Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Is that us, then? he repeated, keen to wrap things up.

‘I suppose so…’ But then Mike gave a little wince. ‘No, not quite, actually – there’s something I forgot…’

‘Spit it out.’

Mike slipped his hands into his pockets, as though wishing to make the request seem more casual.

‘There’s this mugging victim…’

Chib’s eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed as if in comprehension. ‘You want me to find out who did it, have them made an example of?’

‘Not exactly.’ Mike paused for effect. ‘You see, this particular mugging hasn’t actually happened yet.’

Chib’s eyes narrowed again. ‘I don’t get it,’ he conceded.

‘Keep listening,’ Mike advised, ‘and you soon will…’

‘Chib was disappointed,’ Mike said, ‘when I told him the National Collection doesn’t stretch to a Vettriano.’

Gissing snorted into his drink. The two men were seated in an anonymous bar near the railway station. It was a no-nonsense place, meant for drinkers only: no TV or jukebox and only crisps to stave off any hunger pangs. Not having indulged in the best part of a decade, Mike had found himself ordering two packets of prawn cocktail, thinking of the box of guns that was hidden, for want of a better place, in the boot of his car. Three old-timers were seated on stools at the bar itself and had ignored Mike completely as he ordered the drinks and snacks. Gissing had chosen the table furthest from the door. He wrinkled his nose at the crisps and stuck to alternating between sips of malt and gulps of IPA.

‘Vettriano isn’t universally admired,’ he commented, wiping foam from around his mouth.

‘Popular, though,’ Mike countered, knowing full well the professor’s views on the subject. Gissing decided not to rise to the bait.

‘So what exactly is our gangland friend settling for?’

‘An Utterson.’

‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor?’

‘That’s the one. Westie didn’t think he’d have any trouble painting it.’

‘You showed a picture of it to Calloway?’

‘I did.’

‘And he liked it?’

‘He asked what it was worth.’

Gissing rolled his eyes. ‘Well, good riddance to it, I suppose.’ He took another swallow of beer, and Mike realised how nervous the professor was, while Mike himself was growing calmer with each passing hour. From the internet, he had printed off an aerial map of the streets around the warehouse, charting the best route for the van. He’d arranged with Chib where to pick up the four extra crew, and where to drop them afterwards. The crew would take the guns and dispose of them. Looking at Gissing, he felt glad the old boy wouldn’t be storming the warehouse, firearm at the ready: the hand reaching for the whisky glass was trembling.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Mike assured him.

‘My dear chap, of course it will. You don’t think I’m having doubts?’

‘A lot could still go wrong.’

‘You’ll handle it, Mike.’ The professor gave a tired smile. ‘You seem to have developed a taste for all of this.’

‘Maybe a little,’ Mike conceded. ‘But it was your idea, remember.’

‘Still, I won’t be sorry when it’s done and dusted, while I have the sneaking suspicion you just might be.’

‘So long as we don’t end up in jail. Christ, imagine it – with Chib Calloway as our disgruntled cellmate.’

Gissing raised a hand, palm out. ‘As the Americans might say, let’s not even go there.’

They shared a smile and concentrated on their drinks. Just one more day to go. Mike knew he’d have to fill tomorrow with activity, so that he didn’t start to fret. They’d gone over the plan on paper, rehearsed the details a dozen times. Allan had been through it with a fine toothcomb. They knew what they had to do, and how much time would be available. But there were factors they couldn’t determine. Mike wondered if that was why he felt so calm: a case of que sera sera. As a businessman, he’d always liked to be in charge, knowing what would happen, in control of the various sequences of events. But when he’d picked up that Browning, he’d felt a thrill of electricity. The weight of it, the machine-tooled detail. It was a work of art in itself. He’d loved playing with guns as a kid; had a huge collection of plastic soldiers, cowboys and Indians. Hell, give him a banana and he’d have been aiming it at the nearest target. An aunt had brought him back a boomerang from Australia – same thing: point, aim with one eye closed, then make that plosive sound of the bullet and its trajectory.

He remembered Chib, aiming a nonexistent pistol from the passenger seat of the 5-Series. And back at the garage, hoisting the sawn-off. Shifting against the back of his chair, he could feel the Browning tucked into his waistband. It was rash to carry it – what if anyone glimpsed it and reported him? – but he couldn’t help himself. He only had it until Saturday afternoon. He thought back to the Indian restaurant and wondered how those drunken suits would have reacted if he’d pulled a gun on them. Not in the restaurant itself – too many witnesses. But outside, waiting in the shadows for them to come reeling out…

When the door to the bar opened, Mike swivelled his eyes. Caution mingled with mistrust… but it was just another drinker. A scant week or two back, he would have paid no heed – the world ended at the length of his stretched arms – but this was different. He wondered how he could go back to his old self again, seated in his flat’s spare bedroom, the one he kept all his computer stuff in, staring at the monitor or checking the shelves for signs of his relevance – the business initiative awards and framed citations (Outstanding Achiever; Creative Spirit; Scottish Entrepreneur…). What did any of it mean?

The drinker had joined his friends at the bar. The door was swinging shut again, reminding Mike of that day at the auction house.

When one door opens, another closes…

And vice versa, obviously.

‘We’re really going to do it, aren’t we?’ Gissing had punched his right fist into his left palm and was rubbing the one against the other.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mike confirmed. ‘No getting away from it now.’

‘Getting away from it may not be the problem. We need to focus on getting away with it. And what happens afterwards, Michael?’

‘We’re freedom fighters, remember… afterwards, we get to feel good.’ Mike shrugged; he had nothing else to offer as yet. The professor was silent for a few moments. Then he sighed, staring into the remains of his beer.

‘Cezanne’s Boy in a Red Vest was stolen, you know – not so long ago. From a museum in Switzerland. They reckon it was taken to order. Someone has it on their wall at home.’

‘I heard about it. Interpol reckon six billion dollars’ worth gets stolen each year… know how much of it they recover? Not much.’ Mike saw the enquiring look on Gissing’s face. ‘I’ve done my research, Robert. Few clicks of the mouse and there it was – fourth largest criminal enterprise in the world after drugs, arms-running and money-laundering. Which is good news for us – means that if and when our little undertaking is discovered, the police will be focusing on criminal gangs.’

‘And we’re not one of those?’

‘Not the way the local plod would understand it.’

‘You see yourself more as Thomas Crown,’ Gissing teased. ‘Does that make Laura your Faye Dunaway?’

‘I’m a long way short of Steve McQueen, Prof – or Pierce Brosnan, come to that…’

They had another little laugh to themselves.

‘“The still watches of the night”,’ Gissing eventually said.

‘Sounds like a quote.’

‘A Victorian cat burglar called Adam Worth – some say he’s the basis for Moriarty. He once stole a Gainsborough and said it was so he could worship it in “the still watches of the night”.’