by Iain Colvin
More than anything, Craig kept himself busy at the library to keep his frustration at bay. It had been two weeks, and no word from Brian Irving. He had phoned Claire twice, she had popped into the bank once and Helen had brought her round to his parents’ house a couple of times. ‘Be patient’ was what she told him. These things take time. He knew she was right but it didn’t make him feel any calmer. In the end, she agreed to phone Brian during that week to ask how things were progressing. That made Craig feel a bit better, but only just.
He had only been home for a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past nine. He went downstairs, opened the door and was slightly thrown off guard to see a uniformed policeman and another man in a blue raincoat. The man in the blue raincoat spoke.
‘Mr Dunlop?’
‘Yes.’
The man in the blue raincoat held an identity card up for Craig to read. ‘Detective Constable Jarvis. This is Constable McMillan. May we come in?’
Craig showed the policemen through to the living room and asked them to sit down. The phone rang. Craig looked at it. ‘Do you need to answer that?’ asked DC Jarvis.
Craig picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, 2462?’
‘Hello Craig? It’s me.’ His mum’s voice was shaking.
‘Mum, I’m sorry, I’ll have to call you back,’ and he put the receiver down.
‘We’ve just been speaking to your parents, and your sister.’
‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I believe you know Miss Claire Marshall?’
‘Yes, she’s a friend.’
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that she was found dead this evening.’
Craig looked from DC Jarvis to PC McMillan and back to the detective. He could feel the colour run from his face.
‘What?’ Craig looked blankly at the policeman, not comprehending. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure? She can’t be. Are you sure it’s Claire?’
‘Yes, it’s Miss Marshall. She was found in her flat by a work colleague about four hours ago. She didn’t show up at work today.’
‘But how? How did it happen?’
‘She was murdered, Mr Dunlop.’
‘What?’ Craig heard the words but they refused to register. It’s not possible, it can’t be possible.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.’
Craig felt faint for an instant.
‘Mr Dunlop, are you feeling alright? Can we get you a drink of water?’
‘I just spoke to her on Monday.’
‘Mr Dunlop, can we get you a glass of water?’ He nodded at PC McMillan, who left the room and came back a minute later with a glass of water. He handed it to Craig, who drank half of it and then cradled the glass in both hands.
‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?’
Craig heard the detective’s words in the distance. He nodded without really hearing the question.
DC Jarvis took out a small notebook and pen. ‘What was your relationship with Miss Marshall?’
‘My relationship? She’s a friend. Well, she’s a friend of my sister’s. Helen.’
‘Have you ever been to her flat?’
‘Yes, a few times.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘A couple of weeks ago.’
‘Why was that?’
‘She cooked me dinner. She was helping me with some research I’m doing.’
‘You work in the Royal Bank here in Stranraer?’
‘Yes, that’s right. How did–’
‘Your mother told us earlier. Were you and Miss Marshall seeing each other as a couple?’
‘You mean, is she my girlfriend? No. We’re friends. I’ve known her for years.’
‘Do you know if she was seeing anyone?’
Craig frowned. ‘No, I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Helen would know better than me.’
‘Do you have any money worries, Mr Dunlop?’
Craig was confused. ‘Money worries? No. Like most people I live from pay day to pay day but I’m not in debt if that’s what you mean. What’s that got to do with Claire?’
DC Jarvis ignored the question and made some notes.
‘Just one more question if I may. Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill Miss Marshall?’
‘Kill her? No, of course not. She’s a schoolteacher. Why would anyone want to kill her? How did it happen?’
DC Jarvis closed his notebook and put it away. He looked Craig in the eye and studied him.
‘We believe that she disturbed a burglar at some point between nine o’clock last night and six o’clock this morning. She was stabbed, Mr Dunlop. She died at the scene.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said DC Jarvis. ‘Thank you for your help.’ He rose from his chair, and PC McMillan opened the door to the hall.
‘One final thing, before we go. Can you tell us what your movements were last evening?’
‘Yes.’ Craig furrowed his brow. He was finding it hard to keep from thinking about Claire, dead. ‘I finished work about five forty-five and went straight to the library. I stayed there till closing time, which would be about eight o’clock, then I came back here, made some dinner and watched some TV. I went to bed about eleven.’
‘Did you speak to anyone after you came home?’
‘Yes, my father rang about nine-thirty.’
‘Thanks again Mr Dunlop. If anything comes to mind you think might be useful, you will let us know?’
‘I will.’
The policemen left and Craig shut the door. He went back into the living room and slumped in his chair. Claire, dead? Murdered? How was it possible? Things like that didn’t happen in Stranraer. He picked up the phone and dialled his parents’ number. The phone gave three rings and his father answered. Craig spoke to him briefly then his mother came on. She couldn’t believe how awful it was. Helen was in pieces. Was he okay? He assured her that he was, and she hung up. Then Craig just sat in the chair, looking at the blank television in the corner.
***
Ninety miles away in Glasgow, a man lay on the bed in his hotel room, waiting. He looked at his watch, sat up, reached for the telephone and dialled a number. After a few seconds it rang at the other end and was answered.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s Blake.’
‘Did you tie off the loose end?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you find the letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear something in your voice. What is it?’
‘It was a copy.’
Pause.
‘You don’t have the original?’
‘No.’
‘Then we still have a loose end.’
Pause.
‘Yes,’ admitted Blake.
‘Was it necessary to kill the woman before she could tell you where the original was?’
Blake tightened his jaw.
‘I had no choice.’
‘Go back to Stranraer. Find out if anyone else is involved and who she might have talked to. Keep me updated. I don’t need to remind you of the consequences. And Blake, try not to stumble into the police investigation.’
The line went dead. Blake swore. He detested those phone calls. He went to the bathroom and washed his face and combed his fingers through his hair. He hated this part of the job. He hated the long periods of inactivity followed by the spells of blind panic on the part of his bosses that invariably led to him having to do the dirty work.
Blake’s thoughts turned to his wife and his son and daughter. How much of a relief would it be to turn his back on all this and resign. He half smiled ruefully. Resignation in his line of work wasn’t an option. They didn’t offer retirement packages for faithful service. Not in the normal sense.
He looked at the mirror. He felt old. He looked old. Older than a forty-tw
o-year-old should look. He sighed. Time to get back to work, he told the reflection.
Chapter 7
Friday 11th March, 1983
It felt like the whole town had been in a state of shock since the murder of one of Stranraer Academy’s most popular teachers. Craig and Helen sent a card to Claire’s parents, as did Peter and Marion. It felt painfully inadequate but they could think of nothing else to do. News coverage of the murder had been in all the papers which must have been even more heart-breaking for Claire’s family, thought Craig. The funeral notice in the Free Press that week requested that no flowers be sent. Instead, friends of Claire were invited to donate to the charity of their choice. Which was exactly what Claire would have wanted, he reflected. He couldn’t imagine the sense of loss and anguish her parents were going through. The funeral couldn’t be arranged until the Procurator Fiscal’s inquiry into her death was completed, and the delay only seemed to increase the sense of numbness friends, family, colleagues and pupils felt. Helen had been in a state of shock since the news broke. She hadn’t slept or eaten much. Craig wished he could help her – somehow, anyhow – but he didn’t know what to do. In the end he just sat with her and they talked about Claire and he listened to the stories Helen recalled from when they were growing up.
The day of the funeral arrived. For the second time that year Craig put on his dark suit and his black tie. His father drove them the short distance to the High Kirk. They made their way into the church and sat near the back. Beside the altar, Claire’s coffin was supported on a low trestle. It was festooned with Spring flowers, all yellows and whites and purples. The rows of pews filled up until the church couldn’t hold any more people, and a man in a black suit closed the door. The vestry door opened, and Claire’s family emerged with the minister. They took their seat on the front pews, and the minister stood in front of the coffin. Craig could see Claire’s mother sob uncontrollably as her husband put his arm round her shoulder. The service was brief. The minister offered prayers of comfort to the family and he read out some words prepared by Claire’s parents. Craig realised that the prospect of saying those words in person must have been too painful for Claire’s father, and for the first time since it happened, Craig wept.
After the service, the Dunlops joined the cortege and drove the mile to the town’s cemetery. It was located on a hill overlooking the town and the long horseshoe of Loch Ryan beyond. On a clear day you could see north up to the Ailsa Craig and on a really clear day you could see as far as Arran. Craig couldn’t think of a more beautiful spot. They kept a respectful distance from the graveside as Claire’s family stood round the coffin. The minister said a few words and the coffin was then lowered into the ground. The family were led away, back to the funeral cars which moved off slowly, out of the cemetery and back towards the town.
As Craig turned to walk back to their car, he nodded to a few people he knew. Some were friends of Helen, and she stopped to give them brief hugs. As he waited for Helen to catch up, he noticed a man standing perhaps twenty yards away, scanning the sizeable group of friends and acquaintances who had made their way to the cemetery to pay their respects. There was something incongruous about his presence there, like he didn’t belong. He wore a beige raincoat over a grey suit, though Craig didn’t think that was the reason for the incongruity. As people began to drift away, the man turned and walked in a semi-circle along the path towards the main gate. As he passed level with the thinning crowd, he turned and looked again at Craig’s group before walking on. That’s it, thought Craig. Who wears suede Chelsea boots at a funeral?
***
Blake walked to his car, lit a cigarette and waited until the last of the mourners had left the cemetery before driving back to his hotel. He took off his coat and jacket and sat on top of the bed. He thought about phoning the office again but decided against it. There was nothing new to report, there would be no fresh instructions to receive and he wasn’t in the mood for more sarcastic criticism. He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke as it spiralled upwards. It was almost certain that he was wasting his time. He was only ever brought in when an alarm rang and this particular alarm had lain dormant for years until it rang two weeks ago. He’d been charged with tracking the source and quietly silencing it. He’d tracked the letter to the teacher but the teacher only had a copy. She’d made the mistake of trying to run and now unfortunately she was dead. In his head he tried to argue the case that the original letter no longer existed. The teacher’s copy was all there was. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The boffins had done tests and were able to tell that the ink on the Photostat copy was fresh, probably no more than ten to twenty days old. Not ten to twenty months old. Certainly not ten to twenty years old. And they could tell that it was a copy of an original document, not a copy of a copy. The conclusion was inescapable. The original was copied recently, which prompted the urgent questions: where is it, why has it surfaced now, how many copies have been made, and how widely have they been circulated? And most importantly: where was Irving?
Blake had a sudden thought. He put out his cigarette. He stood up and walked over to the wardrobe, opened it, reached up and took down an attaché case from the top shelf. He placed it on the bed and opened it. He sifted through various maps, tickets and folders inside until he found the letter. He sat down and read it. He turned it over and once again studied the writing on the back:
BI
S Uni
LHB
141 SJRd
G4 OLT
041 220 3311
CD2462
He’d already compared it with notes he’d found in the teacher’s house. It was definitely her handwriting. The first part was obvious enough, Irving’s office address and phone number. The second part was written like a doodle, it had been traced in pen over and over, circled and underlined. What was CD2462? A serial number? It wasn’t in the correct format for a driving licence or a passport or a post code. A phone number? Not enough digits. A receipt number? Receipt for what? A combination to a safe? A code for an ATM card? A date? The 2nd of April 1962? There must have been something he’d missed.
Five hours later he was still lying on his bed. He realised he must have fallen asleep. He reached for a cigarette but the packet was empty. He decided to go for a walk. In the time it took him to walk round the block he’d decided that he wasn’t going to find out anything more by hanging around in Stranraer that he didn’t already know. Plus, the police were conducting a murder enquiry, which in itself wasn’t a great problem for him but he didn’t want suspicious eyes looking in his direction if he could avoid it. It was time to make himself scarce. He’d head back to Glasgow and pick up the trail again there. He’d do one more check first. He looked at his watch. A quarter to ten. He’d give it a couple of hours then go back to the teacher’s house.
***
The back door opened easily enough. Blake stepped inside and shut the door. He clicked on his pencil torch and looked round the kitchen. He could see where the police had been, dusting for prints and checking for clues to the identity of the killer. The window that Blake had broken was boarded up. He couldn’t be sure if the police would be able to work out that it had been broken after the teacher died, not before, but it didn’t matter. The important thing was that for now they seemed to believe that was how the burglar got in. Blake checked the drawers and cupboards again. He went through the other rooms and checked every paper, book and magazine he found. Every shelf, cabinet and box, anything that might conceal a letter. He’d already checked them once but he had to be thorough. He came out into the hall. There was a telephone on a small stand and a Yellow Pages below it. He thumbed through the Yellow Pages but there was nothing hidden inside. He shone his torch around the walls and the floor. The beam fell on a handful of envelopes and a free newspaper on the carpet by the front door. Blake picked up the post and took it through to the kitchen where he opened it. Two were utility bills, one was a newsletter from the teachers’ union and the last envel
ope contained a bank statement. A thought struck him. He opened the kitchen drawers again. In the second one down he found the chequebook he’d seen earlier. He took it out and opened the blue plastic cover, then thumbed through the cheque stubs. Typical teacher, thought Blake. Each one carefully notated with the date, payee and amount. But there were no unusual payees, no indications that she’d travelled anywhere recently. All the cheques were either written to supermarkets or to the electricity board or BT. As he went to close the chequebook he noticed that the inside of the plastic cover had a built-in sleeve that was conveniently provided for pay-in receipts and the like. It bore the outline of something that had been placed in there some time ago, which had left an indentation. Blake pushed his fingers inside and produced a metal key.
He turned it over in his hand as he examined it. Well well, the teacher had a safe deposit box, he thought. He opened the chequebook again and noted the address of her branch. It was on Bridge Street, right here in Stranraer.
Chapter 8
Monday 14th March, 1983.
It was an effort for Craig to get up with the alarm when it went off so he hit the snooze button and dozed for another ten minutes before hitting the shower. He normally liked to get to work before half past eight but this morning it was nearly nine o’clock when he put the key in the main door and let himself in. The office was already in full swing with the tellers counting the contents of night safe wallets, the machine room girls processing the inward clearing items and the ledger team opening the mail.
‘Morning Craig.’
‘Morning guys. Good weekend?’
‘Same old, same old.’ John McNiven looked as if he was going to reciprocate the question but thought better of it and instead continued opening envelopes and sorting correspondence into piles.