by Iain Colvin
Lynn studied the letter. ‘Have you had any thoughts on what this could be about?’
Craig scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘All I can think of is that either it was a package intended for Hess as some kind of collateral, or it was a package that was sent in advance by Hess as part of his plan.’
‘Why though?’
‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out. Mr R, can I borrow your phone for a minute?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Denis.
Craig took the letter back from Lynn and walked over to the telephone, picked up the receiver and pushed three buttons; 1, then 9, then 2. After a few seconds a woman’s voice answered.
‘Good evening, directory enquiries, which town please?’
‘Hello, could you give me a number for the Consulate of Sweden in Glasgow, please?’ There was a small pad of paper and a pen on the window sill. Craig picked up the pen and poised himself to write.
There was a brief pause on the other end. ‘That’s 041 204 4041. Would you like me to connect you?’
Craig wrote down the number. ‘Yes please. Oh, excuse me, before you do, could you confirm that address?’
‘Yes sir, it’s 185 St Vincent Street. One second please.’ The woman’s voice was replaced by electro-mechanical burps and chirps followed by the familiar double ring tone as the number connected. It rang for a few seconds then an automated message clicked in. It told Craig that the Consulate was closed for the day and confirmed what the office hours were, then gave him another number to ring in case of emergencies. Craig hung up.
‘Well the Swedish Consulate is still in St Vincent Street. I didn’t even know there was a Swedish Consulate in Glasgow. They’re closed for the evening, open again at ten am.’
Fiona looked at him. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going back through to Glasgow. I need to find out what this package is all about and I’m hoping the Consulate will tell me.’
‘Why don’t you just ring them in the morning?’ asked Fiona.
‘Because I want to show them the letter. They’d probably laugh if I just phoned them. Think about it – “Excuse me, do you have a package from 1941 in your possession?” No, I’m going to have to speak to them in person.’
Lynn looked thoughtful. ‘It says you have to present certain credentials.’
‘I’ll play that by ear,’ said Craig. He folded the letter and put it back in the wallet. ‘Mrs R, thank you so much for dinner, it was lovely. And it was really nice to see you both again.’
Valerie grabbed him by his wrist. ‘Excuse me, where are you going?’
Craig was touched by the gesture. ‘I’ll get back through to Glasgow tonight and I’ll be on their doorstep at ten o’clock.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ corrected Valerie. ‘You’ll stay here tonight and you can go through in the morning when you’re feeling fresh. No arguments.’
Craig couldn’t help but smile. ‘Thank you, it’s very kind.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Denis. ‘It’ll give us more of a chance to talk.’
And talk they did. Denis opened another bottle of wine and they chewed over the letter and talked about Clive Prior and speculated about what could have happened to Brian Irving. Craig decided to tell them everything. He filled in the details about getting Brian Irving on board, and about Claire’s murder, his subsequent brush with DS Wilson and how he came to be at Fiona’s flat the night before. The mood changed. The excitement of earlier in the evening evaporated and the enormity of the situation pressed in on them all. They fell quiet.
Valerie at last broke the silence. ‘What makes you so sure that Claire’s murder is connected to the letter?’
‘I’m not certain that there is a connection at all’, said Craig, ‘but the police wanted to interview me about it, that’s for sure.’
‘What will you do, Craig?’ asked Denis.
‘I was going to ask you what you think I should do, Mrs R,’ said Craig, ‘seeing as you’re a solicitor.’
Valerie thought for a long moment. ‘Well, I’m not a criminal lawyer, as you know. But I’d have to advise you to go to the police before they catch up with you.’
‘But I know I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘That’s as maybe. But the fact remains you were asked to help police with their enquiries and you, well…’
‘Ran away.’ Craig finished Valerie’s sentence for her.
Lynn decided it was time to move the conversation on. ‘Do you know what? Bugger it. So what if you ran off, you obviously had your reasons. And if you hadn’t, now you wouldn’t have a potential ally in Professor Prior. So for what it’s worth I think you should follow this as far as it takes you, for better or worse.’
‘So do I,’ said Fiona.
‘Me too, Craig,’ said Denis.
They all looked at Valerie.
‘What?’
‘Come on, Val,’ said Lynn. ‘Aren’t you the slightest bit intrigued about where this could lead?’
Valerie took a large sip of her wine. ‘I just want it known that I gave Craig my professional advice. But yes, I have to confess this is all very interesting.’ She smiled at Lynn, and in that instant Craig could see where Fiona got her magnetism from.
Lynn laughed. ‘Good girl, that’s the Val I know and love.’ She turned to Craig. ‘Right then Mr Dunlop, you’re in charge, what next?’
Craig leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. He leaned forward once more and put his elbows on the table. ‘I think I should see what I can find out at the Swedish Consulate first thing, and then when we contact Professor Prior we’ll have something else to ask him about.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lynn. ‘I’ll make a space in my diary from say, three o’clock? You should be back by then, and we can call Clive Prior from my office.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Craig.
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ added Fiona. ‘I’ll come along with you.’
‘You’ve got uni,’ said Craig.
‘No I don’t,’ said Fiona. ‘Not tomorrow. No lectures till Thursday, and I’m up to date with my essays. Besides, you’ll need someone to keep you out of trouble.’
It was nearly ten o’clock when Lynn bid them all goodnight. Valerie left the others in the kitchen and went upstairs to look out a couple of fresh towels for Craig and to turn up the radiator in the guest bedroom. Fiona put the kettle on and put the empty wine bottles in the bin.
‘Three and a half bottles on a school night,’ said Denis. ‘I’ll feel it in the morning.’ He filled a glass with water from the tap and bid them both goodnight.
‘Cuppa?’ asked Fiona, when it was just the two of them left in the kitchen.
‘No thanks, Fi.’ Craig looked at her as she busied herself with mugs and milk and tea bags. ‘Thank you for today. For everything.’ She turned round to face him. ‘It’s been my pleasure.’ They heard footsteps coming down the stair, and Fiona hurried back to her tea making while Craig tidied up the wine glasses.
Valerie came back into the kitchen. ‘That’s your room ready Craig, do you remember the one? Top of the stair, straight ahead, next to the bathroom.’
‘I do, thank you,’ said Craig. ‘I’ll say goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, Craig, nice to see you again.’
‘’Night,’ chimed Fiona. ‘I’ll give you a knock about seven.’
‘Great, thanks. See you in the morning.’ Craig paused in the hall long enough to pick up his shopping bags and then climbed the carpeted staircase. He found the bedroom alright, picked up a towel from the small pile Valerie had left on his bed, and went through to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Five minutes later he was undressed, in bed and had switched the bedside lamp off. He lay looking up at the darkness, reflecting on the day’s events and imagining what the following day might bring. He was asleep three minutes later.
Downstairs in the kitchen Fiona and Valerie were drinking their tea at the table.
‘So?’ asked Valerie.
‘So what?’ countered Fiona.
‘Has Craig told you that he wants you back?’
‘Mum!’ Fiona tutted and took a sip of her hot tea.
‘It was so obvious tonight that he still adores you. He could hardly take his eyes off you all the way through dinner.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Definitely.’ Valerie reached out and held her daughter’s hand. ‘Just be careful. You know how upset you were after you two split up.’
‘I know mum. And I will be careful. Thanks.’ Fiona put her cup in the sink, kissed her mum on the cheek, said goodnight and headed up the stairs to her room.
Chapter 24
Wednesday 16th March, 1983
Craig woke up and for the second morning in a row it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. He stretched over and looked at his watch on the bedside table. It told him that it was five past seven. Just then there was a gentle tap on the door.
‘Hi,’ Craig said.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’
Fiona opened the door and peered in. Craig caught a glimpse of red tartan pyjamas and wondered how she could manage to look so fabulous at silly o’clock in the morning, straight from her kip. ‘Good morning, how did you sleep?’
‘I slept great, thanks, like a log,’ said Craig. ‘I’ve just woken up this second.’ He came to the conclusion that he’d quite happily be woken up like this every morning.
‘The bathroom’s free, help yourself. Just come down when you’re ready.’
Fifty minutes later Craig and Fiona were ready to leave the house. Valerie convinced Craig to leave his suit with her, she’d pop it into the dry cleaners on her way to work. Craig thanked her for the hundredth time and Valerie told him to think nothing of it and shooed the two of them out the door.
‘Have you got everything?’ asked Fiona.
‘Think so,’ said Craig. He had his grandad’s wallet as well his own, and he’d emptied his suit pockets of his house keys, passport and the small Dictaphone he used at work. ‘It might come in handy,’ he told Fiona. She looked at him quizzically. ‘It just makes an unnecessary bulge in your jacket pocket,’ she admonished.
‘Yeah, cos it’s really important that I make a sartorial impression today,’ retorted Craig. Fiona called him an arse and punched him on the arm.
They decided to walk round to the bus stop rather than wait for a lift from Denis or Valerie. The sun was bright and low in the sky as they stepped out into the cold air. The morning rush hour had started and the driver of a passing Morris Marina had his visor down to protect his eyes as he drove eastwards. There was a small queue by the time they reached the bus shelter which they took to be a good sign, and sure enough the number 11 trundled along a couple of minutes later.
By the time they got to Waverley the station was going like a fair with people arriving for work. Craig and Fiona made their way through to the ticket office then fought their way on to the platform, boarded their train and found a seat easily enough.
They spent the journey through to Glasgow rehearsing what they were going to say when they got there. They were just about happy with their plan by the time the train arrived at the Queen Street terminus, fifteen minutes late due to a signal failure outside Glasgow. They allowed themselves to be swept along with the tide of students, shoppers and office workers disgorging onto the open space of George Square, then they turned right onto St Vincent Place. Craig looked at his watch. It was just before ten to ten, good timing. They headed up St Vincent Street for half a dozen blocks. From there, across the street, they saw the Consulate. From the outside it could have been an office or a city centre medical practice if it hadn’t been for the large blue flag with the distinctive yellow cross hanging above the main doorway. Craig realised that the solicitors’ office he’d visited with his dad a couple of months back was only a couple of blocks away.
They stopped across the street from the Consulate. ‘Ready?’ asked Craig.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Fiona. They crossed the road, climbed the few steps up to the building and stepped inside. A nearby church chimed the hour.
Inside, the Swedish Consulate could indeed just as easily have been a city centre medical practice. There was an anteroom off a tiled and rather spartan main hallway. Above the door was a sign that said ‘enquiries’ in English and also in what Craig assumed to be Swedish. They entered the ante room and were faced by a smiling young man sitting behind a white desk. Craig looked around the room. The walls were painted in a two-tone colour scheme, divided by a thin dado rail at head height, with the lower half pale blue and the upper half, and the ceiling, white. Along the walls were some travel posters urging visitors to come to Sweden, where the locals looked impossibly healthy and happy. Metal chairs with blue fabric seats were lined up along three of the walls, presumably provided for people while they waited for something to be processed by the Consulate staff. Craig and Fiona were the first ones to arrive this morning. The place was empty.
‘Can I help you?’
Fiona stepped forward. ‘Yes, please. I’ve come to collect this, if I may.’ She handed over the letter. ‘It is rather old, I should say.’
The young man looked at the letter for longer than they would have expected him to. ‘It certainly is old. I’m not entirely sure what this relates to. Can I ask your name, please?’
‘Of course, it’s Fiona Rankin.’
‘Please, take a seat, Miss Rankin. Would you excuse me for one moment?’ He got up from behind the desk and went out of the door Craig and Fiona had just come in. They sat down under a poster extolling the virtues of the Swedish lakes. After a good five minutes, Fiona leaned into Craig.
‘Where do you think he’s gone?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Craig. ‘Why are you whispering?’
‘Why are you whispering?’ asked Fiona.
‘Because you are.’
The door opened and the young man returned, followed by a tall man in his mid-to-late forties. He had short blond hair in a rather severe side parting that gave his face an angular look. He strode into the room, offering his outstretched hand to Fiona.
‘Miss Rankin? I’m Carl Persson, the consul here. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands, then Fiona introduced Craig.
‘This is my boyfriend, Craig Dunlop.’ Craig shook hands with the consul, rather pleased at his promotion to the status of boyfriend, even if it was only for show.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Persson.’
‘Won’t you come this way, I’ll take you to my office, we’ll be more comfortable there.’
He showed them out into the main hall then up a flight of stairs to a landing with five doors leading off it. Craig could hear the familiar tip-tapping of fingernails on typewriters behind one of the doors, and Carl Persson showed them through another of the doors into a bright, spacious office, decorated in the same colour scheme as the ante room downstairs but with the added warmth of a deep mustard-coloured carpet. There was a desk beside the window but the consul led them to a couple of low couches facing each other over a glass coffee table. He invited Craig and Fiona to sit on one and he hitched up the knees of his trousers and sat on the other.
‘Henrik, could you bring us some coffee, please? Is coffee alright with you?’ Fiona nodded. ‘Thanks Henrik,’ said Persson, and the young man exited.
‘Now then, I have to tell you that this is a very unusual request. We here in the Consulate didn’t think that the package would ever be claimed.’
‘You have the package here?’ blurted Craig and then immediately kicked himself. Fiona shot him a scathing look that said ‘stick to the script’, then turned back to the consul.
‘You still have the package here in the Consulate?’
‘Yes indeed. I have had the privilege of being the consul in your beautiful city for only three years, but some of my staff have worked in the Consu
late for twenty years and more. The package has become something of a…’ the consul searched for the correct word, ‘a fixture here, and there has been a – how can I say – a mystique built up around it.’ Craig noticed that he spoke in that careful manner used by people for whom English wasn’t their native tongue.
‘Is that so?’ said Fiona.
‘Yes indeed. So I hope you’ll indulge my curiosity in asking you some questions about it.’
‘By all means, not that I know much about it,’ laughed Fiona. Craig was impressed, she was warming to the task beautifully and playing her role to perfection so far.
The door opened and a young woman brought in a tray with three cups, a coffee pot and milk and sugar. She set it down on the table, smiled at Fiona then left.
‘Milk and sugar?’ asked Persson as he poured the hot coffee into the cups.
‘Yes, please,’ they said in unison. Persson completed the task and handed them a cup each.
Henrik knocked on the door and entered. He walked over to the desk and placed a large book on it.
‘Thank you, Henrik,’ said Persson. Henrik smiled, nodded and left the room. Persson looked at Fiona.
‘Firstly, Miss Rankin, may I ask how you came to be in possession of this letter?’ He placed the letter on the coffee table in a manner that made Craig feel like all that was missing was Persson adding the words ‘Exhibit A’ to the end of his sentence. He pushed the thought from his mind and sipped his coffee.
Fiona put her cup down, crossed her legs and fished around in her handbag. Craig noticed that Persson let his eyes stray to Fiona’s legs for a microsecond. Under her coat she’d worn a smart skirt and sweater combination for the occasion, with black stockings and her smartest black heels. Good choice, thought Craig.
Fiona found Craig’s wallet in her bag and handed it to Persson. On the way through from Edinburgh, Craig had emptied it of the cigarette cards, the old press cuttings and the photocopied letter of safe conduct, so that now it was empty. Persson looked at it, opened it with mild interest, and closed it again.