Ian Rankin - Doors Open

Mike held his breath as the original frame was then placed around Westie’s forgery. It was a perfect fit, and he let out a little hiss of satisfaction. Gissing pushed the wooden pieces back into place, and examined the back of the original canvas, seeking identifying marks on both it and its stretcher. They couldn’t hope to copy any he found, not with any great skill. They had only so much time. But Gissing pronounced it ‘clean’. As he had predicted, the markings and labels tended to appear on the frame rather than the actual artwork. This was another reason why they’d opted for smaller canvases: less chance of cross-bracing, which meant one surface fewer that could hold identifying details…

‘Get it wrapped,’ Gissing growled, already starting work on the second masterpiece – the Monboddo portrait. Mike heard a noise and turned round to see Allan and Westie emerging from the warehouse, toting three paintings apiece. How could he have been so stupid? That was why they’d taken longer than him! Three each to his two.

‘No trouble?’ he asked, voice fluttering slightly.

‘No trouble,’ Allan confirmed, sweat dripping from his chin. Mike entertained a wild thought: could forensics take DNA from sweat? He didn’t think now was the time to ask. Westie was already starting work unwrapping one of his own canvases. Like Gissing, he knew exactly what he was doing; knew, too, that time was against them. No telling how early the next party of visitors might be. Mike glanced around the side of the van towards the gatehouse. There was no sign of the guard – he must be crouched on the floor. In his place sat Chib’s kid, and he was wearing the peaked cap – a nice touch, but Mike doubted it would fool anyone close up, not with the scarf still in place across the bottom half of the teenager’s face.

Back at the van, Mike saw that Gissing was breathing hard. He still had his wits about him, however, and reminded them to make sure the labels were showing when they reswaddled their copies.

‘They’ve got to look just the same as they were…’

‘We know,’ Westie complained, adding: ‘I still say we could be doing this elsewhere.’

Mike had heard the argument before, but had sided with Allan first time round: no alarm would be raised until they were off the premises. That was when time really started to be against them. Best to make the switch now, meaning a cleaner and faster getaway later, when the cops were on to them.

‘Three down,’ Allan intoned, watching Westie and Gissing at work. Mike checked his watch again. Twelve minutes since they’d first walked into the warehouse. It was going like clockwork. No… better than that – it was going like digital. He found himself forcing a smile, and gave Allan a pat on the back.

‘Bit early for that,’ Gissing snarled, wiping perspiration from his eyes. ‘Back inside, the pair of you, and do the final check.’

Final check: vault doors left wide open and keys in locks. There would be trace evidence – Westie had said as much; knew it from all the cop shows he watched with Alice. A stray hair, maybe, or fibres from their clothing, faint prints from their shoes. But the less they left the better. Standing together in the middle of the warehouse, Mike and Allan shared a nod. Then Allan made for the van again while Mike opened the door to the guardroom. A gun was aimed straight at him, lowered once its owner recognised him. Mike held up three fingers, meaning three minutes. The ‘hostages’ were crouched on the floor, hands on their heads and eyes screwed shut. The CCTV screens were blank.

Back at the van, Allan was in the passenger seat, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Westie was wrapping another painting. Gissing was holding a hand to his chest, but nodded to let Mike know he was all right really.

‘Just a bit breathless.’

‘Sit back,’ Mike told him. ‘I’ll drive.’ He got into the driving seat and checked the key was in the ignition.

‘How are we?’ he asked Allan.

‘It would be nice to leave right now.’

Mike heard a noise and peered into the rearview mirror: three figures emerging, jumping in the back. The van doors creaked shut and Mike gunned the engine. Something was handed to him from the back – a key.

‘Locked them all in the guardhouse,’ he was told.

‘That’s great,’ Mike said, dropping the key into the van’s ashtray. ‘But unless you took away their mobile phones, it’s not going to slow things down.’

The van juddered towards the gatehouse. ‘Not too fast,’ Gissing warned. He was right: last thing they wanted right now was to announce themselves to passing traffic or a cruising patrol car. Mike paused long enough at the gatehouse to pick up the final member. The kid had brought the peaked cap with him, causing his friends to laugh.

‘That stays in the van,’ Mike warned them.

Allan was making a show of studying him. ‘Mr Professional,’ he purred.

‘Get going!’ one of the crew yelled from the back. In the wing mirror, Mike could see the guard emerging from his lair. He stepped on the accelerator.

‘Should’ve thumped him,’ somebody was saying.

‘Couldn’t do it,’ came the reply. ‘Guy’s a Hearts fan. Calendar, fanzine, the works.’

‘He got the number plate,’ Allan commented.

‘Much good it’ll do him.’ Mike turned towards Westie. ‘That’s why we did it this way round.’

Westie just sniffed, saying nothing. They drove in silence after that, listening for sirens.

‘Should’ve brought a CB,’ one of the kids eventually piped up. ‘Could’ve tuned it to the pigs’ frequency.’

Mike and Allan shared a look – something else they hadn’t thought of. Mike’s senses seemed heightened to an incredible degree. The sound of the rutted tarmac under the van’s wheels was amplified; his nose was picking up the aroma of hops from a distant brewery. There was a tingling in his blood and a tang of adrenalin in his mouth.

This, he thought, is how it feels to be alive. It was as if his nervous system had been fitted with a supercharger.

Allan’s Audi was where they’d left it. There were no other vehicles to be seen except an antiquated Rover, its sills eaten by rust. The rain had grown heavier, dissuading the dog-walkers. The unframed paintings were transferred to the Audi’s capacious boot. One of Chib’s lads went to close the van doors, but Mike told him to leave them open.

‘We were in a hurry, remember?’ he explained.

The Rover was for the four teenagers. Its ignition key was tucked in beneath one of the front wheels. Mike held out a hand for shaking, but the four young men just stared at it. Then one of them asked for the guns. These were handed over – Mike’s with great reluctance – and placed in the Rover’s boot. Before they drove off, he checked that the peaked cap had been left, as ordered, in the van.

Allan gave a half-hearted wave. ‘Lovely bunch of lads,’ he commented, watching the car roar off. Gissing was already in the Audi, and Westie with him.

‘Let’s go,’ Gissing said.

‘Hang on,’ Mike said, heading back to the van. He lifted out one of the bundles and dropped it on the roadway. Back in the Audi, Gissing asked for an explanation.

‘The robbers panicked and fled,’ Mike obliged. ‘Just as they were starting the transfer. Adds a touch of drama, don’t you think?’

Westie was punching numbers into a mobile phone. He’d asked to be the one to make the call. The phone was a gift from Calloway. It had been in the box with the guns. Chib had promised it was untraceable and warned it only had about two minutes’ credit on it. Westie took a deep breath and gave an exaggerated wink to all around him. Then he started speaking.

‘Is that the police?’ His voice had reverted to its working-class Fife roots. ‘Listen, I’ve just seen the strangest bloody thing down by Marine Drive… some guys at the back of a white van, looked like they were dumping bodies or something. I think I spooked them, but I got the number plate…’