Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Better not have scratched the paint,’ Chib warned the man. ‘Respray could end up costing you an arm and a leg.’

The man eased himself off the bonnet and stood with his hands either side of him, fists bunched.

HATE and HATE.

‘You were not expecting me, Mr Calloway?’ The accent was foreign. Stood to reason. ‘I represent some people, Mr Calloway, people you should know better than to disappoint.’

By which he meant the Norwegians, the biker gang from Haugesund. Chib had known there’d be some trouble there.

‘You owe your friends for a shipment, Mr Calloway, and you have not been forthcoming.’

Johnno had taken half a step forward, but Chib swiped a hand against his shoulder. ‘I’ve already told them the money’s on its way,’ he rasped.

‘Repeatedly so, Mr Calloway, but it is hardly a sustainable bargaining position, is it?’

‘Chewed a bloody dictionary,’ Glenn snorted, Johnno adding a low chuckle.

The Hell’s Angel turned his face towards Glenn. ‘You mean because I speak your native language better than you yourself do?’

‘You don’t just come barging up to Mr Calloway!’ Glenn barked back. ‘You show him some respect!’

‘The same respect he has displayed towards my clients?’ The question sounded genuine.

‘You’re not part of the gang, then?’ Chib interrupted.

‘I am a collector of monies due, Mr Calloway.’

‘For a percentage?’

The man shook his head slowly. ‘I work for a straight fee, half of it in advance.’

‘Do you always collect the other half?’

‘So far.’

‘First time for everything,’ Johnno spat, while Glenn pointed out some marks on the BMW’s bonnet. The man ignored the pair of them: he had eyes only for Chib Calloway.

‘Tell them,’ Chib said, ‘the money’s coming. I’ve never let them down before and, frankly, I’m insulted they’ve sent you.’ He looked the stranger up and down. ‘A grocer’s boy running their errands for them.’ Chib decided a wagged finger might even be in order. ‘You report back to them, and we’ll talk again next week.’

‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Calloway.’

Chib’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’

The man offered a sliver of a smile. ‘Because by next week they’ll have had their money paid in full.’

Johnno’s face broke into a snarl and he lunged forward, but the man sidestepped him neatly and grabbed his wrist, twisting until Johnno buckled in pain. Chib noticed that there were spectators: the manager from the bar had been told by a couple of pavement smokers to come look. Kids bunking off school had stopped their BMX wheelies to follow the entertainment. Glenn was ready to wade in but Chib stopped him. He’d never liked playing to an audience. Not since schooldays…

‘Let him go,’ he said quietly.

The stranger held Chib’s gaze for a few more seconds and then pushed Johnno’s arm away. Johnno was left sitting on the roadway, rubbing at his injury. The look the stranger was giving Chib said it all: Johnno and Glenn were as much use as infants in a playground when the artillery comes calling.

‘I’ll be sticking around,’ the man was saying. ‘I need to hear from you today; tomorrow at the latest. After that, the talking will all be over – do you understand?’

Johnno took a petulant swipe with one foot, trying to make contact with the stranger’s shins. The man ignored him and handed Chib a folded scrap of paper. It was a row of digits: a mobile phone number. When Chib looked up, he was walking away, making to cross the park.

‘Hey!’ Chib called out to him. ‘What’s your name, big man?’

The stranger paused for a moment. ‘People have a habit of calling me Hate,’ he called back over his shoulder, striding past the serried ranks of BMXs.

‘That figures,’ Chib muttered to himself. Glenn had helped Johnno to his feet.

‘Dead man walking!’ Johnno yelled. ‘Next time I see you – that’s a promise, pal!’ He jabbed a finger in Hate’s general direction. Glenn was patting him on the back, trying to calm him down. Johnno’s eyes were on his employer. ‘We need to take him out, Chib. See him taken care of… send a message to anyone and everyone.’

‘Reckon you’re up to the job, Johnno?’ Chib asked. ‘I wouldn’t say you looked rusty back there, but I’ve known scrapyards with merchandise in better nick – and that’s after the compactor’s had a go at them.’

‘We could follow him,’ Glenn was saying. ‘Find out where he’s staying, what his real name is…’

Chib nodded thoughtfully. ‘Knowledge is power, Glenn. Reckon you could track him without him noticing?’

‘We can give it a go,’ Glenn offered. But the giant was three quarters of the way across the playing field. No way they could go after him on foot without him knowing about it: there was no cover.

‘Make some calls instead,’ Chib suggested by way of an alternative. ‘Bed and breakfasts to start with. Say you’re from the tourist office and some Norwegian bloke’s gone and dropped some money.’

Glenn was nodding. ‘I want to get his money back to him.’

‘And put out his description among the dossers and the jakeys – that lot have got eyes in the backs of their heads and would pimp their granny for a bottle of Buckie.’

Glenn was studying his employer. ‘Can I take it you’re not planning on paying up?’

‘Let’s see,’ was all Chib Calloway said, unlocking the car with his remote.

‘I don’t like this,’ Mike Mackenzie was saying.

He was in Robert Gissing’s office, the door locked and the plan of the warehouse spread across the desk, weighted down at its corners with oversized art books. Gissing had paid another visit to the warehouse and had amended the plan accordingly.

‘You turned up there unannounced,’ Mike stated. ‘Might make them suspicious come the heist.’

The professor patted Mike on the back. ‘I never thought of that, Michael. You’re quite right, and I’ll be sure to check with you first in future. But to put your mind at rest, I do the same thing once or twice a year, and I don’t think my presence was much noticed. They’re too busy finding space for all the new arrivals.’

By which he meant the extensive overflow from the Royal Museum. The place was getting a major overhaul, and a good part of its collection needed shifting elsewhere for the duration. As Gissing had explained, it might make their job harder on the day. Items could have been moved to make space. But he didn’t think the paintings would be relocated – he’d made the trip to assure himself of that.

Mike was studying the plan. ‘Gatehouse,’ he recited. ‘CCTV cameras. Guardroom. Staff acting as guides, plus everyone on the tour. If you’re sitting in the getaway van, that only leaves three of us to cope with it all.’

‘And at least one of you will need to be collecting the actual paintings.’

Mike nodded slowly, then began shaking his head instead. ‘We’ll never manage.’

‘Cold feet, young Michael?’

‘Just want to make sure we’re covering all the angles.’

Gissing seemed to accept this. ‘Maybe it’s Allan whose feet are getting chilled…’

Allan hadn’t been able to make the meeting. Mike had called it at short notice, and Allan had apologised by text: there were things at work he couldn’t get out of. Mike tapped the plan a final couple of times and then walked over to one of the chairs, sitting down on it heavily, running both hands through his hair while he looked around the room. The office was emptier than before – some of the boxes of books had gone. Pictures were missing from the walls.

‘Allan’s fine. He wants you to make a copy of the plan so he can study it at home.’