Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Fairtrade, I hope,’ he commented. Westie ignored him. He actually seemed prouder of the stretchers than of the copied paintings themselves, but as Allan studied them, he could see that they were marvellous, and this was the very word he uttered, Mike making a noise of agreement while Westie preened. Gissing had provided reproductions of the paintings, and these were pinned to the walls of the makeshift studio. They’d been torn from books and catalogues. There were also close-up photographs showing sections of individual paintings – courtesy of the College of Art’s own library. Printed information sheets – some sourced from internet sites – detailed each artist’s working methods and, where possible, the exact colours and producers of the paint used. There were tubes of oils everywhere, some squeezed dry. Squares of plywood and cardboard had been used as palettes. Brushes sat in jars of turps. Others had been discarded, stiffened beyond repair. Westie was dressed in a crusty T-shirt and a pair of baggy knee-length shorts. It was hard to tell what colour either item of clothing had been at the start of its career.

‘Told you I could do it,’ he was saying. But as he made to light a fresh cigarette from the butt of an old one, he gave a hacking cough and pushed the greasy hair back from his eyes.

‘You need a lie-down,’ Allan told him.

‘Try stopping me,’ Westie snorted.

‘Plenty of time for that once the job’s done,’ Mike cautioned. ‘How many are ready?’

‘See for yourself.’ Westie stretched out an arm towards the relevant canvases. ‘Five down, two to go.’

‘Three,’ Mike corrected him.

Westie glowered. ‘We said seven – two apiece for you lot and one for me.’

‘Another partner has come on board.’

‘Can’t start changing the goalposts now.’

‘Yes, we can. Our new partner is insistent.’

The two of them began to argue, Westie pushing for more cash. But Mike stood his ground as Allan watched in silent appraisal. His friend had changed, had grown into the role he was now playing – deal-maker, tough guy, criminal. Maybe he’d been spending too much time with Chib Calloway, but Allan thought it went further: quite simply, Mike was enjoying himself for the first time in an age. The electricity that coursed through Allan’s body was coursing through Mike’s, too, but to very different effect.

Mike was ready for anything.

A tall man, he’d always affected a slightly round-shoulded posture, as though embarrassed by his size. But now he was more comfortable in his skin, shoulders back, spine stiffened. He made eye contact more readily and spoke slowly but with growing authority. This was what he must have been like in business, Allan thought. This was how he got to the top. Which meant that selling the company had brought Mike wheelbarrows of cash, but only at the cost of his vigour. The problem was, Allan liked this new Mike just that little bit less. In the past, they had gossiped like fishwives, telling jokes and sharing anecdotes. Now it seemed the heist was their only currency. And what about afterwards? Was it likely to galvanise their friendship or drive a wedge into it? Allan was almost afraid to ask. So he watched and listened and wondered about Chib Calloway. He’d argued against the gangster’s involvement, until giving in to the combined will of Mike and the professor. Still, he knew it was a mistake. As a move, it was anything but cautious.

The men Calloway provided would be his. He could make them do whatever he liked. But would they do whatever Mike or Allan or Gissing told them to do? And what was to stop Calloway ripping them all off afterwards? They could hardly run to the authorities to complain. Mike had nodded throughout, then had argued his own corner. Did Allan want to go find some guns? Steal a van? Talk a few hooligans into helping them out? Doors Open Day was less than a week away. Calloway was the only realistic option they had.

We could buy a van second-hand… fake names and paying cash… and do we really need weapons…?

Defeated by a show of hands, two against one. So much for his role as the ‘details guy’.

The five completed forgeries sat on their individual easels. Paint glistened on several. Allan didn’t doubt they’d be tacky to the touch – oil took a while to dry. Days, he seemed to remember. And would they retain that newly painted smell? Mike had come here today because he wanted to make sure Westie hadn’t been tempted to add any flourishes – no drinks cans or aeroplanes tucked away in a corner of the canvas. When he started peering at each painting in turn, Allan did the same.

‘These look good, Westie,’ Mike said at last. The student accepted the reiterated praise with a bow, and Allan knew then that he would complete the necessary eighth canvas – Mike was in charge, and the bow acknowledged this. Allan watched as Mike pulled five folded sheets of paper from his pocket. Gissing had cherry-picked them. They were valuable but obscure and should prove relatively easy to copy.

‘Your choice,’ Mike allowed, handing the pictures to Westie. ‘Whichever one’s going to be easiest and quickest.’

‘He’s not fussy then, our new “partner”.’ Westie started sifting the short-list. ‘He’ll take whatever we give him, yeah?’

‘You’re a fast learner, Westie – now choose.’

Westie held up one of the pictures. ‘This one.’

Nodding, Mike turned towards Allan. ‘What do you think?’

The question caught Allan unawares. ‘Think?’ he echoed.

‘About these.’ Mike jabbed a hand towards the easels.

‘They look fine. Be even better once they’re framed. But are they really going to fool an expert?’

‘Depends on the expert,’ Mike answered. He was studying Monboddo’s portrait of his wife. It wasn’t quite finished yet – the background needed to be filled in – but from a distance of only a few feet Allan was hard pressed to tell it apart from the original. He remembered the exhibition and Mike’s reluctance to move on from the painting to the dozens of others in the show. Allan had made two circuits of the room before Mike could be tempted away. It looked like the same thing might be happening today, but then Allan caught movement out of the corner of his eye – someone was standing in the doorway.

‘What the…?’

‘Smile for the birdie.’ It was the voice of a young woman. She was holding a video camera up in front of her, training it directly at them. Westie gave a little wave.

‘Who’s this?’ Mike was asking.

It was the woman herself who answered. ‘“This” is Alice.’ She was still holding the camera in front of her at head height as she walked slowly into the room. ‘And one of you is Mike, the other Allan. Thing is, though, you know Westie’s full name, where he lives… and he knows almost nothing about you.’

Mike’s attention was on Westie. ‘Is there anything you’ve not told your girlfriend here?’

‘Why would he keep a secret from me?’ She was lowering the camera as she approached Mike. She wore a short black skirt and thick black leggings. Her T-shirt had a photo of Al Pacino on it from the movie Scarface. ‘Are you Mike or Allan?’

‘This is Mike,’ Westie said. He had the good grace to look embarrassed by the stunt Alice was pulling. All the same, Allan got the feeling he’d known about it in advance. No surprise in his face; no questioning in his voice.

Alice had transferred the camera to her left hand so she could reach out with the right, but Mike was not in the mood for social niceties. She quickly realised this and tried Allan instead.

‘Allan – right?’ she asked.

‘Right,’ Allan said, shaking the proffered hand. No point making an unnecessary enemy, something he tried to communicate to Mike with a look. Mike, however, was concentrating on Alice. She was making a show of perusing the paintings, giving the artist a peck on the cheek as she passed him. ‘So, so talented,’ she murmured. She stroked the cheek she’d just kissed and then turned towards Mike again.