Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘I hope he worshipped it in daylight, too.’

Gissing nodded, deep in thought.

‘Another?’ Mike offered.

Gissing shook his head. ‘Early night for me,’ he said. ‘What was Allan’s excuse this time?’

‘Dinner with a client. Wasn’t sure how long it would go on. But he’s cleared his diary for tomorrow.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Gissing rose slowly to his feet, then noticed there was a trickle of whisky remaining, so drained it and exhaled noisily. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Michael. Try to get some rest.’

‘Do you need me to run you home?’

Gissing waved the offer aside and made for the door. Mike waited a couple of minutes, then emptied his own glass and nodded goodbye to the barman as he exited. His car was on a single yellow line fifty yards along the road. There was no sign of the professor. This was a street of galleries. Mike peered through the window of the nearest, but couldn’t make out anything other than vague shapes on the walls. He looked to left and right, but saw nothing to trouble him. Unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat. He decided to take the long route home, the one that would lead him past Allan’s flat. It was just off Leith Walk, in an undistinguished part of the New Town. Nice flat, though, and never any trouble in the vicinity, due in no small part to the police station directly opposite. Mike kept his indicators on as he stopped adjacent to two patrol cars. They were parked kerbside, locked and empty. Allan’s flat was two floors up. The lights were on behind the curtains. Didn’t mean he was home, of course – could be for security. Didn’t mean he’d lied about the dinner. Didn’t mean he was becoming a liability.

Not yet.

The problem was in the detail. Mike had asked Allan to look for chinks in the plan’s armour, meaning he spent all his time on negatives – what could go wrong – rather than getting any sort of buzz from the adventure. Allan had been to Granton, driving past the warehouse, skirting its perimeter, noting movements and personnel, then had reported back with news of several dozen potential problems and setbacks. And, it seemed to Mike, had begun believing the task to be altogether more fraught than was manageable, while Mike himself felt the opposite. Even Chib Calloway – Chib Calloway! – was bending to his will. He rubbed his spine against the driver’s seat, feeling the gun in his waistband. With a well-lit police station not fifteen feet away.

In charge.

In control.

Senses heightened.

Mike switched off his flashers and let the Maserati rumble down the hill into the heart of the New Town.

They met at Mike’s flat in Murrayfield. Gissing spent the first few minutes studying the works of art that lined the walls, while Allan wanted to see Mike’s den, asking questions about the spec of his computer and commenting on the display of awards.

Mike knew what they were doing: deferring the inevitable. He busied himself making coffee, Miles Davis providing the soundtrack. The flat was fitted with a centralised music system, meaning anything on his iPod could be piped into any or all of the rooms. The speakers were in the ceilings, but a couple of them had stopped functioning. Same went for the display panel on the living room wall. That was the problem with a ‘smart home’: the smarter it got, the more could go wrong. One of the recessed lights in the kitchen needed replacing, too, but it was a halogen thing and fiddly to install. Mike would sometimes joke that when the last bulb fizzled out, he’d have to find somewhere else to live.

He took the tray into the living room and placed it on the dining table next to the cardboard box.

‘Everything’s ready,’ he said.

His guests accepted their drinks with silent nods, trying not to show any interest in the box or its contents. Gissing had brought a list with him: fake names of the seven individuals booked on to tomorrow’s tour.

‘How long ago did you book the tour?’ Mike asked.

‘It tends to fill up pretty quick,’ Gissing commented.

‘How long?’ Mike persisted.

The professor shrugged. ‘Three… four weeks back.’

‘Before we started planning this?’

Gissing acknowledged as much with a twitch of his mouth. ‘I told you, Mike, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I did the same thing last year: reserved a block of names for the tour.’

‘You bottled out?’ Allan guessed.

‘Didn’t know who might be willing to help.’ The professor slurped some coffee. ‘I hardly knew you back then, Allan…’

‘And you’d yet to meet me,’ Mike added.

Gissing nodded slowly. ‘It’s one thing to have an idea, another to carry it to fruition.’ He toasted Mike with the coffee mug.

‘We’re not there yet,’ Mike warned. ‘How did you make the bookings? ’

‘By phone.’

‘But without using your own name?’

‘Fake names throughout. They asked for contact details, as I knew they would, so I used the phone numbers of some Indian and Chinese restaurants. They won’t need to phone unless the tour is being cancelled.’

‘And it’s not going to be cancelled this year?’

Gissing shook his head. ‘I had my secretary call them yesterday to see if there was any chance of adding a student to one of the tours. She was informed that all the tours are full, meaning they’re going ahead.’

Mike thought for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to sound reassured. He then opened the box and lifted out the first of the guns. He placed it on the surface of the table, and another followed it, followed by a third and a fourth. ‘Take your pick. Whatever’s left goes to Chib’s men.’

‘And the sawn-off?’ Allan had spotted it, still resting in the box, barrel pointed upwards.

‘That’s for them, too.’

Gissing was weighing up one of the starting pistols. ‘Believe it or not, I used to shoot as a lad. My school had cadet training. Sometimes we were allowed live ammo.’

‘Not tomorrow,’ Mike said.

‘Heavier than it looks,’ Allan commented, picking up another of the guns. He studied it. ‘I thought you were supposed to file off the serial number.’

‘They’re untraceable,’ Mike assured him.

‘According to your friend Chib,’ Allan countered. He was taking aim at the window, one eye squeezed shut. ‘Thing is, if we go in there waving these around, the guards might get spooked, start lashing out…’

‘Chib’s men are there to lash back.’

‘But say one of them rushes me,’ Allan persisted. ‘Do I pull the trigger and shout “Bang!”?’

‘Just improvise,’ Gissing growled.

‘The starting pistols fire blanks,’ Mike explained. ‘The noise should be enough to freeze anyone in their tracks.’

Gissing picked up the revolver. ‘This one’s genuine, isn’t it?’

‘Ex-Falklands or Gulf War,’ Mike confirmed. ‘You know a bit, don’t you?’

‘Actually, I think that’s my knowledge of these things pretty well exhausted. How about you, Michael? Any preference?’

Mike reached around into the waistband of his denims. He was wearing a loose shirt, and the Browning emerged in one fluid movement.

‘Jesus, Mike,’ Allan said, ‘you make that look almost too practised. ’

Mike smiled. ‘I had it on me last night in that pub.’

‘Did you now?’ Gissing said. ‘I’d no idea.’

‘I bet service would have improved if you’d whipped it out,’ Allan added.

‘Once you’re happy with your choice,’ Mike went on, nodding towards the guns, ‘I want you to keep it with you, try to get comfortable handling it.’

‘Not that I should have any reason to use mine,’ Gissing stated.