The King's Prerogative

by Iain Colvin

  ‘It’s important. I’m looking for your son, Craig. It’s in connection with Claire Marshall’s death’.

  Marion saw half a chance to wriggle out of the hole she’d dug for herself. ‘Oh I know, that was just awful. But I’m sorry, Craig’s at work at the moment, and he doesn’t actually live here any more. It’s a mistake most people make. He lives down the road at number 75a. But he’s already spoken to the police about poor Claire so I don’t think he can add any more. But as I say, he’s at his work – Royal Bank on Bridge Street. Sorry, I’m going to have to go. Guinness! Get down!’

  Blake weighed up his options. He could of course insist she take the Hound of the Baskervilles into another room and shut it in, allowing him to gain entry and flush Dunlop out. If he was still there at all. If Dunlop had any intelligence he would have known this would be the first, or rather, the second place Blake would look for him and would therefore have made himself scarce, pronto. He must have gone to his parents’ house for a reason. To seek help? Perhaps. But would Dunlop expect to be protected from the police by his parents? Doubtful. And there was no way Dunlop could have known that the warrant card he was using didn’t belong to him, but to the real DS Wilson. No. He had obviously asked his mother to buy him time. Which meant that this could get messy. Was it worth forcing her to reveal his whereabouts? He considered it then discarded that option. Too messy, given that Blake had been given directions here by the old neighbour, who’d be able to give his description to the local plod. Far too messy. Besides, it was likely that Dunlop had already got what he came for – money probably, a car perhaps – and was gone.

  ‘Do you or your son have a car?’ There hadn’t been one in the driveway but he’d noticed there was a garage beside the house.

  Marion looked puzzled for a second but was slightly relieved at this turn in the conversation and took it as a sign that the stranger had abandoned his attempt to get into the house. ‘Em no, Craig doesn’t have a car but my husband does. He took it to work this morning. Why?’

  ‘What’s the make and model?’

  ‘It’s a Triumph 2000, white’.

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘TOS 245N’

  ‘And where does your husband work?’

  ‘At the council offices on Lewis Street, but he doesn’t know anything about Claire’s death either, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you. And when you see your son could you ask him to contact the police station as soon as possible’.

  ‘I will’.

  Blake guessed there was little chance of that happening so his cover was safe enough for the moment. He turned on his heel and went back out the gate. With that, Marion Dunlop closed the door again and went into the living room, out of sight. She breathed out, and listened for the sound of Wilson’s footsteps returning, or the gate squeaking again. They didn’t. She held the tea towel to her mouth and burst into silent tears.

  Blake got back in the Fiat and drove off. He performed a U-turn and headed back in the direction of the town centre. He made two left turns and drove slowly along the street looking at the gaps between the neat rows of bungalows. He tried to gauge the depth and size of the gardens that backed onto the houses on Dalrymple Street. He paused for a moment, then drove off again. At the end of the street a roundabout gave him the option of heading back down Dalrymple Street or on towards the industrial estate and the southern outskirts of town. He chose Dalrymple Street, and slowly drove past number 122 and then carried on past 75a. No sign. He pulled in, consulted a street map in the glove compartment, located Lewis Street, and pulled away again. Five minutes later, he found the council offices easily enough, and parked the car on the kerb a few yards from the building. From there he could see the front entrance and a side entrance. He’d be able to see anyone going in or coming out. He could also see a row of seven cars parked adjacent to the building. The third car from the left was a white Triumph 2000 Mark 2, registration number TOS 245N. He lit a cigarette, wound down the window and rested his elbow on the open door sill. It was a small town. Sooner or later Dunlop would have to show himself. Meantime he could plan what he needed to do next.

  Chapter 13

  Craig kept to the back streets as he hurried through the housing estate. Despite the panic he felt, or perhaps because of the panic he felt, he knew he couldn’t stay put. He realised that he was trapped in a small town, small in area and small in the sense that he knew half the people in it, and they knew the other half. If he tried to go into hiding with family or a friend, the way the jungle drums operated it would take all of two hours for word to get round. As soon as it became known that Craig Dunlop was wanted by the police in connection with his friend’s murder folk would have a field day. He ruled out a hotel or B&B too. Most of the hoteliers had an account at the bank and he was known to many of them by sight. Craig might consider himself to be a likeable young professional but he couldn’t imagine that a respectable local businessman or woman would be willing to harbour a fugitive from the law.

  No, he knew that he had to get out of Stranraer. He had to get to Glasgow. Get to Fiona. She’d be able to help. And he could be anonymous there. But getting there was going to be difficult thanks to the geography of this part of the world. The biggest problem was the fact that to all intents and purposes Stranraer was an island. Situated at the bottleneck of a peninsula, the only routes out by road or rail were to the north or east. Positioned in the very southwestern corner of Scotland, the Rhins of Galloway were as remote as some of the Highlands. It was fifty miles to Ayr in the north, and seventy-five miles to Dumfries in the east. It was a standing joke among Craig and his friends that since the old art deco Regal closed its doors almost ten years ago, the closest cinema was in Belfast. He knew he had three options: by road via the A77 north or A75 east, or by train north. Craig decided that the railway station would be the first place the police would stake out. Besides, the trains were infrequent and if he didn’t time it right he could end up conspicuously hanging around on the platform, just waiting to be picked up by the police. Even if he made it on to a train it would be a simple enough task for the police to arrange for a colleague to be waiting for him in Ayr or Glasgow. The same went for the bus station, Craig ruled that out too. No, he’d have to find another way.

  After fifteen minutes’ brisk walk, stopping at every junction to look for any sign of the black Fiat, he had worked his way down to the corner of Sun Street and Lewis Street. His father would be livid at the imposition but Craig knew that he’d let him borrow the car. He turned into Lewis Street and stopped dead. A hundred yards ahead, parked at the end of a row of cars, was the black Fiat. Two men were walking abreast towards Craig, chatting as they made their way in his direction. Just before they passed him, Craig pretended that he’d forgotten something and turned round to walk back the way he had come. The men obscured the view from the parked Fiat until they reached the corner. Then Craig turned back up Sun Street. After a few steps he ran as fast as he could up the steep hill, as far as the next corner. He turned right and ducked into a path that led down a flight of stone steps. He got to the bottom before he stopped running.

  He’d ended up on the shoreline of Loch Ryan, in what locals called the Clayhole, or Cly-hole as it was usually pronounced. Panting heavily, he caught his breath. Wilson’s car had been parked facing away from Craig, so with luck the worst that happened was the policeman would have caught a glimpse of him in his rear-view mirror. Craig swore. No chance of getting to borrow his father’s car. The choices available to him were reducing in number rapidly and Craig could feel the panic once again rising in his throat. His face felt clammy from sweat, a cold, cloying, cadaverous dampness that clung to his skin. He was conscious of a feeling that his world had suddenly tilted on its axis and everything was different. The streets that had been familiar to him his whole life now seemed strange and foreboding, as if the everyday colour around him had darkened as the result of some kind of solar eclipse.

 
He shook his head to try to clear it of the feeling of dislocation. Why was this happening? How had it happened? Craig felt an overwhelming desire to turn the clock back and make everything go away. The letter, Claire’s death, the police, and most of all, this awful sickening feeling in his stomach. He could feel everything ebbing away from him, his home, his career. How could he explain this away at the bank? Innocent people don’t run from the police.

  He caught himself in mid-thought. That was the whole point, he was innocent. He hadn’t done anything. Anger slowly rose within him. The sick feeling in his gut began to turn into a burning resentment. Concentrate, dammit, he thought. He looked along the shoreline. In front of him there was a small park that led to a boating lake. It was easy enough to follow the footpath round the park and lake, then hug the railings along the old fishing harbour that eventually led to the main ferry terminal. Craig set off in that direction, round the park, the lake, the old harbour, and after less than a mile he came across the final hurdle to cross before he got to the ferry terminal.

  Across the road was the local police station. It was a small, low rise 1960s building. It could have been a library if it hadn’t been for the array of large radio antennae on the flat roof. It was set back from the road slightly, within a small enclosed car park surrounded by a low wall. A turquoise and white Ford Escort panda car emerged from the opening to the car park, indicating left. Across the street Craig made sure he walked steadily, eyes ahead but aware of the panda car in his peripheral vision. He imagined that the driver and passenger were watching him as he walked. He expected to see the blue light on the car’s roof start to flash, with accompanying siren. He expected the car to shoot out of the police station, lurch across the road, turn right and pull in to the kerb ahead of him. He expected the doors to fly open and the policemen to run up to him and grab him and bundle him in the back. But none of that happened. Instead, the panda waited for a couple of cars to pass, then moved off, heading into the centre of town. Craig felt a delayed surge of adrenalin course through him. He came to the approach to the ferry terminal. Beyond the expanse of light grey tarmac, Craig could see the pier, which was broad enough to also serve as the railway station. Passengers arriving into the station had only a few yards to walk to board the ferry to Larne.

  Craig looked beyond the railway station and out into the loch. A ship was approaching. As it sailed closer its bow opened upward as if it was about to take a bite out of the end of the pier. Craig allowed himself a half smile. When he decided to come this way, he’d known there were a number of variables that could either work to his advantage or to his disadvantage. The first was that the police would have been alerted to his escape and he could be recognised as he walked past the police station. His luck had been in there. The second was that at this time of day, either no ferry would be in port, or the Antrim Princess would be in, or the Dalriada would be in. The Antrim Princess chiefly carried foot passengers and cars, with only a comparatively small number of lorries crossing on her at a time. The Dalriada carried more big lorries. Craig could see that it was the Dalriada coming in. Perfect, he thought. He watched as the Sealink ferry drew smoothly alongside the jetty and the mooring ropes were made secure. He made his way along the pavement, still on the other side of the security fence from the area that marked out the approach to the ferry port itself. He could see the usual security staff talking to some drivers waiting to board, inspecting lorry cabs and trailers. Both ends of the ferry journey were subject to routine security checks for the obvious reason that Larne was only a short journey up the coast from Belfast. Craig came to the junction that served as the exit point for vehicles heading for routes leading out of Stranraer. In his experience he found the ferry terminal building, just beyond the junction, the best place to pick up a lift from one of the drivers. He’d done it before, on the odd occasion when he’d been completely skint before pay day. The lorries could only head north to Glasgow and the central belt, or east towards Dumfries and England, so it was a pretty reliable way of getting to where you wanted to go. He went into the ferry terminal, which in truth was little more than a dilapidated café and waiting area. He bought a coffee which seemed hardly worthy of the name, and sat down at a table away from the window. There were half a dozen other people sitting around, waiting on the announcement that the next ferry was boarding.

  After a few minutes, a couple of men came in, one after the other. One went to the gents and the other went up to the counter to order something from the sparse menu handwritten on a blackboard on the wall. He paid, collected a cup of tea and a roll with something, selected a table and sat down. The other man came out of the gents and went out the way he came. Craig waited until the roll was eaten and the tea almost drunk before getting up and going over to the man’s table. He kept a respectful distance, but leaned forward to make sure he didn’t have to speak too loudly.

  ‘Excuse me mate, you wouldn’t happen to be heading to Glasgow by any chance?’

  ‘Looking for a lift?’ the man replied. He was from down south, maybe Yorkshire, thought Craig. The man looked Craig up and down. ‘Sorry pal, I’m heading to Folkestone.’

  ‘No bother, thanks anyway.’ Craig sat down again.

  After fifteen minutes and three failed attempts, Craig’s nerve was beginning to crack. Every time the door opened he expected to see the police come in to search the ferry terminal, find him, and take him away in handcuffs. He was on the verge of giving up and making another run for it, maybe he could thumb a lift on the road. Too risky, he decided. He knew he couldn’t stand it much longer, just waiting there to be caught.

  He decided to wait for five more minutes and then he’d make a move. He might have more luck if he managed to creep into the lorry park and speak to the drivers there. But that would attract suspicion, he thought. He got up and went to the toilet. He washed his face and told himself to calm down. Okay, time to go, he thought. He dried his face and hands.

  As he left the gents, he finally struck it lucky. A driver was paying for a drink at the counter and was correcting the waitress when she called him Irish. He was from Ulster, he’d said, smiling at her. Craig waited for the man to sit down and then went up to speak to him. As it turned out he had come from Lisburn and was headed to Bellshill outside Glasgow. Was that any good to him? Sure was, said Craig. The driver noticed Craig’s lounge suit and the absence of a bag or holdall or rucksack and looked at him, not so much suspicion in his expression as conspiratorial brotherhood. ‘Oh aye, been caught on the hop have ye?’

  ‘Eh, yeah, kind of,’ said Craig, trying to inject a note of ‘what can you do’ humour into his tone.

  ‘Football or female?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you going up for the football or are you seeing a wee lassie?’

  Craig realised what he meant, and remembered that Rangers were playing a rescheduled cup match that night at Ibrox. He was suddenly grateful for the polarising nature of football in the west of Scotland. The gravitational force of the two Glasgow giants extended way beyond the boundaries of the city, and pulled in a fan base from all along the west coast and into Northern Ireland. And because support was sharply delineated along hard sectarian lines, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that this Ulsterman was of the red, white and blue persuasion.

  Craig relaxed and smiled. ‘Haha, yeah, well it’s a bit of both actually, a mate’s got hold of a ticket for me, so I’m skiving off work and I was hoping to crash at a wee pal’s afterwards.’

  ‘Ya jammy beggar! Come on, you can fill me in on the details on the way, I’ve got to get moving.’ The driver swallowed the rest of his tea and got up to go.

  Chapter 14

  ‘When’s the next train to Glasgow?’

  ‘Three twenty-five, on the dot.’

  Blake looked at his watch. Ten past twelve. He’d missed the previous train by twenty-five minutes, or to be accurate he’d missed being there to see who’d got on it. He’d already been to the bus station but
found no sign of Dunlop hanging around. In retrospect the train had been a better bet. By Blake’s reckoning the slippery bastard had had plenty of time to make the 11:45. Which would get him into Glasgow before half past two. No time to waste. He exited the station, got back into his car and gunned it back down the broad pier, out past the ferry terminal and down the short stretch of road to his hotel. He asked reception to make up his bill and went up to his room to pack. Then he sat on the bed and made a phone call.

  ‘What progress?’ asked the voice on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘It was worth pursuing the safe deposit angle. There’s a local bank teller who’s been working with the teacher. He knows what the letter is.’

  ‘Have you taken care of him?’

  ‘No. He bolted after I questioned him.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘How soon will you reacquire him?’

  ‘I know where he’s headed,’ said Blake. ‘Has there been any indication of where Irving is?’

  There was a pause. ‘Not yet,’ came the reply. ‘He’s gone to ground.’

  ‘Then the teller is our best chance. I think he will lead us to him.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. What’s the teller’s name?’

  ‘Dunlop. Craig Dunlop.’

  ‘Don’t let me keep you. And Blake… no more loose ends. Get me that letter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And when you catch up with Irving do dispose of him cleanly. I do not want anything being traced back to this office.’