The King's Prerogative

by Iain Colvin

  ‘I know. I have faith in you, do you know that? Look at what you’ve done this past week.’ She came over and lay beside him.

  Craig put an arm round her. ‘Thanks Fi.’ He kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled good.

  ‘I meant to tell you how much I enjoyed last night.’

  Fiona looked up at him. ‘Me too.’ They kissed.

  They lay like that for a while.

  Craig broke the silence. ‘I’ve made a decision. We should go back home tomorrow. We’ve taken this as far as we can on our own. I need the police to start working for me instead of against me.’

  Fiona sat up and examined his face, searching for any hint of resignation in his eyes. She couldn’t see any. ‘What will you say to them?’

  ‘That’s what we’ll talk about tonight.’

  They knocked on Brian’s door an hour later and the three of them went back out into the rain. It was Sunday and none of the cafés or restaurants they came across was open, not even the Chinese from the evening before. Rather than wander around getting wetter, they decided to cut their losses and get fish and chips from the first place they found open. They hurried back to the hotel and this time Craig and Fiona hosted Brian in their room. They made short work of the fish suppers then got down to work.

  Three hours later, they had the plan worked out, having argued back and forth about what should be in and what should be left out, what would be said, who would say it, and finally about the roles that Craig, Brian, Fiona and Lynn would perform. Brian flicked back and forward through the notes he had taken while they talked.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this, Craig?’ Brian looked worried.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Craig. ‘We agreed we’d do everything in tandem.’

  ‘Yes, but I wish you’d let me come to the police with you. We can back each other’s stories up.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m counting on you doing that when I need you to. First things first, you and Lynn need to get our story ready for publishing.’

  ‘I know, but you’re the one taking all the risk meantime.’

  ‘It’s a calculated risk. Anyway, we need to bring this to a head. A few weeks ago I found a letter. Now look what we have.’ He looked at Fiona. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m fed up running.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fiona, squeezing Craig’s hand. ‘With any luck they’ll put you in Barlinnie and not Spandau. Much easier on visiting days.’

  Chapter 41

  Monday 21st March, 1983

  Craig woke. He managed to remove his arm from under Fiona’s shoulder without waking her, and stretched over to the bedside table to check his watch. It said 7:15. He slipped out of bed and went for a shave and a shower in the bathroom. By the time he was finished Fiona was awake. He kissed her good morning and while Fiona showered Craig got dressed and pulled his belongings together.

  Fiona and Craig knocked on Brian’s door at eight-thirty and the three went down to breakfast. There wasn’t much conversation at the table. Fiona asked for scrambled eggs while the two men ordered the full breakfast. Craig didn’t eat much of it. He was engrossed in his thoughts, mentally rehearsing what would happen when they got back to Edinburgh. He drank his coffee and put his napkin on the plate in front of him. ‘I’m done.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Fiona.

  Brian put his knife and fork down.

  ‘No, Brian, you stay and finish your breakfast,’ said Craig. ‘I have to go to the bank to get some cash anyway. What time do you want to hit the road?’

  Brian looked at his watch. ‘Latest checkout time is eleven o’clock, I should have finished tidying up our notes by then. I’ll ask reception to make up our bills.’

  ‘Good. See you later.’

  Craig and Fiona left Brian in the dining room and went back upstairs.

  ‘Do you need to phone your mum before we leave?’ asked Craig.

  Fiona twisted her mouth into a crooked half smile and thought for a few seconds. She weighed up the risk against the benefit of getting a head start on finding the right lawyer for Craig.

  ‘Yes you’re probably right, I should ring her. I’ll phone while you’re at the bank. And I’ll phone Lynn too.’

  ‘Good. I won’t be long.’ He picked up his chequebook and guarantee card, put them in his jacket, kissed Fiona and left her to make her phone calls. As Fiona watched him leave she felt good about the decision she’d made about Craig.

  It was raining again so Craig zipped up his jacket against the weather as he made his way along the street. For once he didn’t mind the rain. It felt good. Better than good. He reflected on the fact that the hotel was on Princes Street, but it wasn’t quite as metropolitan as its Edinburgh equivalent. He promised himself that the first chance he got he’d take Fiona out for a proper night on the town. That would be great. They had so much catching up to do.

  The bank was a detached stone building which stood directly opposite the junction with Princes Street. As he approached it, he realised that he was too early. The doors were still shut. Craig crossed the wide street and went into a newsagent. He bought a newspaper and took shelter in a shop doorway, flicking through the pages then back through them again, front to back and back to front. Nothing grabbed his attention. No familiar names sprang out at him and no photographs made him jump in recognition.

  He looked at his watch. 9:33. He crossed the street once again. The doors of the bank were open and when Craig entered there was already a small queue of customers inside. After a long five minutes it was his turn. He stepped up to the counter. Behind the glass screen a young dark-haired teller said good morning to Craig.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Good morning. I’d just like to cash a cheque please.’

  ‘Do you have a cheque guarantee card?’

  ‘Yes.’ Craig knew that would allow him to cash a cheque for up to £50. Any larger and the teller would have to phone through to the account holding branch to seek approval for the transaction. For obvious reasons Craig wanted to avoid that at all costs.

  He wrote out the cheque and handed over his chequebook and card. The teller turned to the last page of his chequebook to stamp the frequency marking page. Multiple stamps on that page would have provided another prompt for the teller to contact Stranraer branch, but Craig knew that the page was clear. As she examined the front of the cheque to make sure it was filled out correctly, Craig felt his heartbeat quicken. Please, please, please don’t check your terminal, he thought. It was very likely that his branch had placed an alert on his account and he prayed that the teller wouldn’t be tempted to look up his balance. There was no need to, the guarantee card was sufficient to cover the cheque. In theory.

  The teller read the name on the cheque and looked up to ask ‘How would you like your cash, Mr Dunlop?’ but didn’t get as far as actually speaking. A look of recognition flashed across her face.

  Craig knew that he had never seen the girl before. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. He glanced at the metal name plate on the frame of the bandit screen and decided to gamble. ‘Don’t I know you? Amy, isn’t it? He smiled at her, trying to make it seem as genuine as he could.

  ‘Eh, yes, it is,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I recognised you but I’m trying to remember where from.’

  ‘I work in the bank too. I’m sure I saw you on a training course in Edinburgh. When were you there?’

  ‘I did my teller’s course last June.’

  ‘That’s it. I did my Lending One course at the same time,’ he lied. ‘I thought I recognised your face. How are you doing?’

  ‘Oh fine, fine.’ She looked again at Craig’s cheque. ‘You’re in Stranraer, then?’

  ‘Yes, for my sins.’

  ‘You’re a bit off the beaten track aren’t you?’

  ‘Visiting relatives. Just for a couple of days.’

  ‘Oh, well I hope you have a nice time. How would you like your cash?’

  ‘Fives and five sin
gles please.’

  Craig must have made an impression, or perhaps it was just professional courtesy, because Amy counted out new notes for him and handed them across, along with his chequebook and card.

  ‘There you are, enjoy your stay.’

  ‘Thanks, hope your day goes nice and quick.’

  Amy laughed. ‘It’s Monday, that’s a certainty.’

  Craig said goodbye and left the bank the way he’d come in. He waited till he had crossed the street before breathing a sigh of relief.

  He walked back along Princes Street and was a few yards from the hotel when he felt someone seize his left arm at the bicep and something hard was pressed against his kidney.

  ‘Keep walking, Craig. Nice and easy.’

  He jerked his head and shoulders towards the voice but the hand on his arm prevented him from turning round to see the man’s face. He recognised the voice immediately though.

  ‘Commander Anson.’

  ‘One and the same. Keep going, let’s join Doctor Irving and Miss Rankin.’

  The hard object pressed harder into his side and Craig walked into the hotel. Nobody was on reception and no other guests were around. The two men climbed the stairs. Craig’s senses had never been more alert. He was aware of the MI6 man’s position relative to his own. Two steps behind. Craig put his hand in his jacket pocket. He felt for the Dictaphone he’d taken from his work almost a week earlier. He hoped that Anson’s view was obscured as he clicked the recorder on. They reached the first floor landing and when they got to room 12 Anson rapped on the door lightly with one knuckle. It opened and Craig stood face to face with Blake.

  ‘Mr Dunlop. Come in.’

  Craig instinctively recoiled, but Anson jabbed him in the back and the two men moved forward and entered the room. Anson closed the door.

  Brian, Fiona and Lynn were sitting on the double bed. Craig was shocked to see Lynn, and more shocked to see the state she was in. She had a large purple bruise below her left eye and her bottom lip was cut deep. She was wearing a baggy jumper and jeans, with tennis shoes on her feet. Without makeup and with her hair unkempt, she looked as if she’d been through ten rounds with a boxer. Craig rushed over to her and took both of her hands in his. ‘Lynn, oh my God. Are you okay?’

  ‘No, Craig. They’ve got Nicolas.’

  ‘Good to see you again, Mr Dunlop,’ came a voice.

  Craig hadn’t noticed the old man sitting on the window seat until he spoke. He looked up to see who it was.

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Clive Prior. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I believe you know Mr Blake.’

  The professor allowed himself the satisfaction of seeing the look of confusion on Craig’s face, but only for a moment. His tone of voice changed as he asked his next question.

  ‘Mr Dunlop, where is the document?’

  Craig tried to grasp what was happening, but it felt like he was trying to climb a rope that was simultaneously slipping through a pulley. Eventually the rope ran out and he was falling through a vacuum. He looked to Fiona for help, then to Brian. Fiona looked frightened out of her wits, Brian only marginally less so.

  ‘Mr Dunlop, I don’t have time for any more charades. You may have thought your theatrics in my office the other day were very amusing, but may I remind you that both Commander Anson and Mr Blake have weapons. Please don’t force me to ask them to use them.’

  Craig remembered being told long ago that witnesses to bank hold-ups could usually describe the gun in intricate detail but couldn’t describe the man holding it. On this occasion the received wisdom was wrong. Craig glared at Blake with a hatred he had never felt before. He took his hands out of his jacket pockets and balled them into fists.

  Brian sensed that events were about to spiral out of control and diverted attention to him.

  ‘Why was Mills allowed to stand trial at Nuremberg, Professor?’

  Everyone looked at Brian. Clive Prior smiled. He knew what Brian was trying to do.

  Craig realised it too, and unballed his fists. He couldn’t imagine that the three intruders would let them live, not now they’d played their hand. He hoped against hope that Brian had some kind of a plan in mind.

  ‘I’m impressed, Doctor Irving,’ said the professor. ‘I surmised that was why you might be in Thurso, although I wasn’t sure if you were merely running and hiding. May I ask how you found out about Mr Mills?’

  ‘By pure chance. I came upon the newspaper report of his trial.’

  A wry smile swept across the old man’s face as he considered the irony. ‘If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, without my stir.’

  He shifted position. ‘I don’t suppose it can now do any harm for you to know. In answer to your question, Frank Mills stood trial at Nuremberg through an unfortunate combination of circumstances. By necessity, only a handful of people knew of his existence.’ The old man paused as he recalled facts stored away long ago. ‘There was Churchill obviously, and the inner circle of the Special Operations Executive. But by the time of the trials, Churchill was no longer PM. He was defeated in the election of July 1945, as you’ll know.’

  ‘I can see why that might have been a problem,’ said Brian with barely concealed sarcasm.

  ‘Indeed.’ The old man seemed to be relishing this brief opportunity to enlighten his fellow academic. ‘Mr Churchill no longer had the authority to control the situation. The last throw of the dice therefore was to dispose of Mills. An attempt to kill him by lethal injection was botched, unfortunately. Consequently the security around Hess, or should I say Mills, was strengthened considerably. He was extremely well guarded by people who knew nothing of the deception. And the SOE itself was disbanded soon afterwards, so I personally could get nowhere near him. So Frank Mills was left to his fate. But by that time, Mills had already been well prepared. When the intelligence services discovered that Hess wasn’t Hess it was too late, the trial had started and he was under the protection of the court.’

  Brian continued to try to buy time. ‘Mills prepared? What do you mean? How did you get Mills to play along?’

  ‘It wasn’t as difficult as you might think, Doctor Irving. He was already serving a life sentence for murder, so he was a man with very little to lose. He also had a wife and young family, so the promise that they would be well provided for was an attractive spur.’

  ‘For forty years?’ asked Fiona, finding her voice despite the panic that gripped her.

  Clive Prior turned round and smiled at her. ‘Well you see, Miss Rankin, once we had him in our control, we could get to work on him.’

  ‘Get to work on him?’

  ‘We had three years to programme him, as it were. Sodium pentothal was very useful in that regard.’

  ‘The truth drug?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘In small doses, yes, it can be used as that. In larger quantities over a longer period, it induces a deeper level of autosuggestion. Three years was more than adequate to programme Mr Mills into actually believing he was Rudolf Hess.

  ‘You’re talking about brainwashing,’ said Brian.

  ‘A dreadful Americanism, Doctor Irving. I much prefer the term programming.’

  ‘You programmed him to believe he was Rudolf Hess?’

  ‘Yes. But with the precaution of including amnesia as part of the programming. The rest, as they say, is history.’ He allowed himself a brief chuckle at his little bon mot.

  ‘And your job has been to keep a lid on it all these years?’ asked Craig.

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘Oh, let’s just say I’m a conscientious civil servant.’

  ‘It was you who had Claire Marshall killed,’ Craig growled.

  ‘I’m afraid that was unfortunate. Mr Blake was overzealous in performing his duties.’

  Weeks of guilt, pain, fear and anger welled up in Craig. He stood up and made to lunge for the professor, but Blake anticipated the move and struck h
im on the side of the jaw with the barrel of his gun. Blake knew there was no contest between bone and metal, and Craig slumped to the ground. His whole skull seemed to reverberate as the room spun around him.

  ‘That was unfortunate, Mr Dunlop,’ said the professor. ‘Do not try anything of the sort again or Commander Anson will be forced to hurt Miss Rankin.’ Anson pulled Fiona to her feet and pressed a small black automatic pistol against her breast to prove the point. Fiona froze to the spot.

  ‘Don’t!’ yelled Craig, regaining his senses in spite of the searing pain shooting up the side of his face and head.

  ‘Please lower your voice, Mr Dunlop,’ said the professor. ‘Now, for the second and final time, where is the document?’

  ‘I posted it to myself,’ said Craig, reluctantly.

  Blake grabbed a pillow from the bed and pushed it against Fiona’s face, then jammed his gun deep into the fabric. Fiona’s scream was muffled by the pillow pressing against her open mouth.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Dunlop,’ Blake spat. He cocked the hammer of his gun.

  ‘No!’ screamed Craig.

  ‘Blake!’ Clive Prior called his bulldog to heel. ‘You will have your opportunity in due course.’ Blake reset the hammer and threw the pillow to the floor. Fiona’s face was wet with sweat and tears. She didn’t even register that she had wet herself. Lynn comforted her while Fiona sobbed into her friend’s shoulder.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Craig, tell them!’ hissed Lynn. ‘They have Nicolas too! It’s over. There’s no point.’

  ‘Mr Dunlop,’ said the professor. ‘This has become tiresome. I know too well from personal experience that you would not part with the document. Listen to Mrs Simon. We’ve checked your room and both vehicles. Now, where is it?’

  Craig was about to speak when Anson interrupted. ‘I saw him come from the bank a few minutes ago.’