Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Is that you, Hate?’

‘Calloway?’

‘The one and only. I can’t help thinking we got off to a bad start, and I want to make it up to you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well, while I’m putting the funds together for your employers, how about a peace offering? Something you could place under the heading of collateral. Thing is, it’s going to take a few more days to organise – maybe as long as a week – so I need you to persuade your employers that it’ll be worth waiting for.’

‘You’re playing games with me.’

‘Believe me, I’m not. I’m talking about something the mafia does all time.’

‘You wish to put the head of a racehorse in my bed? Is that why you are working so hard to locate my place of residence?’

Shit, this guy is good…

‘I think I can do better than that, Hate – a whole lot better.’

‘I’m listening, Mr Calloway…’

By the time Chib’s dinner guest reached the table, the offer had been made, the phone switched off for the rest of the evening. Chib stood up to kiss her perfumed cheek.

‘You,’ he said, ‘look especially stunning tonight.’

‘And you look…’ She considered for a moment. ‘Smug’s the word that comes to mind. Like a cat that’s just got the cream.’

‘And who’s to say I haven’t?’ Chib teased, sitting down again and grabbing at his napkin before one of the waiting staff could unfurl it and start laying it across his groin.

He hated that. Really hated it.

The phone was ringing as Mike emerged from the shower. By the time he’d towelled himself dry – noting in the bathroom mirror that he needed to refresh his gym membership – the ringing had stopped. No message left, but he recognised the number. Robert Gissing, calling from home. Mike slid his feet into flip-flops and his body into a towelling robe, then pushed the buttons on his phone, exiting the bathroom and making for the balcony.

‘What’s up, Robert?’ he asked when the call was answered.

‘I was just curious – is friend Calloway on board?’

‘I think so.’

‘And how much exactly is that going to cost us?’

‘He wants a painting.’ Mike held his breath, knowing what was coming.

‘But the man’s a bloody infidel! Wouldn’t know good art if it bit him on the arse!’

‘Nevertheless…’ Mike listened as Gissing’s breathing grew less ragged. ‘I suppose it all depends on whether there’s enough time for Westie to come up with another fake.’

‘Well, I’ll leave that negotiation in your capable hands, Michael.’ Gissing still sounded irritated. ‘You seem to have the measure of students and criminals both.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’ Mike gave a little laugh, but was pleased all the same.

‘And besides,’ the professor was saying, ‘I’ve been thinking that Calloway may prove more useful to us than we first thought…’

‘How so?’ The night air was chilled; Mike retreated back inside, sliding shut the door.

‘There’s a curator at the National Gallery,’ Gissing was beginning to explain. ‘And Charles Calloway may be the very chap to deal with him…’

‘Deal with him?’ Mike’s eyes narrowed; he wondered if he’d misheard.

‘Deal with him,’ Professor Gissing confirmed.

It occurred to Allan Cruikshank that the reason he made a good banker was that he was intrinsically boring. He had barely taken a risk in his life. This meant he was cautious and prudent, and therefore good at not losing his clients’ money. But banking had also made him cynical. It was a truism that those who already had money would find it easy to increase their wealth, and they never seemed very grateful for Allan’s work on their (often unmerited) behalf. Some of the High Net Worth individuals on his books owned three or four homes, yachts, racehorses, private islands and innumerable works of art. Yet they seemed to appreciate very little, being too busy amassing yet more. He found them dull and blinkered, and wondered if they thought of him the same way. Then there were his fellow account executives at First Caledonian Bank, some of whom hardly registered his existence. The chief executive had met him a dozen times, yet never seemed to remember him from one occasion to the next. With a drink in one hand and a canapé in the other, he would regale Allan time and again with the same anecdote, while Allan smiled and tried not to scream out, You’ve told me that before, you fuckwit! He had perfected the art of looking interested, and could gasp in surprise at any and every predictable punchline.

I want something he can’t have, Allan would think to himself. I want something none of my feckless clients could ever own.

I want those two Coultons.

But he didn’t want to go to jail.

These past few nights, he had been waking in a sweat, adrenaline shuddering through him. He would sit in his dressing gown at the dining table, poring over the plan. How many years would he serve for his part in the scheme? How would his kids react to a father banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Would it all be worthwhile for just a couple of desirable paintings – paintings he could never show to anyone, never boast about to clients, colleagues, boss? Then again, his ex-wife, Margot, had chided him for years that he was dull. His conversation was dull, his cooking was dull, his dress sense was dull.

And his lovemaking, too.

When she’d moved out, he’d realised he loved her. But by then she had found herself a new man, a younger model who wore black lambswool polo necks and a smug, seemingly permanent half-smile. This hadn’t stopped Allan calling her every few days for a catch-up, suggesting lunch at various trendy bistros. She seemed already to have been wined and dined in each of them.

Well, there was one thing Allan could do that Mr Lambswool couldn’t: pull off the perfect crime. Which was why, despite the sweats and the bad dreams, he was determined to go ahead with the heist. Hell, his kids might actually like him a little better, even supposing he went to jail – notoriety beat anonymity in most teenagers’ eyes.

‘You’re sure?’ Mike asked him for the umpteenth time as they climbed the stairs to Westie’s third-floor flat.

‘Positive,’ Allan replied, hoping he sounded convincing. Mike had stressed that his job was to study the fine detail, but every time he made a suggestion or spotted a potential problem, it seemed Mike had been there before him. With Chib Calloway on board, bringing muscle and firepower, Mike had explained that Allan could jump ship if he was anything but one hundred per cent behind the project.

‘You won’t be losing face or anything,’ he’d said.

‘Mike,’ Allan had replied, ‘are you sure it’s not you that wants me out?’

To which Mike had shaken his head, maintaining eye contact but saying nothing.

They had reached Westie’s landing and stood for a moment outside the door, catching their breath. Then Mike gave a slow nod before pressing the bell. Westie, however, looked more nervous than either of his visitors, something Mike was quick to point out as the student led them inside.

‘Your fault,’ Westie snapped back. ‘Know how much sleep I’ve had this past week? I’m running on caffeine, cigarettes and the odd Bloody Mary.’

‘Tabasco or Worcester sauce?’ Mike asked. Westie just glared at him. They were in the living room by now. It smelt of fresh paint, varnish, wood. Westie was using old wood where possible for the stretchers – no need for frames, they’d be swapping them on the day. Where old wood hadn’t been available, he was staining new pine with several coats of instant coffee.

‘Works a treat,’ he explained, as Mike picked up one of the frames and sniffed it.