Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘I’ll meet you there, then. We can do breakfast at my place and then head to Gracemount.’

‘Is it best if I meet up with you at Gracemount?’ Gissing asked.

‘Up to you, Professor,’ Mike told him.

‘I’ll probably do that then – I’ll order a mini-cab.’

‘In which case, pay cash,’ Allan interjected. ‘Don’t use an account or anything that would leave one of those paper trails we’ve been talking about.’

‘In fact,’ Mike added, ‘best take a bus into town and then transfer to a cab.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Gissing grumbled, ‘you both sound like the real thing.’

‘That’s because we are the real thing,’ Allan reminded him. ‘Now fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen. It’s a short hop to Marine Drive, but I don’t want us getting pulled over by the traffic cops…’

Westie was a wreck, but he was enjoying the challenge. He’d complained to Alice about the lack of food in the fridge and booze in the cupboard. She’d reminded him that the nearest shop was only a two-minute walk.

‘Do I look like I can afford two minutes?’ he’d screamed at her.

‘If you stopped rolling joints every quarter-hour, you could take the whole sodding afternoon off,’ she’d snapped back.

‘I’m doing this for you, remember.’

‘Yeah, sure…’

With which, she had flounced out of the studio, kicking an empty pizza box out of her way. But the box had rattled, meaning it wasn’t quite empty. Two crusts with a trace of tomato paste on each – a feast, under the circumstances. Westie worked with music in the background – Bob Marley, John Zorn, Jacques Brel, P.J. Harvey. The Brel had been turned into an accidental drinks coaster at a party a while back, as a result of which it skipped on some tracks; not that Westie minded – he didn’t speak French anyway. The singer’s passion was what he wanted. Passion, elegance and striving.

‘Same wavelength,’ he cooed to himself, picking up yet another paintbrush, grinding its hardened bristles against the edge of the easel. Then he had a smile to himself as he remembered his little secret. If he looked closely, he would see it staring back at him. Westie placed a finger to his lips.

‘Sshhh,’ he said.

And with a quiet chuckle, he popped the last morsel of pizza crust into his mouth, lit what remained of his previous spliff, and got back into the swing.

Ransome was reminded of the old cliché: things were quiet; too quiet.

He’d tried tracking down the man called Hate, with no luck whatsoever. Nor had Glenn fared any better, despite every ne’er-do-well in the city having been alerted to the search. Hate had to be staying somewhere outside Edinburgh, which was why Ransome had widened the net to West and East Lothian and even over the Forth Bridge to Fife Constabulary – all to no effect.

Plenty of campsites and caravan parks, but so far Ransome had drawn a blank there, too. He’d then decided to start at the other end, so to speak. There had been a slight frisson in contacting Interpol – he was ashamed to admit it, but it was true nevertheless. Full description… possible Hell’s Angel affiliation… Scandinavian. How much more did they need?

Well, a name for a start, one of his email respondents had joked. As a last resort, Ransome had contacted a mate at the Scottish Criminal Records Office, though he doubted Hate would have form in the UK.

‘I share your scepticism,’ the mate had said, ‘but I can run it through a few databases here and there.’

Ransome had also gone into the Shining Star and asked staff there about Chib Calloway and Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie they barely knew, and Calloway they were unwilling to discuss.

‘Never causes us any trouble,’ the manager had opined.

‘He will,’ Ransome had warned her. Liked the line so much, he’d repeated it to Ben Brewster back at the station. Ben had given a half-hearted laugh, his eyes on the paperwork piling up on his colleague’s desk.

‘I’ll get round to it,’ Ransome had chided him.

But Calloway was consuming too many of his waking hours, along with some of his sleep. In his dreams, he was chasing the gangster on foot through the streets of a sprawling city. His prey seemed to know the place better than him, and would lead him a merry dance through hotels and office blocks and factories. At one point, Ransome had been chatting up a good-looking woman in a hallway, while slowly becoming aware that Calloway had squeezed himself into a cupboard right next to them and was eavesdropping on the seduction.

Jesus, he needed a drink. He’d tried calling Laura to see if she might be free after work. So far he’d left three messages. He was seated at his desk in the CID unit at Torphichen Place and finding it hard to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the place. He’d been to the toilets, splashed water on his face. Too much coffee, he told himself. Too much stress. His wife Sandra had been studying cookery at night school – Thai, Chinese, Kashmiri, fusion. The nightly assaults of spiced concoctions previously unknown to him were playing havoc with Ransome’s digestion. Not that he could say as much to Sandra’s face. He kept a supply of Rennies in his desk drawer, but the indigestion tablets could do nothing about the pungent sweats he broke into occasionally.

If only he could open one of the windows…

His request for 24/7 surveillance on Calloway had been met by his bosses with a hoot of derision. Cutbacks were biting – where was the money for overtime going to come from? CID was short-handed as it was. Ransome had taken it on the chin and walked out of the room with his pride intact. He’d even driven out one night to the newish housing scheme where Calloway lived. Car in the driveway; lights on in the living room; no sign of either Johnno or Glenn.

Glenn… someone else who owed him a text, a phone call, a message.

Glenn the Gullible, who would be easy meat for CID once Calloway was behind bars. Always supposing Johnno let him climb on to their old boss’s throne unopposed. Glenn might be the clever one, but Johnno could boast a wide streak of viciousness. With Calloway gone, he was bound to fancy his own chances. Who would Chib’s old team be the more willing to follow – brain or brawn? Didn’t much matter to Ransome. The whole set-up was coming crashing down.

At going-home time, Brewster suggested a quick one. But a quick one was never quick. For a start, they couldn’t drink anywhere near the station – too strong a chance they’d be sharing the place with people they didn’t want to meet, villains fresh out of the holding cells, scowls with a grudge. So that meant a jaunt, and Ransome didn’t feel much like a jaunt with his colleague.

‘Doing anything at the weekend?’ he asked instead, trying to sound interested.

‘It’s Doors Open tomorrow – I’m taking the girls to St Bernard’s Well.’

‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s down by the Water of Leith… used to be some sort of health spa. Kept under lock and key these days.’

‘I meant, what’s Doors Open?’

‘Doors Open Day. People get to go into lots of buildings, ones they’re normally barred from. Masonic lodges and banks and stuff. I think Leith cop shop’s throwing open its doors.’

‘Sounds a riot.’

‘It’s fun. Ellie says it’ll be good for the girls, too.’

‘Well, good luck with that.’ Ransome knew that Brewster had two daughters just shy of adolescence and a wife who, like Sandra, always got her way. The girls were being educated privately, which kept funds tight elsewhere. As good a reason as any never to have kids… not that Sandra had shown much interest in that department… Ransome sat at his desk until the office had emptied. He liked the CID suite when it was deserted and silent. Staring at his screen, however, he realised he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to do. There was the paperwork to be got through, but it could wait. Maybe he’d come in tomorrow or Sunday – a couple of hours would clear the backlog and give Brewster something to think about on Monday morning.