by Ray Timms
‘I need to know, First Minister, if there is any truth in this email? Have you ever discussed any plans to overrun UK military bases.’
‘I can assure you Samuel,’ Mary said, ‘ScottiLeak is a fake email and not a very clever one.’
The First Minister hadn’t answered his question. He pressed her. ‘You can categorically state that you have never made any plans to confiscate UK military hardware and take over the oilrigs?’
‘Did you not hear what I just said Cruickshank.’ Mary said feeling hung-over. ‘I just told you the email is a fake. It was put together and circulated by the UK government who are desperate to distract the media from having a go at Sir Roger Bottomley after he made an absolute arse of Brexit and then our Independence.’
‘I will ask you one more time Mary,’ Cruickshank said now convinced that Dewar was lying. ‘Was the confiscation of English assets ever discussed… at any time… at any level?’
Mary emphasised. ‘No. Never at any time did we plan to overrun the UK military bases or the oilrigs… we may… may, I stress, at one time,’ Mary fidgeted in her chair, ‘have loosely mentioned it as just a possibility… a possibility, but nothing more. I don’t actually recall when the meeting took place, or who was there, but yes, someone did mention that should Scotland gain its Independence perhaps we would need to take steps to protect Scottish interests, and that was all. Its no big deal.’
This admission brought out a series of groans from her Ministers.
‘What?’ Mary said spreading her hands. ‘The email is still a fake.’
When Dewar’s Cabinet filed out of the room there was considerable mumbling in the ranks.
Later that day in Holyrood, Mary Dewar’s impassioned speech to the Scottish Parliament could hardly be heard above the raised voices of the MSP’s.
‘Sir Roger Bottomley’s government, can make all the threats it likes, but we, the proud people of Scotland will stand resolute in our right for self-determination. Our Independence is set in stone… and as a monument to our Independence I have commissioned a Scottish granite statue to be made of me that will stand in the lobby of this building. The lies perpetrated by Westminster shall not distract us from our destiny.’
Punching the air Mary’s rallying cries: Scotland forever free…. Scotland forever free… Scotland forever free…’ rang through the steel and wood rafters. Then from the throats of the MSP’s this quickly became a chorus of battle cries.
To thunderous applause Mary cried, ‘no longer will these highlands, these lochs, our rivers and our towns be welded to the Union. As of now Scotland is no longer under the heel of the Westminster bullies. From this day forth an Independent Scotland will create a new future for herself. And the world will embrace us.’
Mary Dewar remained standing while the assembled MSP’s clapped and cheered. At her command they fell silent. In a voice now sounding grave the First Minister said.
‘Some of you will by now, have heard that acting like thieves in the night, in a cynical act of retribution, the UK armed forces removed every piece of their military hardware leaving Scotland vulnerable to invasion by their armies that are lined up along our border with their guns trained on our cities. Their planes now terrorise our airspace, and their ships sail menacingly close to our shores. Members of the Scottish Parliament, I believe the UK poses a clear and present danger to our national sovereignty and with that in mind I shall meet with my Cabinet and my security advisers to discuss the possibility of forming an emergency coalition government.
When Mary Dewar asked, for the sake of Scotland, the MSP’s should put aside their party political allegiances and join her in a coalition government she met no opposition.
The Scottish media, reacting to the covert military action by the British armed forces followed up with a series of headlines designed to further inflame the passion of the Scots and drum up a frenzy of Scottish patriotism.
Chapter Six
Holyrood.
All things considered, Cruid thought the Cabinet meeting had gone quite well. He wasn’t however, happy at Mary giving him the title, Kingmaker, a role that had all the hallmarks of a career-ending car crash. His entire career to date had been successful only because he had been savvy in choosing his battles and his friends, and for sure, avoiding the jobs that turned up nasty surprises.
The Scottish government had been effectively straightjacketed by the problem of Royal Assent, which only added to the pressure he was under to find this king.
The cost element worried Cruid. Mary wouldn’t have given a single thought to what all this was going to cost. It’s all very well her saying, ‘oh, lets have a king’, but these things are expensive and Scotland’s deficit was running at 18 billion a year. He decided he wasn’t going ahead with this until the Scottish Chancellor had provided him with a ballpark budget. Armed with a pen and a notepad he made a list of the things he imagined a king would need. After reading down his list he decided to take this straight to the First Minister. He picked up the phone and dialled her number. She picked up first ring.
‘Mary, can I come over and run something by you?’
‘Yes Cruid,’ Mary said. ‘You may as well seeing as I can’t get that idiot Sir Roger Bottomley to take my calls.’
The First Minister was behind her desk when Cruid pulled up a chair and sat facing her. He had his list in his hand. He decided he’d just come out with it and have her yell at him. She was going to have to agree anyway.
‘First Minister,’ Cruid said, ‘this king business…’ Cruid stopped talking because Mary began shuffling papers on her desk, apparently looking for something. ‘Shall I come back anther time Mary? I can see you are busy.’
‘No, no, no, you carry on talking. I am listening.’
When Dewar picked up her phone and started a conversation with her PA in the outer office, Cruid irritated by this very nearly got up and walked out.
Mary said down the phone, ‘Carla, do you have the agenda for the 3 o clock meeting with the CSFC? (Cabinet Secretary For Finance and the Constitution) ‘Good,’ Mary said, ‘I want to add: king business, to the agenda.’ Mary then said, ‘no Carla. Put it under, any-other-business.’ Returning her attention to Cruid she said. ‘Sorry, you still here Cruid? What was you saying?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about this king business,’ Cruid said stiffly, annoyed at her rudeness. ‘Have you given any thought to the cost implications? Only I have been compiling a list of things that the king will need.’
‘What costs are you talking about and how have I had the time to do that?’ Mary said testily. ‘Didn’t I delegate that job to you Mr Kingmaker? But as you just heard me tell my PA I shall be raising the matter with the CSFC this afternoon. Did you not hear me just say that?’
Cruid tipped his head back and looked down his hooked nose at the First Minister. He said.
‘In this meeting with the CSFC it would be most helpful if you could squeeze out of him a ballpark figure, one that I can use to budget the coronation.’
The smile Mary gave him was full of cynicism. ‘Seriously, Cruid, you want a budget? Ok, how about ten grand? You do realise that due to the falling oil prices, Scotland is almost bankrupt? We simply cannot afford a fancy coronation.’ Mary waved away the list he held out. ‘I don’t want to see that. Just read it out and then go, leave me in peace.’
Cruid rolled his shoulders to ease a crick in his neck. He worried about his blood pressure. It was a bit high the last time he had it checked. Mary Dewar, could at times, be a difficult woman. Cruid wasn’t aware of his right foot bouncing at the end of his long bony leg crossed over his knee. Taking a breath he read aloud:
‘Item one: I would suggest the day of the coronation be made a public holiday– Item two: I propose that we call this day, Scotland Independence Day. Item three: Historic Environment Scotland has given us permission to borrow the Honours Of Scotland, including the crown of James I, the sceptre and the sword, and of course the Stone Of Scone, all of which
are on permanent display at Edinburgh Castle. Item four: On the matter of succession. I am hoping that the king we find will already be married and have children. It is important that the king has a successor. If not his queen will need to produce at least one boy child to carry on the royal line.’
With Mary Dewar’s head now below her desk while she looked through a pile of papers by her feet, Cruid was finding it difficult to continue. He harrumphed and carried on.
Item five: ceremonial costumes. The king and his queen will need tailor-made outfits for the ceremony and for the ceremonial dinner.’ Cruid looked up from his notepaper to see Mary’s eyes had gone ovoid and her lower jaw was now slack. Cruid was thinking, here we go. When Mary didn’t yell at him he continued down his list. ‘Item six: I am thinking the coronation should be an occasion for street parties.’ Cruid stopped when he saw Dewar shaking her head. ‘Mary,’ he insisted, ‘I do understand the need for budget restraint but I urge you to think of this as an investment. Think for a moment about the revenue that a Scottish royal family would generate from tourism. This really shouldn’t become a cheap sideshow. This is an opportunity for us to demonstrate to the world that Scotland is a nation capable of putting on a great pageant.’
‘Ok, ok, I get it.’ Mary said waggling her hands either side of her head. Getting ratty with him now she said, ‘is there anything else our king is going to need Cruid? A private plane, a helicopter, a summer palace?’ Mary groaned when Cruid added these to his list.
‘Item seven:’ Cruid droned on, ‘the king will need an official car. We can’t have our king arriving at official engagements in a taxi.’
‘Oh and I suppose he’ll need a driver too.’ Mary sneered. ‘My God Cruid this is getting ridiculous. You had better not be thinking of giving him my Rolls?’
‘Well, actually, I was going to run that by you.’
‘Oh no you don’t. You are not having my Rolls. That is my official car and I am not sharing it with anyone else. Get him a Mondeo from the motor pool, or pick one up off eBay. Is that it? You got any more bad news? No? In that case I bid you good day Mr Kingmaker, go make it happen.’
On the walk back to his office Cruid’s bones felt a little stiffer. He thought it might rain later. Cruid, apart from his aching joints, worse in the damp weather, had always enjoyed good health. At six feet two and weighing just over twelve and half stone, he had never smoked in his life and he was totally abstinent these days. That and sticking to a low-fat diet Cruid was hoping to avoid the worst that ageing can throw at him.
Closing his office door behind him Cruid crossed the room and stepped up into his thought pod. Looking east, he loved this panoramic view of Edinburgh, with all its history, mystique and its pageantry. He could never tire of this outlook. Turning his head to face west his eyes took in the winding thoroughfares and bridges crossing Royal Mile. Over at the castle, the ramparts were hidden in Scotch mist. On his right, behind the Cherry trees planted by the Queen, many years ago, he could just make out the roof of Canongate Kirk. This small church, the Queen and her family would visit whenever they were in Edinburgh. This led Cruid to wondering how the Queen must be taking this. It would surely devastate her to see another monarch rule over her beloved Scotland. In his gut, a sense of betrayal burned livid. In another age, such treachery would have cost him his head. Casually, he wondered if it were possible for two regents to rule over one rocky Isle? Perhaps they could occasionally get together for a friendly chat over a cup of tea? Inevitably, there would be some overlap. How would that work? Stepping down from his thought pod warmed by the late afternoon sunshine, he thought that he might go home early and sit in his garden, maybe do some dead–heading, or feed the lawn, or top up the bird feeders.
That night Cruid had hardly slept a wink. He told his wife Winifred he couldn’t sleep because he was worried about this king business.
In an Internet search Cruid discovered that the Antiquity Studies Department at Strathclyde University was housed in a building here in Edinburgh, nowhere near Strathclyde. Right after nine, Cruid rang the number on its webpage. Professor Hilary Chambers, who had headed up the DNA studies of King Robert IV, after hearing a little of Cruid’s story cautiously agreed Cruid could come to her office for ten.
After getting him to sign his name in the visitors book the front receptionist at Strathclyde University called up Hilary Chambers to say her visitor had arrived.
Stepping out of the lift on the seventh floor, looking to his right, at the end of the corridor the professor was waiting in the open doorway of her office.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice Professor Chambers,’ Cruid said shaking the hand of the Head of Antiquities. ‘As I explained on the telephone, my purpose is one of great national importance and is quite urgent.’
‘Please do take a seat.’ Chambers said going back behind her desk. The Government Minister she recognised from the various times she had seen him on the TV or had seen his photo in the newspapers. He looked nervous fiddling with his hat.
Her office was tidy, kept that way he imagined by a woman with a tidy mind. Over on the wall behind her desk were framed certificates, quite a few of them. He glanced at the glass cases that displayed various fragments of skeleton; some he suspected were human remains. Despite the heat in here he shivered.
‘You said on the telephone that you had read about my study of the remains of King Robert the third, and then you mentioned something about you wanting to make use of the DNA samples we have. Before I can agree to such a request I need to know precisely what you plan to do with it.’
Cruid took his time explaining that the Scottish Government was now planning on becoming a monarchy again and that her DNA samples were to be used to reinstate the Bruce dynasty.’
‘Gosh how exciting, ‘Hilary enthused. ‘To have another King on the throne, oh my, that is wonderful news.’
An hour later, after shaking hands with the Professor, a smiling Cruid left her office with the DNA of King Robert IV, grandson of Robert the Bruce on a tiny memory stick safely tucked away inside his coat pocket.
In the staff car park John Brooks was dozing behind the wheel of his Bentley 53 when Cruid woke him by climbing in the car. On the drive back to Edinburgh Cruid made a phone call to the Chief of Police.
‘Good morning Sir Roland,’ Cruid said. ‘Sorry if this is an inconvenience but I need to speak to you urgently. If I call round now can you make yourself available?’
‘This sounds serious, Cruid, ‘Tripp said. ‘What is this about?’
‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’
‘This does sound mysterious Cruid. I assume that you’d rather my secretary didn’t take notes then?’
‘If you don’t mind, besides, that won’t be necessary.’ Cruid added cryptically. ‘Although this concerns our national security, its nature is not one that should unduly concern you, but I can explain more when I get there.’
The Chief of Police trusted Cruid, who was regarded as a stalwart of the Scottish Government with considerable clout in some odd places.
‘In that case Cruid, I shall cancel my eleven o clock meeting and I shall look forward to seeing you shortly.’
Cruid ended the call and studied the memory stick in his hand. He shuddered at the though of what it contained. To his mind, to his generation, it was hard to imagine how this tiny piece of twenty-first technology could contain the DNA of a descendant of Robert The Bruce.
The buttons of his crisp white shirt, straining over his paunch, led Cruid to thinking Sir Roland had put on a bit of weight. With a shake of his head Duncan Cruid declined the offer of a “swift tipple” from the bottle that Tripp waggled in his face.
Sir Roland, sat behind his desk, held the glass of amber liquid up to the light. As if it were pure nectar he sipped it and then sighed.
‘Now then, you dark horse, what is this all about? I hope you are you not going to ask me to arrange to have some evidence go missing? Have you been caught doing so
mething naughty?’ Cruid looked shocked and offended.
‘I was joking Cruid.’ Sir Roland laughed.
Cruid didn’t think it funny. Keeping a stern face he said. ‘As I mentioned on the telephone, this is a matter of national security. I would like to make use of your criminal records database.’
Now it was Tripp’s turn to be shocked. ‘Are you serious? I can’t sanction that. We could both end up in prison.’
‘I seriously doubt that Sir Roland.’ Cruid said. His bloodless lips turned up, only briefly at each corner. ‘By the way, did you enjoy the holiday that I arranged for you and your good wife last year? Cannes wasn’t it? Four weeks as I recall.’
‘Oh, wow, what a holiday that was. Lady Tripp still talks about the yacht we stayed on.’ Sir Roland inclined his head. ‘I don’t suppose you are still friends with the owner?’ Sir Roland gave Cruid a wink.
‘Indeed I am Sir Roland. Would you like me to arrange something? How about August this year?’
‘That would be fantastic Cruid. Now regarding this national security thing. I can arrange for you to meet with one of my database specialists. I have a name in mind. Someone you can trust to be discrete.’
The following day, in his office about as big as a broom cupboard, located in the bowels of St Leonard’s police station, DC Ivor Duggan a DNA analyst, invited Cruid to sit on the chair that he had hurriedly to clear of dust covered box files.
‘I was hoping officer Duggan,’ Cruid said preferring to stand, ‘that you can help me track down a male through your DNA database?’ Cruid handed over the memory stick. ‘It’s on that thing, the DNA.’
‘I can try, Mr Cruid sir. Is this sample from someone known to the police?’
‘He is known to everyone,’ Cruid said, ‘but this person has been dead for a few centuries.’
‘Oh,’ officer Duggan said a little more excited, ‘I love working on cold-cases.’
‘This one is far from being cold.’ Cruid said cryptically
‘We only keep the DNA of people that have been arrested Mr Cruid sir, and even those we are supposed to dispose of after a given time.’