The King's Prerogative Read online

‘Firstly, let me say how sorry I was to hear about your father-in-law’s passing. Please give my sincere regards to Mrs Dunlop, I assume she’s with her family this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, the funeral was yesterday and we drive back to Stranraer this evening.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand. Well, this shouldn’t take too long. These things usually take longer to bring to a conclusion but as you’ve had power of attorney for your father-in-law’s affairs these last five years, and the estate is small, I saw no reason for you to have to make another long journey in the coming weeks.’ He gave a weak smile. So, thought Craig, no hidden millions then. He knew his grandfather had worked hard his whole life, first on farms and then as a delivery man for a local butcher, but he had lived modestly. Craig didn’t even think he’d been abroad in his life. And he included England in that definition.

  ‘Mr McLean’s flat was rented as you know, although the furnishings were his. I believe they’re in storage?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. We put them into storage when he had to move out of the flat and into hospital.’

  ‘Quite. I have his will in front of me here.’ Thomas Rodgers fished out a pair of wire-framed glasses from his breast pocket and put them on. ‘You can of course take this with you for Mrs Dunlop, but in essence everything passes to her. That includes the savings in Mr McLean’s bank account, in the region of seven hundred pounds as you know, and his personal effects. In addition, he has stipulated that the following items be given to family members as follows. To you, his silver pocket watch and chain, as a token of his deep affection. To Master Craig Dunlop – I do apologise, Mr McLean’s will was written some time ago – a brown leather document wallet which I believe you are already aware of. And finally to Miss Helen Dunlop, a necklace and a pair of earrings from J. Macintyre & Son, jewellers, which belonged to the late Mrs McLean. Now, I just need your signature here Mr Dunlop, and that concludes our business for today.’

  Thomas Rodgers handed over a form to Craig’s father and it was duly signed and handed back. A copy of the will was put in an envelope for Craig’s mother’s attention then the three men stood up, shook hands again and Thomas Rodgers showed them out, offering his commiserations once more.

  ‘That was short and sweet.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there wasn’t much more to be said or done.’

  ‘What do you think Mum will do with the money?’

  ‘Oh you know your mother, she’ll probably splash out and buy the dog a new collar or something.’

  They allowed themselves a brief laugh as they stepped out into the fresh air again. The rain was getting heavier. The grey streets reflected the mood of the low, brooding clouds. The two men hurried the few yards to the nearest taxi rank. Luckily no one else was queuing so they jumped in the first cab and told the driver where they were going.

  ‘I can’t believe Grandad remembered that I was fascinated with that old wallet when I was younger.’

  ‘Remember? How could he forget? Every time you came with us to visit him you made a bee line for it. Do you remember how you used to open it up, take out all the old cigarette cards, line them up, and put them back together again? You used to play with that wallet for hours.’

  ‘Yeah, not exactly the best example to set a young boy growing up was it – dozens of old cigarette cards. They were great though. All those old footballers. And the German cards too, from before the war so Grandad said. Pictures of ships and planes and generals with big moustaches. I can still see them all. Was it true what he said about who the wallet belonged to?’

  ‘Definitely. He could prove it too – it was in all the papers at the time. For a brief time your grandad was world famous. He liked to tell his mates down the pub that he was at any rate.’

  ‘Well I don’t expect it’s everyone who could say they own a wallet given to them by Rudolf Hess himself.’

  Chapter 2

  Marion and Helen Dunlop had packed and were ready to go when Peter and Craig arrived back at the hotel. They thanked the staff for looking after them so well and went out to the car park.

  ‘What would you rather do? Go straight home?’

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Just after half three.’

  ‘It would make sense to swing by the storage place first before we head home. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mrs Simpson said she would take the dog out and feed him, so we don’t need to get back in a hurry.’

  Peter Dunlop smiled as he recognised the hidden meaning in his wife’s words. ‘It’s okay, I won’t drive too fast.’

  Craig’s mum smiled. She’d smiled a lot that day, in between the tears. Before long they arrived at the storage facility, which was really only a series of lock-ups in a secured building supplies yard.

  ‘You stay here, I won’t be long, they shut at four-thirty,’ said Marion, and she climbed out the car and disappeared into the office to speak to the man in charge.

  ‘She wants some time to herself,’ said Helen.

  ‘She’s allowed, I suppose,’ said Craig.

  Ten minutes later Marion arrived back, carrying a smallish cardboard box. She settled herself in the front seat then turned round to face her children.

  ‘This is for you, Helen,’ she said, handing her daughter a blue velvet jewellery case about the size of a dinner plate.

  ‘Oh!’ said Helen as she carefully took the case from her mum. She undid the small metal catch and opened the case to reveal a necklace and earrings. Clearly old but timelessly, beautifully elegant. ‘I don’t know what to say’.

  ‘You don’t need to say a word’. Marion smiled at her then turned to her son. ‘This is for you, Craig.’ She fished out a large leather wallet from the box on her lap and gave it to Craig. Craig recognised it immediately even though it must have been ten years since he’d last seen it. He suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t seen his grandad often enough in the past few years and now it was too late. He hadn’t known his paternal grandfather. He had died in the war when Peter was just a bit younger than Craig was now. His world was shrinking even smaller, or so it felt to him in that moment.

  He turned the wallet over. It felt warm and familiar in his hands. It was ten inches long but right now it seemed smaller than he remembered. He decided that most things from childhood tend to be smaller when revisited in adulthood. His grandad had kept it for years in the old shoe box, with newspaper cuttings kept from the time when Davy McLean had his moment in the glare of the world’s press. Craig ran his hands across the small gold monogrammed letters embossed in one corner. A.H. His grandfather had told him that the airman he found that morning identified himself as Alfred Horn.

  ‘It used to be in a shoe box, remember?’

  ‘It’s still here.’ She reached across and gave the battered old shoe box to Craig, who rested it on his lap and started leafing through the old clippings inside. Marion then turned to her husband. ‘And this is for you, from my dad.’ She held out her hand and offered her husband a beautiful old pocket watch on a long silver chain.

  ‘Thanks, love, it’s a lovely keepsake,’ said Peter Dunlop, taking the watch and opening it carefully to look at the intricate face. ‘It was good of your dad to want me to have it.’ He looked up. ‘But hang on, how did you know? You haven’t even read what it says in the will.’

  Marion looked over her shoulder at her two children in the back seat, and she beamed. ‘For a clever man your dad can be a bit slow at times, can’t he?’ She squeezed his hand. ‘You might have had the power of attorney, but he was my father, of course I knew that he wanted you to have it.’

  With the funeral over, Craig took advantage of a quiet weekend. He phoned his mate Kenny to find out where the guys were going to be on Saturday night and he joined them for a couple of pints before saying goodnight as the rest set off to whatever party was happening that weekend. It wasn’t that Craig didn’t fancy going, in fact he’d been specifically invited by the hostess
who pleaded with him a fortnight before. ‘Please come Craig, it’ll be great, I’ve booked the Downshire and Bobby’s going to deejay.’ But he felt tired and he fancied a quiet one, so he left them to it and headed home after stopping off at the Sun Kai to pick up a char sui curry with fried rice. Craig lived about a hundred yards along the street from his parents’ house. Not by design, but the landlord was a friend of Kenny’s dad and Craig was given first refusal on renting it when it became available. Craig loved it, it was on two floors with a huge living room downstairs and two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen/dining room upstairs. Great for parties even if his neighbours didn’t always agree with him on that point. Still, it was freedom of sorts.

  The Sunday dawned grey, wet and cold. Craig couldn’t be bothered going for the papers but in the end he dragged himself along to the newsagent-stroke-mini market and came out with an armful, a forest of Sunday supplements and a packet of dog treats for Guinness. He sauntered up the street and popped in to see his parents. His mum was in the kitchen and waved as she saw Craig come round the back of the house. He kissed her and she put the kettle on. She asked him if he’d been out the previous evening. Craig thought about telling a white lie but he guessed she had probably already been told the truth by Mrs Jamieson next door who seemed to have spies everywhere. His dad heard their voices and came in to check that the kettle was on, said hello to Craig, thanked him for getting the papers and disappeared through to the front room with the Sunday Mail and the Sunday Post. Helen breezed down the stair, through the kitchen and out the back door, pausing only to pinch Craig’s waist and tell him that he was getting fat. Craig grabbed a tea towel and flicked it at her as she dodged out the door which was Guinness’s cue to jump up from his basket and bolt out the door into the garden.

  And life goes on, thought Craig.

  He stayed for dinner mainly because his mum had forced him to. It never ceased to amaze Craig that his mother never stopped feeding people. If it wasn’t breakfast, dinner or tea it was a snack around ten o’clock, or a wee sandwich to keep him going about half past three, or oatcakes and cheese after Coronation Street. It was her west of Scotland way of telling you that she loved you. Craig had decided that today was not the day to refuse the offer of Sunday dinner so he helped his mum peel the veg and they chatted about what the week ahead had in store and don’t forget that it’s so-and-so’s birthday. Craig finally took his leave after roast chicken, roast potatoes, carrots, gravy, lemon meringue pie with ice cream, coffee and the obligatory oatcakes and cheese. It was only just gone five o’clock when he got home so he rescued a handful of clean shirts from the tumble dryer and ironed them. Good, he thought, they wouldn’t nag him from the corner of the kitchen for the rest of the evening.

  He was just about to go downstairs with a coffee to watch some television when his eye fell on the shoe box sitting on the bottom shelf of his kitchen unit. He picked it up, sat down at his dining table and took out the contents. He opened out the newspaper cuttings and read through them. They were all dated from May 1941, and some featured photographs of his grandfather as a younger man, standing next to the wreck of an aeroplane which bore the distinctive markings of a World War Two German cross. The headlines were variations of ‘Scots farmer captures downed German pilot’ and some, printed a few days later, stated that the farmer had in fact captured Rudolf Hess, deputy leader of the Nazi party and third in the chain of command of Nazi Germany, with nothing more than a pitchfork. Craig took the wallet out and felt its warm leather again. It was bound by a thin leather lace. Craig loosened it and unfolded the wallet. Opened, it had three compartments, and Craig put his hand in the middle compartment and brought out the cigarette cards that were so familiar to him.

  He took a sip of coffee then carefully laid out the cards on the table. They were all there, just as he’d remembered. He reached over to pick one up when his elbow caught the handle of his coffee mug, spun it round and tipped it on its side, spilling the hot liquid all over the table. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ Craig made a grab for the mug but only succeeded in scattering cards, wallet and mug across the table and on to the floor. He grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen and mopped the coffee up, trying to be as delicate as possible. Two towels later he had just about succeeded in mopping up the damage made on the table. He retrieved the wet cards and laid them out on the worktop, which he’d lined with kitchen roll. Thankfully they didn’t look too bad. A couple were completely ruined but the rest looked salvageable. He picked up the wallet from the floor and examined it. It had escaped the worst of the mess, thank God. Craig opened each of the flaps to check if the compartments inside were wet. The first one was fine, as was the second one. The third one, the right-hand flap, was a bit damp, and Craig saw that the lining at the bottom of the right hand flap had ripped and there was a tear roughly three inches long at the bottom.

  Did I do that? he wondered. Christ, the thing has survived for forty-odd years and I’ve had it two days and practically destroyed it, thought Craig, cursing to himself. It was then that he saw a creamy yellow something in the space made between the torn pieces of lining. He examined the gap more closely and realised whatever was inside was made of paper. He stopped for a moment, in two minds about what to do. He didn’t want to ruin the wallet completely but at the same time the itch of his curiosity had to be scratched. Craig went to the kitchen drawer and selected the sharpest knife he had. He sat down, adjusted the lamp beside him so it provided the best light possible, and slowly cut away at the tear in the lining. At first he was scared to use too much force, but he quickly realised he had to be quite firm and after a minute or so he managed to increase the tear from three inches long to five inches. He reached inside with a finger. It was definitely a piece of paper. He managed to grab the edge with his index finger and middle finger but whatever it was was too big to fit through the hole. He picked up the knife and cut the lining again. This time he reached in and was able to pull the piece of paper out. He placed it on the table in front of him and dried his hands on the knees of his jeans before picking it up once more. It was four inches wide by six inches long, folded twice. Craig delicately unfolded the paper and laid it down flat. It read:

  Sandringham,

  Norfolk.

  25th April 1941

  The German airman who carries this letter of safe conduct is using it as a sign of his genuine wish to give himself up to the appropriate authorities. He is unarmed and will identify himself as Hauptmann Alfred Horn. He is to be well looked after, to receive food and medical supplies as required, and to be removed from any danger zone as soon as possible.

  On behalf of His Gracious Majesty, King George,

  Lieutenant-Colonel William Spelman Pilcher, DSO 3rd Battalion Grenadier Guards (Ret).

  Chapter 3

  Monday 14th February, 1983.

  Claire Marshall walked towards the staff room in Stranraer Academy. The twenty-seven-year-old teacher had just come from a double period of 3rd year English and she needed a coffee. This particular 3rd year class hadn’t grasped the reality that playtime was over and it was time for the serious business of knuckling down and getting ready for their ‘O’ grades the following year. The really annoying thing was that even though she knew this was now her second full year in the job she still felt that she was on probation. And she also hated the fact that part of the reason she felt like that was because the department head had taught her when she herself was a spotty eighteen-year-old pupil at the school nine years ago. It didn’t help that at five foot four most eighteen-year-olds were taller than her. She still had to catch herself before she called Mr Ross ‘sir’ instead of Mr Ross. Worse still, he’d told her to call him Patrick, which gave her the creeps. Especially when he stood too close in the staff room and his breath smelled of onion.

  ‘Miss Marshall. Phone call for you.’

  Grace, one of the school secretaries, had seen Claire walk past the office and stuck her head out of the door to call after her. ‘Second time he�
�s called this morning, I think you’ve got an admirer.’

  ‘Shut up, Grace. I told you, I’m saving myself for Harrison Ford,’ said Claire as she picked up the receiver that was sitting on the secretary’s desk. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Anyway, I don’t see many Valentine cards on your desk either,’ she said, sticking her tongue out at the secretary. They shared a giggle before Claire composed herself again.

  ‘Hello, Claire Marshall speaking.’

  ‘Hi Claire, it’s Craig Dunlop. How are things with you?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Craig. Fine, fine. Busy, busy, you know. What’s up?’ The surprise of hearing his voice out of the blue caused her face to burn with a sudden embarrassment she couldn’t control. She hoped to God that he didn’t pick up on the fact that she was having a minor panic.

  ‘Em, I wondered if you’d have some time free one night this week, I wanted to ask your advice on something.’

  ‘Of course, what can I do?’ She was delighted that he’d phoned her and was only too eager to meet up. A spark of excitement tingled through her fingers and toes.

  ‘I’d value your professional opinion on something. There’s a drink in it for you.’

  ‘Sounds very mysterious,’ laughed Claire. ‘Ok, count me in. It’ll cost you more than one drink though.’

  ‘Great. When’s the best time for you?’

  Claire pushed her hair behind an ear.

  ‘No time like the present. Say eight o’clock tonight?’