The King's Prerogative

by Iain Colvin

  The King’s Prerogative

  Iain Colvin

  For my dad, who instilled in me from an early age a love of reading and a fascination for the events of the Second World War.

  And mum, I miss you every day.

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction, however the vast majority of the events from 1941–42 described in this book are real and in the public domain. I have invented a very few additional elements to aid the telling of the story.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Source Reference Material

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Saturday 10th May, 1941

  The Messerschmitt Bf 110 night fighter continued to fly westward, no more than a few hundred feet off the ground. The pilot had flown over Alnwick Castle more than half an hour before and he knew he had to be close to his destination by now. He became more anxious with each minute that passed, straining to see through the darkness, willing the landing lights to come into view.

  Finally he saw them. He climbed to ensure he cleared a group of hills he had memorised from his map, and as the plane levelled out he could see the landing strip in the distance. A faint double line of lights marked the RAF emergency landing ground, and the pilot breathed out again. Almost there. The plan was for him to approach from the west to provide a safer landing for the twin-engined aeroplane. He overflew Dungavel House and headed towards the coast. A few minutes later he crossed the Clyde coast over West Kilbride. The plane circled above the wide estuary and released its two 900-litre drop-in fuel tanks which had provided the extra capacity needed for the flight from Bavaria. The pilot then turned east once more, flying over the southern outskirts of Glasgow on the approach to the landing strip.

  Except the landing strip had gone. He couldn’t see the lights. Were they obscured by trees? He strained every sinew as he willed them to come back into view. He had to think fast. Should he abort the mission? It was too late for that, he had already gone beyond the point of no return. With the drop tanks gone there was no guarantee he’d have enough fuel to reach Aldergrove. There was nothing else to do, he had to continue as planned. The lights had definitely been there before, perhaps there was a fault in the electrics? He had to take the gamble that they were still waiting for him. But he couldn’t risk a landing in pitch dark. Not only would it be impossible to gauge the height from the ground on approach, there was every chance of hitting a tree.

  The pilot came to a grim decision. He pulled the column back and climbed into the night sky. Once the plane levelled out again, he opened the cockpit canopy. He undid his harness and tried to pull himself out of his seat but the air pressure prevented him from doing so. He realised that there was no alternative but to turn the plane upside down and literally fall out of the plane.

  He rolled the plane onto its back and this time gravity overcame the air pressure and he fell out of the cockpit. As he cleared the fuselage, his ankle caught the tail of the Messerschmitt and a searing pain shot through his foot. He pulled his parachute cord and briefly lost consciousness. The cold night air quickly caused him to regain his senses and he heard the explosion as his plane crashed into the countryside below. He could make out the dark outline of the ground rushing to meet him and several seconds later he hit the earth hard and tumbled over and over.

  It was shortly before midnight and Rudolf Hess, deputy leader of Germany’s Nazi party, had arrived in Scotland.

  Chapter 1

  Saturday 15th January, 1983.

  It was one of those bright, brisk Scottish winter mornings that made everything seem possible. The sky was as crisp and clear as ice. The sun had barely managed to heave itself over the horizon, the effort in doing so draining it of any prospect of warming the air this side of April. Craig Dunlop stood looking out to sea as his dog busily sniffed a lamp post, making the most of its Saturday excursion. In the far distance, the ferry rounded the point that guarded the western approach to Loch Ryan and turned towards Craig. He looked at his watch. 9:10. Bang on time.

  He breathed in deeply and the sea air stung his lungs. The cobwebs from the night before slowly began to blow away into the cold breeze. It had been a good party. One of those impromptu nights where he’d invited his friends back for a few beers and before he knew it the stereo was on and there had been dancing and more drinking and more laughing. The only thing missing had been his girlfriend, Fiona. His ex-girlfriend, Fiona.

  It had been Craig who’d broken it off and there had barely been a day since that he hadn’t regretted his stupidity. They’d had a row about something and nothing. No, that wasn’t correct. Craig knew exactly why they rowed. He’d seen her talking to another student. Laughing with him. A good-looking student. Better looking than Craig anyway, or so he thought. He couldn’t control the overwhelming jealousy that clouded his judgement in the minutes afterwards. He accused Fiona of two-timing him, even though he didn’t actually believe that she was. It was just him getting his retaliation in first. He knew she was out of his league, and he’d convinced himself that sooner or later she’d get fed up with him and move on. Even though the fear was without a shred of foundation, Craig was convinced that sooner or later he’d be dumped and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. So he contrived the argument. She told him not to be so immature. That only made Craig more aware of his shortcomings as a boyfriend. He’d stormed off in a strop, and didn’t look back. And that was that. Fiona had phoned and written but by that time Craig had wrapped himself in the security blanket of his blind obstinacy. And then one day the phone didn’t ring any more, and too late he realised with every fibre in his body that he wanted it to. All this happened over a year ago and he hadn’t seen her since. But today, like most days, in the quiet moments he found himself thinking about her.

  Craig continued to stare at the loch. It may have been the hangover, or his regrets about Fiona, or a combination of the two, but today he felt more than ever that the love-hate relationship he had with his home town was becoming a hate-hate relationship. He looked across at the ferry terminal and smiled ruefully at Stranraer’s crest above the entrance. The town’s Latin motto read ‘Tutissima Statio’. It translated as ‘safest of harbours’. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The hills that provided a finger and thumb of green landscape on either side of Loch Ryan provided shelter from the vagaries of the North Channel beyond. Most people only passed through
on their way to and from Northern Ireland. Not Craig though. He wasn’t passing through. What was he doing with his life? He was twenty-five, reasonably good looking, doing reasonably well at work, he lived reasonably comfortably, was reasonably happy. Hmmmmm, maybe that was the problem. Maybe in another twenty years he’d still be going to the same parties and he’d still be reasonably comfortable, reasonably successful, reasonably happy. Safe, living his risk-free life in his little risk-free town. He wondered if Stranraer’s motto could be more accurately translated as ‘most comfortable of dormitories’.

  He took a last breath of sea air. ‘Come on Guinness, let’s go.’ He tugged at the lead and the Doberman obediently fell into step beside Craig. They crossed the road and headed towards the centre of town where the promise of freshly baked rolls prompted Craig to quicken his step just a little.

  Fifteen minutes later Craig reached his parents’ house and called a greeting as he opened the back door, allowing Guinness to run past him and straight into his basket at the other side of the kitchen. Although the dog was officially Craig’s it had always lived at his parents’. When Craig moved out to his own place shortly after starting in the bank, his mum and dad agreed that it made sense not to make Guinness move out too.

  The portable television was showing Saturday Superstore but no one was in the kitchen watching Keith Chegwin. Craig deposited the bag of rolls on the worktop and picked up the newspaper sitting there. As usual, he immediately turned to the back page and started to read about the latest crisis affecting Scottish football. From the corner of his eye he was aware of his dad making his way through the hall and as he came into the kitchen, Craig looked up and said, ‘I don’t know why you still buy this paper, Dad. You should invest in something proper like the Glasgow Herald.’

  Peter Dunlop stood in the doorway, holding the wooden handle. Friends used to comment on how much Craig resembled his father. In his old Navy pictures, the tall, dark-haired young man with warm eyes and a cheeky grin looked like he could have been Craig’s brother. Not at that moment though. His dad looked all of his sixty-two years.

  Craig crossed the room towards him. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  ‘The hospital just phoned. There’s been some bad news. It’s your grandad, he passed away during the night.’

  The news wasn’t unexpected but it still came as a shock to Craig. A flood of childhood memories momentarily flicked through his mind, as if he’d just summoned up then fanned through a hundred old photographs.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘In the front room.’

  Craig went through to the living room where he found his mother sitting with a cup of tea. Marion Dunlop was fifty-five years old, with dark hair, piercing eyes and the energy of a woman half her age. But today the energy had drained from her and to Craig she looked smaller than usual. Craig’s older sister Helen sat next to her on the sofa with her arm round her, her head nestled against her mother’s shoulder.

  ‘Hi Mum. I’m so sorry.’ He knelt down and gave her a hug.

  ‘I know son. It’s for the best though. He’s in a better place’. His mum tried to smile, and Craig could see that she’d been crying.

  And that was all that was said on the subject. His family wasn’t one for overt shows of emotion to be fair. It’s probably what they’d call a good Presbyterian upbringing, thought Craig. His grandad, his maternal grandfather that is, had been ill for some time. He’d been in the hospital near where he lived in Bellshill for months and months. They all knew that it was unlikely that he’d ever get back out, but they lived in hope that he’d recover sufficiently to spend his last days with his family. But it wasn’t to be. They had gone through to visit as often as they could. His mum made the trip every other week which was a bit of a trek all the way from Stranraer considering she didn’t drive. He’d held on like the stubborn old goat he could be, until just a week shy of his eighty-fifth birthday. A good innings in anyone’s book considering he’d smoked like a chimney since he was fourteen. The cigarettes killed him in the end, like so many others who had lived through the Second World War.

  The funeral was held the following Thursday, at Daldowie Crematorium in the east side of Glasgow, followed by a small gathering at the Golden Gates hotel in Mount Vernon. It was good to see the family all together again, thought Craig. Good for his mum, anyway. On occasions like these; weddings, christenings, funerals, he was always reminded that he had a very small family. His parents were both only children, so he only had a handful of distant cousins and a few close friends of the family whom he’d always called aunt or uncle. At least they’d had the presence of mind to book the smaller of the function rooms in the hotel. Craig made sure he got round to talk to everyone and hear their news and he promised to come and visit them soon. His dad came over and touched him on the arm. Craig took the hint and followed him over to a quiet corner where the remnants of the buffet lay on a table against the wall.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m okay Dad, Mum’s being strong as usual.’

  ‘Yes, she is. I’m glad we’re staying in Glasgow tonight, it’ll give her a chance to relax this evening hopefully.’ Peter looked over at his wife, who was listening to two grey-haired aunts chatting in hushed tones. A smile broke across her face and she glanced across at Peter.

  ‘Your mum asked me to get her another cup of tea. I just wanted to check that you’re still okay to go into town with me tomorrow?’

  Craig remembered that his father had made an appointment with the solicitor to sort out his grandad’s affairs. He couldn’t work out if Peter wanted the company or if his father thought that Craig might appreciate escaping the clutches of Marion’s relatives, aunts and all, for an hour or two.

  ‘I’ll come with you Dad, no problem.’

  The next morning was spent visiting old neighbours and drinking cups of tea before going back to the hotel for lunch. By the time Peter and Craig left in a taxi to travel the few minutes into Glasgow city centre they were ready for a change of scenery. Peter was quite talkative in the taxi. Craig wasn’t sure if it was because they’d escaped or because his father felt good to be back in Glasgow. He suspected it was a bit of both. Glaswegians always felt good to be back in their home town. They’d moved to Stranraer when Craig was a young teenager, his father having secured a better job down there. At first Craig really liked it, especially the novelty of living beside the water. He’d learned to sail GP14s and pull twenty-seven-foot whalers, and he even sailed across to Ulster or the Isle of Man, or up to Campbeltown on occasion when a friend had invited him to crew his racing yacht. He had lots of friends. He had a good job too, straight from school into the bank. But then one by one his friends started to leave, to go to university or to start exciting careers in the Central Belt or in England. And one day Craig realised that he was in the minority, left behind as the majority of his friends moved away to kick start their lives elsewhere.

  He was shaken out of this morbid re-examination of his life by the taxi pulling up outside a row of impressive looking Victorian offices in Blythswood Street.

  ‘That’ll be two pound ten gents, when you’re ready.’

  ‘I’ll get this, you can buy me a pint later,’ said Craig. He handed over two notes and a fifty pence piece to the driver. ‘Keep the change, pal.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Father and son got out of the taxi and looked up. It had begun to drizzle. They walked up the few steps to the main door of what looked like a suite of offices. An information board told them that the office they were looking for was on the first floor. They climbed a wide staircase that doubled back on itself and arrived at a door with ‘Beveridge & Clark, solicitors and notaries public’ written on the frosted glass panel that formed the top half. Craig and Peter entered and closed the door behind them. They could see a small row of seats and opposite them, behind a large oak desk, sat an attractive young secretary who was dwarfed by a typewriter twice her size and probably twice her age. She greeted them
with a small smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help you?’

  ‘We have an appointment with Mr. Rodgers at two-thirty. Sorry, we’re a bit early’.

  ‘Not at all, you must be Mr Dunlop. Please take a seat, I’ll tell Mr Rodgers you’re here.’

  She stood up and walked over to a door sandwiched between two identical doors on the far wall of the office. She knocked briefly and entered. Craig looked around as they waited for her to return. The walls were tastefully decorated in a light green regency striped wallpaper. On each wall hung a print of what could be described as a typical Highland Scottish scene, with a brass lamp above it to draw attention to the dreariness of the landscape depicted. Each painting was different, and yet the same, mused Craig. Probably by the same artist. He couldn’t help thinking that the office probably hadn’t changed much in thirty years.

  ‘Mr Rodgers will see you now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The secretary showed them in to a small office. Craig noted the same wallpaper but this time there were no landscape paintings, only several large filing cabinets, three leather chairs, a desk and a large sash and case window facing on to Blythswood Street.

  ‘Mr Dunlop, so nice to see you again.’ A tall, grey-haired man dressed in a double-breasted grey suit came out from behind the desk and shook Peter’s hand. He couldn’t be much younger than eighty-five himself, thought Craig drily, thinking of his grandad.

  ‘And you must be Craig.’ More handshaking. ‘I’m Thomas Rodgers, pleased to meet you. Please, take a seat.’

  They sat down in the leather chairs while Thomas Rodgers took his seat across the other side of the desk.