by Iain Colvin
‘Don’t be silly, it’ll be fine.’
‘Hmmmm,’ was the best answer Craig could come up with.
They drank their tea and made small-talk for twenty minutes, then Fiona forced Craig to ring his parents again. Craig dutifully rang them and immediately wished he hadn’t. By now they were beside themselves with worry. Not only that, but he learned that they’d spent four hours at the police station being interviewed.
‘What did you tell them?’ asked Craig.
‘Everything we knew,’ said his father. ‘What else could we do?’
Craig felt a pang of guilt as large as a medicine ball pressing in on his chest. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
‘Where are you, son? Are you okay?’ Craig could tell from his father’s voice that he wasn’t looking for information to pass on to the police. Peter Dunlop asked the question purely because he was concerned for his son’s safety.
‘I’m okay Dad, really. I’m in Edinburgh. I only need a couple more days then I’ll go to the police myself and I’ll get this all cleared up. I’ve met with a lady from a literary agency in Edinburgh, she’s been helping me to track down Brian Irving. I’m sure he’ll be able to help if only I can get hold of him. Listen, I need to go, but I’ll phone again soon. Give my love to Mum and Helen. Bye.’ He hung up the phone and gave Fiona the update from Stranraer. She came over and hugged him. It was all she could think of to do right at that moment.
Just before six o’clock they heard a key in the front door’s Yale lock, and the clip-clop of high heels approaching. A face appeared round the door and saw Fiona.
‘Hi darling, I didn’t expect to see you!’.
‘Hi Mum.’ Fiona bounced over and gave her mum a kiss and a hug.
Valerie Rankin was the image of her daughter, fast-forwarded twenty-five years. Slim, blonde, with her hair in a business-like long bob, and just one or two lines beginning to show around her eyes and mouth where she smiled. The lines disappeared when she saw Craig.
‘Oh. Hello, Craig.’ She looked at her daughter then back at the visitor.
Craig stood up involuntarily. ‘Hello Mrs Rankin, you’re looking well.’
She stared at him for a couple of seconds. ‘Still the charmer, I see.’ She looked at him for a couple of seconds more, then remembered her manners and walked over and gave him a hug. ‘How are you? How are your mum and dad?’
‘Fine, fine, they’re doing well thanks.’
Fiona came over to the table and sat down, and Craig took his seat again.
‘We came through to see Lynn this morning,’ said Fiona.
‘Did you? Let me get my shoes and jacket off and you can fill me in.’
An hour later the three of them were busy preparing dinner. Craig put Valerie’s initial reaction to seeing him down to surprise, because since then she’d been warm and chatty with him. When she left the room to get changed out of her work things, Fiona suggested to Craig that they leave out the part about him being a fugitive from the law, what with her mum being a solicitor. So they told her about Craig’s grandad and the letter and about Brian Irving and finally, about Lynn and her phone call with her author client.
‘It all sounds fascinating,’ said Valerie, ‘do you have the letter with you? No, on second thoughts, let’s wait till Denis gets home. We’ll have some dinner and then you can show us, if you like.’
‘By all means,’ said Craig. He was beginning to feel like showing the letter to people was his party trick, but he admitted to himself that it felt good to be back in that house again and he didn’t mind singing for his supper one little bit.
A few minutes later Denis Rankin got home and Craig had another surge of anxiety, but again it was short-lived. Denis Rankin was a big, powerful man, six foot three and he looked every inch the ex-rugby player he was. When he shook Craig’s hand, Craig remembered that his was the firmest handshake he’d ever experienced. Dinner was grilled lamb cutlets with lemon juice and fresh rosemary, and a simple salad. It was delicious, and as usual Craig was amazed at how Valerie could create something so tasty that was simplicity itself. They demolished a bottle and a half of red wine between them. Robert stuck to Irn-Bru much to his sister’s amusement.
‘Dessert is just some biscuits and cheese, with some fruit, if that’s okay?’ said Valerie.
‘Of course, Mum,’ said Fiona. Valerie brought the biscuits and cheese out onto the table for everyone to help themselves.
‘Right Craig, let’s see this letter,’ said Denis. ‘I have to say I’m hooked before I even lay eyes on it.’
Craig’s jacket was outside hanging up in the hall so he fetched the wallet from the inside pocket and brought it back through to his hosts. Just as he’d done that morning in Lynn’s office, he performed the ritual of opening the wallet, taking out the letter and showing it round the table. Denis, Valerie and Robert all read the letter in turn. Robert then excused himself and disappeared back up the stair, having stayed just long enough to be polite. The four remaining diners chatted animatedly about what it could mean and about holding history in their hands and how amazing it was that it had been hidden in the wallet all these years. Valerie picked up and looked at the wallet, feeling its soft, worn leather. ‘We use wallets to this day that are very similar,’ she said.
‘Do you? In your law firm?’ asked Craig.
‘Yes, for those fancy clients with lots of money,’ she said with a grin. She ran a finger over the gold initials AH on the corner of one of the outside panels.
‘AH?’
‘Yes,’ said Craig. ‘I don’t think Hess would have gone to the lengths of getting the fictitious Alfred Horn’s initials engraved on it, but you never know. He was supposed to have been very meticulous so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had.’
‘Adolf Hitler, maybe?’ asked Valerie.
‘Who knows, I did think of that too. I somehow doubt it, though. When I was reading up on all this stuff I found out that Hess was very close to a man called Albrecht Haushofer. He was the son of Hess’s professor, Karl Haushofer, when Hess was a young student at Munich University. Albrecht Haushofer was an interesting man. He spent a great amount of time in Britain prior to the war and was well respected here. He was a close friend of the Duke of Hamilton and believe it or not, he was a guest at the coronation of King George VI in 1937.’
‘Really?’ said Denis.
‘Absolutely. I think he was the “middle man” if you like, between Hess and the British. Hess had Karl and Albrecht Haushofer’s visiting cards with him when he landed in Scotland.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Denis. ‘Do you think…’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Valerie. They all turned to look at her. She was still holding the wallet in both hands, but now she was kneading the left-hand panel, which formed the front of the wallet when folded closed. She began pressing all around the inside of the panel with her thumbs.
‘You do know there’s something inside this lining?’ She announced it rather than asked it.
‘What?’ said Craig, his eyes glued to her hands as she felt round the edges of the leather.
‘Feel it for yourself, look.’ Valerie handed the wallet over, and guided his hands to the edges as she had done, where the leather met the silk lining.
‘Feel that?’
‘Isn’t that just a bit of padding?’ said Craig.
‘The other panel doesn’t have padding, or did you take it out with the letter when you found it?’ asked Valerie.
‘No, there wasn’t any,’ said Craig, confused. He began to feel round the right-hand panel, the one that had the torn lining where he had found the letter, for comparison. There was definitely a difference in thickness. Slight, but pronounced nonetheless.
‘You could be right,’ he said. He looked up at Fiona. ‘Have you got a sharp knife?’
‘Better than that,’ she said. She disappeared out of the room and came back a minute later with a small sewing box. She placed it on the table, opened it, took out a small pair of sc
issors and gave them to Craig. Craig carefully snipped at one of the bottom corners, cutting all along the bottom. He lifted the lining and put his hand inside. He looked up at Valerie. ‘You’re right Mrs R, there’s something here.’ He pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was quite thick, more like parchment. He checked that there was nothing else hidden inside the lining, then he moved the wallet to one side, and unfolded the paper. It had two folds into the middle, and when laid flat it revealed itself to be a foolscap size letter. The letter contained a few typewritten lines and a handwritten set of initials:
15th April 1941
Erik Nyberg,
Consulate of Sweden,
185 St Vincent Street,
Glasgow,
Scotland
Dear Mr Nyberg,
Please provide the bearer of this letter with sealed package number DR41/074 on production of his credentials.
Yours sincerely,
AH
Craig read and re-read the letter, then sat back in stunned silence. He looked at Fiona, who picked up the letter, read it, then gave it to her father, who also read it and handed it to his wife.
Craig spoke at last. ‘I’m glad you’re all here as witnesses to this. You saw where that came from. I didn’t just make it up.’ He said it as if he was trying to convince himself of the fact that this moment was real and he wasn’t imagining it.
‘We did,’ said Fiona. ‘Incredible.’
‘AH again, did you notice?’ said Denis. ‘Even though they’re only initials I’d have thought it would be fairly straightforward to compare that handwriting with known examples of Haushofer’s or, well…’
‘Hitler’s handwriting,’ said Craig.
‘Yes. It feels funny holding a piece of paper that might have been held by Hitler himself.’ Valerie shuddered and gave the letter back to Craig.
‘Why would Hess have a second letter hidden in the wallet? Why is it addressed to the Swedish Consulate in Glasgow?’
‘Well, we’ve got something to tell Lynn now,’ said Fiona. She went to grab the phone sitting on the kitchen’s window sill, when the doorbell rang. Denis went to answer it, and reappeared a moment later closely followed by Lynn Simon.
‘Lynn!’ exclaimed Valerie, rushing over to give her friend a kiss, ‘Fiona was just about to ring you, Craig’s got something to show you.’
‘Well I’ve got some good news for you,’ said Lynn. ‘Will I go first?’
Chapter 22
In one sense DI Bruce Cowie felt like they’d made progress in the last few hours. He’d interviewed Peter, Marion and Helen Dunlop at the station. Separately of course. They’d told him about the connection between Craig Dunlop and Claire Marshall. One of the local restaurateurs said that Dunlop and Claire Marshall had been deep in conversation on his premises a few weeks ago and seemed to be discussing a document of some kind. The bank manager had said that this DS Wilson had a letter that he confronted Dunlop with. Dunlop himself had told DC Jarvis that he had been doing some ‘research’ with Miss Marshall. And at last they had identified the bogus DS Wilson as a Michael Green, and were following up a firm lead based on the car he was driving. More significantly, the hotel records placed him in Stranraer at the time of the murder.
On the other hand Bruce Cowie couldn’t escape the feeling that he was chasing shadows. He couldn’t understand what it was about this letter that provided a link between the murder and Michael Green, and Michael Green and Craig Dunlop. Peter Dunlop had described the letter and the circumstances of how it had come to be in Craig Dunlop’s possession. It was an old letter dating from during the war that allegedly was in the possession of Rudolf Hess. DI Cowie had made some initial enquiries and the letter might have some intrinsic value to a collector of such historical paraphernalia. Similar letters and memos from the period which bore the signature of someone famous had sold for a few pounds, maybe a couple of hundred in some cases. Certainly not enough to kill someone over. Was it a red herring? What connection was he missing?
DI Cowie’s enquiry into Vulcan Holdings had also drawn a blank. It was a fictitious company. Why had this Green made so much of an effort to conceal his identity, to the point of stealing a Metropolitan Police warrant card, bluffing his way into the local bank, and asking to see Claire Marshall’s safe custody box?
There was one thing above all else that vexed Bruce Cowie. How did Green get hold of the safe custody key? The police had checked with Claire Marshall’s parents, they didn’t have it and they hadn’t been approached by anyone suspicious either before or after the murder. No, Green must have got it from the house, or from Craig Dunlop himself. Maybe it had been an elaborate set-up. Dunlop would probably have aroused suspicion if he’d tried to access the box on his own. DI Cowie knew that they were kept under what’s known as dual control. No one member of bank staff can access them alone. He would have needed an accomplice, perhaps masquerading as a policeman, to open the box. But why? The bank manager had shown them the box, and there was nothing out of the ordinary amongst the contents. No, there must have been another reason. Who was this Green? He wasn’t local. Why was he in Stranraer? Was he blackmailing Dunlop? Blackmailing him about what? Did he know something incriminating about how or why Claire Marshall died?
There was a knock on the door and DC Jarvis came in without waiting for a response.
‘Boss, we’ve traced the car through the DVLA. It’s registered to Avis car hire.’
‘Get them on the phone.’
‘I already have. Wait till you hear this. The car was rented to a guy called Frank Blake. That was the name on his driving licence. He rented it from their office at Glasgow airport the same day he checked into the North West Castle. He used a credit card in the name of Frank Blake, and provided a driving licence in the same name. The address on the driving licence is 117 West India Dock Road, Limehouse, London E14.
‘Good work, Gordon. So this Frank Blake and Michael Green are one and the same?’
‘Looks like it boss. I’ve been on to the local cop shop and they’re checking on the address now.’
‘Good man. Let me know as soon as they get back to you.’
Bruce Cowie came to a decision. Both the men he wanted to trace had now been missing for over twenty-four hours. It was time to put the newspapers to work.
Chapter 23
‘I got a phone call just as I was packing up to leave the office,’ Lynn began. ‘It was from a friend of Edward’s, the friend he told me about this morning.’
They all sat round the table again, and Lynn took off her coat and scarf. Valerie fetched a glass from a kitchen cabinet and poured some wine for her friend.
‘Thanks, Val.’ Lynn took a sip and put the glass down. ‘His name is Clive Prior, and he’s the professor of European history at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. He said he was excited to get Edward’s call explaining my request, and he was keen to speak to me as soon as possible. So much so, that he wants me to go down to see him.’
‘Really?’ asked Craig. ‘That’s brilliant news. Did he say what made him so keen?’
‘Well, that was where the conversation got really interesting. I told him what I told Edward, that Doctor Irving was one of my authors et cetera, et cetera. That’s when he told me that Brian had already contacted him to ask about the letter.’
Craig couldn’t contain himself. ‘Brian contacted him? When? How?’
Lynn looked at him. ‘I assume that’s a Scottish “how” that’s actually a “why”?’
‘Sorry, yes, I meant why?’
‘He said that Brian contacted him about three weeks ago, at the end of February. He phoned him because as I understand it Professor Prior is an acknowledged authority on the world wars. I did think his name rang a bell when he introduced himself. I found him quite modest on the phone, rather charming actually. Anyway, Brian must have decided he was the man who could help him authenticate the letter. Professor Prior said he was – quote – “quite taken in” by the story that Brian told him on
the phone. They arranged to meet in person a couple of days later but Brian didn’t turn up, and he’s heard nothing since.’
‘Nothing?’ said Craig.
‘No word from him after that phone call. Professor Prior waited in all afternoon, but Brian didn’t show up and he didn’t call back to give a reason. The professor assumed that he’d received a better offer but did think it was quite rude of him not to at least get in touch. So when Edward Hart-Davis rang him today he got the scent back in his nostrils again, as he put it. He’s very keen to see the letter.’
‘I should speak to him,’ said Craig. He quickly decided that having a Cambridge professor in his corner would do no harm at all. And on a practical level if Professor Prior was one of the last people to speak to Brian Irving then it must surely be helpful.
‘We can ring him again in the morning,’ said Lynn. ‘I’ll have to bring you into the conversation and break it to him that the letter belongs to you, but I’m sure he won’t mind our little subterfuge. Now, what did you want to show me?’
Lynn was just as taken aback as the others had been when she read the new letter.
‘This was hidden in the wallet too?’
‘Yes, in the front panel this time. I’m kicking myself that I didn’t notice it before now.’ But when Craig thought about it, he realised why he hadn’t found the letter earlier. When the wallet was stuffed with the old cigarette cards it was impossible to tell that either one of the panels held a secret in their lining, never mind both of them. And he’d been in such a panic when he spilled coffee on the wallet all those weeks ago that he’d been too distracted to notice anything strange about the front panel.