt's Pier

“Not the old Clacton I knew," Sowerbutt said. "A ghost town with the shades wearing khaki. Soldier boys everywhere and hardly a civilian. The poor pier cut in half to keep Jerry away. The Kingsman family wouldn’t be happy – we’ve done business with them over the years.”

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Sowerbutt's Waiter

As manager of Clacton’s premier hotel, Barry Nigg did not normally wait on tables in the lounge or anywhere else. However, the brigadier from the Prime Minister’s office had impressed upon him the importance of looking after Mrs Smith as the woman had registered her name.
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Sowerbutt's Hats

Blushing, June pushed the sketchbook towards the Marshall & Snelgrove buyer. George clapped his hands. “Look at this. Wide brim with a matching rose, a pill box with a feather bird and this, a topaz turban with a peak. Genius, simply genius. I’ve never seen anything like them. June, dear, you are the designer of your generation.”

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Sowerbutt's Disguise

Spaghetti swung his pickaxe in the four-foot deep trench in one of the side-streets running east from West Ferry Road. Dressed in an old tweed suit, he looked the part of a council worker. 
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Sowerbutt's Tithes

Rupert Manningtree bit into a custard cream. “Tithe Wars? Damn disgrace, old boy. The tithe-owners, mostly civilians who’d bought them out but also a few Anglicans, trying to squeeze blood from a stone. The nonsense started eventually, the bully-boy bailiffs came in with warrants and began throwing their weight around. Do you know they marched into the Bury markets, waved a piece of paper in the air and started loading up their lorries with pigs and cattle. Nearly started a riot, I almost hit one of the bastards but the constables were there."
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Sowerbutt's Prisoners

“A welcome problem, Sire, is where to place the thousands of Italian prisoners. We are capturing hundreds at a time,” Churchill said. “Some are being brought here to fill the gaps on our farms. Most will be sent to the dominions, India and the colonies." 

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Sowerbutt's Praise

“Thank you, Prime Minister. A most succinct report,” King George said to Churchill. “We are most pleased by the attacks on the Admiral Hipper at Brest. The Brylcreem Boys have done well."
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Sowerbutt's Plot

The Brigadier finished his whiskey. “Mr Bracken says this operation, if successful, will change the course of the war. Mr Gerard has to be seen as a genuine Jerry agent who is arranging a coup. Juicy bait who will attract your adversary."
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Sowerbutt's Acquaintance

“In Clacton last year, a young postal worker was jailed for defeatist talk; the magistrate made an example of her. After serving her time, she’s upped roots and is now living in Hammersmith – under surveillance. We’ve set up a notional group there around an old acquaintance of yours, Rosetta, who is posing as the postal worker’s friend," the Brigadier said.

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Sowerbutt's Plan

The Brigadier puffed his corona. “We’ve put groups in areas where Blackshirt activity was common knowledge. However, we’ve created notional or inaccessible contacts. Let me explain. The Norwich group is centred around a man called Eric Pleasants. In fact, the group, who are all my people, are notionally getting over his absence. A well-known Blackshirt, he went to sea to avoid the call-up and stayed on in Jersey of all places. Beyond the reach of any Red checking credentials."

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Sowerbutt's List

The Brigadier spread a sheet of paper on the table. “Another contribution from the Scribe, gentlemen. A list of what we’ve described as active Blackshirt groups across East Anglia and London. In other words, the sort of information you would expect Jerry to know. One of our friends in the Swiss Protecting Power team borrowed a typewriter and paper from the closed-up  Jerry Embassy in Carlton House Terrace."
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Sowerbutt's Adversary

Putting on cotton gloves, the Brigadier slid an oilskin wallet across the table to Gerard. “This is the letter to show the notional Blackshirt groups. We have an inspired writer and the Scribe is better than the original. The wallet is German, taken from a Kreigsmarine officer now in our custody. It is clean of fingerprints, so only yours will be on it, Mr Gerard. Your adversary is a careful man."
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Sowerbutt's Bike

No-one but Sowerbutt witnessed the spectacle of the red-faced Brigadier twisting and turning the heavy ladies’ bike along the ridged farm track, better suited to cloven stock.
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