The King's Prerogative

by Iain Colvin

  ‘Anything exciting in the post today?’ asked Craig.

  ‘The new rates standing orders are still coming in thick and fast,’ replied John, pointing at a small hill of brown pre-printed forms on the desk.

  ‘Wonderful. I don’t mind cracking on with those to be honest. I could do with keeping busy but not having to think too hard today,’ volunteered Craig.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  At nine-thirty on the dot Mr Hamilton, the bank messenger, opened the doors and the first customers began filtering in. Craig was aware of someone approaching the ledgers counter and John greeting them. After a few seconds something about their conversation flicked a switch in Craig’s subconscious ear and he tuned into it. He caught the thread of the discussion even though the glass bandit screen prevented him from hearing what the customer was saying.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, that’s in breach of bank policy.’

  Pause.

  ‘I appreciate that, but you’re not the account holder.’

  Pause.

  ‘I understand. However it still doesn’t change bank policy. We would need to see a court order.

  Pause.

  ‘By all means. May I see a warrant card or some identification?’

  Craig heard the metal partition slide back and forward.

  ‘Would you excuse me for just a minute, Detective Sergeant.’

  Craig shifted in his chair to get a view of the customer. He thought he’d seen him before but couldn’t be sure. John McNiven left the counter and walked through the back office to the row of interview rooms and manager’s offices at the far end of the branch. He knocked on one, waited for a couple of seconds then disappeared inside.

  Blake stood at the counter, waiting. He disliked having to use the warrant card but sometimes it was necessary. When seeking to enlist the cooperation of the local yokels, having Scotland Yard credentials normally ensured the desired effect. What was occupying his thoughts right at this instant however was the other young bank officer seated at the desk behind the counter. He’d placed him immediately. For two reasons: one, his police training meant that he rarely forgot a face; and two, the local people familiar to him more or less amounted to those who attended the funeral on Friday. Just then, a door to his left opened and the young man he’d spoken to emerged and walked up the office.

  ‘If you’d follow me please, the manager will see you.’

  Blake followed him through to one of the rooms off a small passageway.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson, I’m Donald Grant.’ Although the fifty-seven-year-old bank manager was significantly shorter than Blake, he was used to being in control in formal situations, particularly in his own office. He offered his hand and Blake shook it. ‘Please, take a seat. Thank you, John.’

  The young man closed the door behind him as he went out. Donald Grant handed back the warrant card in the name of Detective Sergeant George Wilson.

  ‘Now, I understand you were asking about one of our safe custody boxes?’

  ‘That’s correct Mr… em… Grant. It’s a box we believe belonged to one of your customers, Miss Claire Marshall.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Tragic incident, just dreadful. Shocking to think that something like that could happen at all, never mind happen in a town like this. Forgive me for asking, but what interest does the Metropolitan Police have in Miss Marshall’s death?’

  ‘It was a fortuitous accident,’ said Blake, ‘If you’ll pardon the expression. I’ve been on a fishing holiday and I saw the news about Miss Marshall’s murder. The fishing wasn’t particularly successful so I called my boss and asked if I could make myself useful while I was here. As you might guess, the local CID is under considerable pressure to make an arrest.’

  ‘Yes I can imagine. I’m sure they must be grateful to have someone with your expertise assisting the investigation. Well Detective Sergeant, I have to tell you that strictly speaking it is against bank policy to release the contents of a safe custody box without a warrant from the local Sheriff Court.’

  ‘I fully understand that, Mr Grant, but as you’ll appreciate, we are following dozens of leads and time is against us. I was hoping we could count on your cooperation under the circumstances.’

  Donald Grant thought for a moment. He’d been as shocked as everyone else by the news of Claire’s death and, like most people, what had left the deepest impression on him was the feeling of personal vulnerability and helplessness. He thought for a long moment then seemed to come to a decision. Perhaps he wasn’t completely helpless in the face of this horrible crime after all.

  ‘I can exercise an element of discretion. I can’t let you remove any items under safe custody, but I am willing to let you inspect them if that would serve your needs just as well. Under supervision by us of course.’

  ‘Of course. That would be fine, Mr Grant, thank you. I’m not expecting to find anything pertinent to the crime but it would eliminate one line of enquiry.’

  ‘Good. Would you excuse me for one moment?’ Mr Grant rose from behind his desk and left the room. He returned less than five minutes later accompanied by another man carrying a metal box about the size of a home video recorder.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson, this is Mr Campbell.’

  The two men exchanged greetings and Campbell placed the box on the desk. Blake took the key from his pocket and unlocked the box after some jiggling with the lock. He transferred the contents to the desk, and sifted through the items one by one, putting each one back into the box after he’d examined it. They comprised three insurance policies, some share certificates, a small jewellery case containing a string of pearls, and the title deeds to Claire Marshall’s house in Bayview Crescent. Blake concealed his disappointment. He placed all the items back in the box, then reached inside his jacket and produced the letter. He made sure the correct side was facing upwards before handing it to Donald Grant.

  ‘Do these numbers have any significance to you? Could they be an account number perhaps?’

  ‘CD2462. No, I’m afraid not,’ said Donald Grant. ‘It’s far too small for an account number and our account numbers aren’t alphanumeric.’ He turned the paper over but before he could read the letter, Blake took it back and showed the numbers to Campbell.

  ‘Do you have any idea what these numbers might mean?’

  Campbell studied the figures and then stared at the ceiling as though searching for inspiration. A thought came to him and he stretched over the desk and picked up the telephone receiver.

  ‘May I?’

  Donald Grant nodded.

  Campbell dialled a number then after a few seconds looked smugly pleased with himself. ‘It’s a phone number,’ he announced. ‘A local phone number. It’s ringing.’ He pointed to the heavy pen strokes on the paper. ‘The figures are doodled over, see?’ It’s the kind of thing some people do when they’re on hold.’

  Blake blinked. ‘A phone number?’

  ‘Yes, of course, it’s so obvious now I see it,’ said Donald Grant, ‘The Stranraer telephone exchange is quite small, all the local numbers only have four digits. We’re not in Edinburgh or London I’m afraid.’ He looked amused at the fact that his Assistant Accountant had outsmarted the big city detective.

  Blake inwardly cursed himself. How could he have been so negligent?

  Campbell’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he put the phone down. ‘It went to an Ansafone. The strangest coincidence though… it’s Craig’s number.’

  ‘Who’s Craig?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Craig Dunlop. He’s one of our bank officers,’ said Campbell.

  CD. Craig Dunlop.

  ‘Is he in the office today? May I speak to him?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Donald Grant. ‘Mr Campbell, would you ask Craig to join us?’

  Craig must have looked at the door to the manager’s office about twenty times in the last five minutes. John had rushed back to share the gossip that a policeman from London had asked to see Claire’s safe custody box. Craig was sweatin
g but he wasn’t sure why. What did the police want? He saw the Assistant Accountant come out and walk through the office.

  ‘Craig?’

  Craig swallowed. ‘Yes, Mr. Campbell?’

  ‘Would you go and see Mr. Grant?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’ll explain it all.’

  ‘Is it to do with Claire Marshall?’

  ‘He’ll explain it all.’

  Craig knocked and entered, and was about to close the door behind him when Campbell followed him in. Donald Grant was sitting at his desk and the policeman was leaning against the window sill looking at Craig intently. Campbell shut the door and stood in the corner with his arms folded.

  ‘Craig, this is Detective Sergeant Wilson. He has some questions he’d like to ask you.’

  Craig noticed that as he spoke Mr. Grant was slightly pinker than usual. He evidently must have felt awkward about the conversation that was about to take place. Craig looked at the detective. For some reason he thought he recognised the policeman from somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where. Then he noticed his brown suede Chelsea boots and things fell into place. Craig knew he was the stranger he’d seen at Claire’s funeral. He suddenly felt the room become cold.

  ‘Have a seat Mr Dunlop,’ said Blake.

  Craig sat. ‘What’s this about?’ His mind began to race. Had the police been following him? Was he under suspicion? He looked at Mr Grant and Mr Campbell as if to seek their support. Familiar faces who could steady his nerves. They weren’t smiling. Their expressions did nothing to ease the mounting discomfort Craig could feel rising in him.

  Blake’s voice brought Craig’s attention back on him. ‘What can you tell me about this letter?’ he asked. He handed over the letter and studied Craig’s reaction as he read its contents. Blake noted the look of recognition on the young man’s face.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ Craig asked defensively.

  ‘Because your telephone number is on the back, Mr Dunlop’, said Blake in a tone that Craig didn’t much care for.

  Craig resented the implication that he had something to answer for. It wasn’t his fault that Claire was dead. He felt his cheeks go red with indignation. A brief burst of adrenaline rushed to his head, only for it to abruptly about-turn and settle like concrete in his gut. It wasn’t indignation he felt, but an attack of conscience. At that moment he realized that for the past two weeks he’d tried to convince himself that the burglary had nothing to do with the letter he was holding in his hand. But now the police had made the connection and a stomach-churning sense of guilt suddenly crushed in on him.

  He took a long breath.

  ‘Claire and I were looking into the story behind the letter.’

  ‘You both were?’ asked Blake.

  Craig thought it was a curiously worded question. What did this policeman already know?

  ‘Yes.’

  Craig studied Blake for a moment, then looked back at the letter. ‘Do you think this is what the burglar was looking for? I mean…’

  Blake stopped him short. ‘Just a second, Mr Dunlop.’ He had to consider his next move carefully and he needed an exit strategy. What he didn’t need was Dunlop spilling his guts in front of witnesses. This had to be settled somewhere quiet. And if the bank teller didn’t cooperate initially, Blake knew he’d get what he needed from him eventually. It would be a day or two before Dunlop would be posted missing. That would give him more than enough time, Blake reasoned.

  ‘I’d like you to come with me so that we can conduct a formal interview at the station.’

  The concrete in the pit of Craig’s stomach turned over. He looked at Mr Grant and Mr Campbell. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Donald Grant had been fidgeting throughout the conversation and clearly felt he should contribute something at this point. ‘Craig, I’m sure there’s no suggestion that you’ve done anything wrong. DS Wilson is only trying to establish the facts surrounding Miss Marshall’s em…’ he hesitated, not able to bring himself to say the M word.’…death. If you know anything at all you must tell the police.’

  Blake unfolded his arms. ‘Your assistance could be a great help to us, Mr Dunlop. Are you willing to make a statement?’

  Craig’s shoulders sagged. He realised it would be pointless not to comply.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Blake took the letter from Craig, folded it and put it back in his jacket.

  Craig could feel the eyes of everyone in the office staring at him as he accompanied Blake out of the front door of the bank. Blake took out a car key from his pocket and indicated that they should walk round the building to the car park at the rear. He unlocked a car that was parked in one of the twelve spaces reserved for customers. It was a black Fiat 131 Sport, almost new. As Blake got in the driver’s side and stretched across to release the passenger lock, Craig felt a strange compulsion to escape.

  He could make a run for it.

  Craig realised it was just the flight or fight impulse kicking in. He closed his eyes and fought hard against it. It would be okay, he told himself. He’d be glad of the opportunity to tell his story to the police.

  He opened the car door and got in. Blake started the engine, reversed neatly out of the parking space and set off.

  Chapter 9

  Craig looked out of his passenger window and couldn’t stop the thoughts he’d suppressed over the past two weeks from coming to the surface. Why was the burglar in Claire’s house? Was he looking to steal cash, jewellery, the telly? Or – Craig screwed up his eyes as his worst fear resurfaced – maybe the burglar had somehow found out about the letter and decided it would be worth money to the papers? Oh, why did Claire have to disturb him? Why the hell couldn’t she just have slept through the robbery? He wished more than anything right then that he’d never found the letter. Claire might still be alive if he hadn’t got her involved in his stupid research.

  Another wave of guilt swept over him and he turned to the policeman. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with Claire’s murder, do you?’

  Blake couldn’t contain the small laugh that escaped his lips. ‘Let’s just say you could have information crucial to our investigation.’

  Craig turned away again, and looked out of the window. As he took in the surrounding buildings he realised they weren’t going to the police station, but were headed in the opposite direction.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not far.’

  The Fiat headed south towards the outskirts of Stranraer. Craig shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This felt wrong. There was nothing south of Stranraer. The peninsula extended sixteen miles to the Mull of Galloway, the most southerly point in Scotland. And it was only about four or five miles wide at its broadest point – where the hell were they going?

  ‘Where exactly are we heading?’

  ‘I have to pick up a colleague first. It’s just a slight detour.’

  ‘Where?’

  They passed a road sign that said ‘Stoneykirk 5, Sandhead 8, Portpatrick 7’. Blake seemed to remember seeing a pamphlet in his hotel room extolling the virtues of the charming fishing village and holiday resort seven miles from Stranraer.

  ‘Portpatrick.’

  Craig frowned. Something else had been bothering him since the discussion in Donald Grant’s office. He looked at Blake.

  ‘How did you get hold of it?’

  Blake kept his eyes on the road. He chose his next words carefully. ‘The Hess letter? It was in Miss Marshall’s safe custody box.’

  He turned to look at Craig, scanning his face for any tell-tale signs. Yes, there it was. This guy was no poker player, thought Blake. Dunlop knew exactly what the letter was. Blake smiled inwardly. Soon he would know everything this bank teller knew and he would be a step closer to tying up this loose end.

  Craig turned away from the driver and looked out of his window. The policeman had called it the Hess letter. So, the police knew that the letter belonged to Hess. Okay, though
t Craig, maybe it wasn’t valueless after all. But the policeman had just blatantly lied. Claire hadn’t put the letter into safe custody, there was no need to, it was just a copy. Why did this DS Wilson lie about that? What was happening?

  He replayed the events of the last few minutes in his head. If the police had already found the letter in Claire’s house, why were they subsequently going through her safe custody box? And if the letter was what the burglary was about, why hadn’t the burglar taken it when he broke in? Craig couldn’t make the pieces of the puzzle fit together, but he had a creeping feeling that this was bad. Bad for him. He was being framed, or fitted up, or whatever the phrase was. The police needed an early arrest. His fingerprints were probably all over Claire’s flat. He didn’t have the strongest alibi for the night Claire died, he knew that.

  Craig’s mind gathered speed as it spun faster. There must be more to it. Do the police think Claire was killed because of the letter itself? But why? What was in it that was so important? And why wasn’t he being taken straight to the police station? Where was he being taken? There was nothing south of Stranraer, the area was one large cul-de-sac. Hold on. There was West Freugh. RAF West Freugh was a Ministry of Defence base a few miles away. That must be where he was being taken, thought Craig. But wait, why would they do that? Why couldn’t they interview him, or charge him even, in Stranraer? He was being taken somewhere by aeroplane. Why? Where? This was wrong. This felt very wrong.

  The flight or fight impulse returned, and this time Craig couldn’t stop it. A sense of panic rose in his throat. Blind, primitive panic. Something inside his head screamed at Craig to get out of the car. Now. He saw that a queue of cars and lorries in front of them was slowing down for a temporary traffic light. Roadworks. The council spending its budget before the financial year end. Blake slowed the car to a crawl as they came up to the car ahead. Craig weighed the odds against the car having automatic passenger locks. He presumed that police cars would have them in the back seats but probably not in the front. He tugged at the door handle and leant against the door with his shoulder. It opened. He pushed the door wide and slid out of the passenger seat in one fluid movement. Without looking to see what the policeman was doing he sprinted away from the car, back in the direction they had come from. The following twenty seconds passed in slow motion, or seemed that way because Craig’s brain was in overdrive. He had to get out of the policeman’s line of sight as soon as he could. The first turning was on the right, down an access road that led along the side of some small factories and industrial buildings. He didn’t dare slow down to look back as he took the corner, but was relieved to notice that another car was slowing for the red light. Hopefully it would stop close enough to the Fiat to prevent the policeman from reversing and going after him.