Ian Rankin - Doors Open

He reeled it off, ended the call and gave a little bow from the waist.

‘Dumping bodies?’ Mike echoed.

‘You’re not the only one who can improvise.’ Westie wound down his window and flung the mobile into a roadside ditch.

‘Hey, guys,’ Allan said. ‘Can we take these bloody things off now?’ He meant the latex gloves.

Mike nodded his agreement. They were safe. They were on their way. They’d done it.

They’d done it!

Seven unframed paintings sat arranged on the two sofas and two easy chairs in Mike’s living room. The three men stood gazing at them, champagne flutes in their hands. They had got rid of their disguises and had used Mike’s bathroom to freshen up, sluicing off sweat and dust and the smell from the gloves. Allan was still scratching his scalp intermittently, fearing ‘beasties’ might have relocated there from the hairpiece. The Maserati had not been vandalised during its short stay in Gracemount, but fingerprints on the windows showed where kids had been peering in at its interior. They’d dropped Westie at his flat, reminding him yet again to keep his chosen painting hidden. He’d asked Mike about the rest of his money.

‘It’ll be in your account today or tomorrow,’ Mike had assured him.

Westie had actually seemed reluctant to get out of the car, smiling and telling everyone how well it had gone.

‘Strikes me I should have held out for two,’ he’d grumbled.

‘Don’t go getting gold fever, young man,’ Gissing had growled.

Westie had raised his hands as if in surrender. ‘I was making a joke… trying for a bit of light relief. The looks on your faces, you’d think we were standing graveside.’

‘Get some sleep,’ Mike had told him. ‘And spend a quiet Sunday with Alice – no splurging, remember.’

‘No splurging,’ Westie had echoed, eventually opening his door and getting out, his painting tucked beneath his arm.

‘I like your two better,’ Allan was now telling Gissing as the two of them studied the mini-exhibition.

‘Tough,’ the professor answered with a thin smile.

‘What about Calloway’s Utterson?’ Allan asked.

‘I’ll see it gets to its new owner,’ Mike stated.

‘But can we trust him?’ Allan countered. He pressed a finger to one of his eyelids, trying to still the pulse that had started there. ‘Robert talked about gold fever… isn’t Calloway the most likely to start wanting what we’ve got?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Mike tried reassuring his friend. ‘You can leave him to me.’

‘He knows the painting has to be kept secret?’ Allan persisted.

‘He knows,’ Mike said, adding an edge to his voice. He reached down to the coffee table and picked up the TV remote, switched on the plasma screen and started flicking through the channels, looking for news.

‘May be a bit early,’ Allan said, rubbing at his reddened eyes. Although he loathed them, he was wearing disposable contact lenses – part of his disguise. Mike ignored him. Really, he wanted them all gone, so he could concentrate on the portrait of Monboddo’s wife. He’d only held it for a few moments. Gissing was making a circuit of the room. He’d hardly looked at his own picks, and was instead studying some of Mike’s saleroom purchases.

‘I’ve just had a thought,’ Allan said. ‘What if somebody got there first? To Marine Drive, I mean… What if they walked off with an armful of Westie’s beautiful forgeries?’

‘Then the cops’ll pick them up and think they’ve got their thief,’ Mike answered.

‘True,’ Allan seemed to agree. His flute was empty but Mike had decided one bottle of champagne was enough – there was the journey home to consider, at least as far as Allan was concerned. The professor would need a lift, too, at some point – no way Mike was calling him a taxi, not when the passenger would be carrying an expensive-looking painting under his arm…

The words BREAKING NEWS had begun scrolling along the foot of the screen. Above the newsreader’s shoulder there was an old photo of Edinburgh Castle. This changed into a map of the city, zeroing in on the Granton area.

‘Here we go,’ Mike muttered to himself. ‘Now the fun and games really begin.’ He started to turn up the volume, but a mobile phone was ringing. It was Gissing’s, so Mike switched the TV to mute instead. When Gissing offered him a smile, Mike nodded back. They knew who it would be… at least, they knew who they hoped it would be. Gissing placed a finger to his lips in warning, then answered the call.

‘Professor Robert Gissing,’ he intoned by way of introduction. Then, after a few seconds: ‘Yes, I’m watching it now on my TV at home… absolutely shocking. Did they take anything?’ A slightly longer pause, during which he made eye contact only with the window and the darkening view beyond it. ‘I see… But how can I help? Jimmy Allison’s your man for…’ Gissing’s flow was interrupted. He made a show of raising an eyebrow as he listened. ‘How awful! Nobody’s safe on the streets these days, Alasdair.’

Confirmation, as far as Mike was concerned, that Gissing was in conversation with the head of the National Galleries of Scotland, Alasdair Noone.

‘Yes, of course,’ Gissing was saying now. ‘Soon as I can, Alasdair. No, I’ll make my own way there… Half an hour?’

Mike did a swift calculation – yes, from the professor’s home to Marine Drive was just about feasible in thirty minutes.

‘Oh, did you?’ Gissing glanced in Mike’s direction. ‘Well, I’ve been having some problems with it. Or maybe I had the TV up too loud. Sorry about that. Yes, yes, I’m on my way, Alasdair. Bye.’

Gissing ended the call and his eyes met Mike’s again.

‘He tried your landline,’ Mike guessed. ‘You didn’t answer, so he called your mobile. But then you went and told him you were at home…’

‘He won’t make anything of it,’ Gissing assured him.

‘But the police might,’ Allan commented. ‘Tiny details, inconsistencies…’

‘He’s got enough on his plate,’ Gissing persisted. ‘I’d lay a hundred pounds it’s already forgotten.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way.’

‘Give it a few minutes,’ Mike warned him. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes by taxi to Marine Drive from here.’

‘Good point,’ the professor conceded.

‘And you need to relax a little.’

‘Maybe a small whisky…’

‘Don’t want them smelling hooch on their expert’s breath – I’ll fetch you some water.’ Mike walked into the kitchen, Allan following close on his heels.

‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Allan asked, placing his empty flute on the spotless worktop. Mike didn’t think it was the last time he would hear this question from his friend.

‘So far, there hasn’t been a hitch. That’s down to good planning. The rest is all about holding our nerve.’ Mike offered a wink and poured the water into a tall glass, which he carried back into the living room. Gissing was popping two square tablets from their foil packaging.

‘Heartburn,’ he explained, accepting the drink.

‘Did Alasdair say how Mr Allison was doing?’ Mike enquired.

Gissing chomped down on both tablets. ‘He’s out of hospital but there’s concussion and bruising.’ He glared at Mike. ‘I think maybe your friend went a wee bit far.’

‘Just far enough to stop his services being called for,’ Mike answered. ‘When you’re finished at Marine Drive, get a cab to bring you here and either Allan or me will run you home.’ His own mobile was sounding. Not a call as such: a text message from Chib Calloway.

HERD MY BOIZ DID GUD! NEED COLLATERAL ASAP. R U NEAR A TV?