Ian Rankin - Doors Open

Mike decided to ignore it. Collateral: the very word Chib had used when taking that phone call. Good honest collateral… The news had shifted to the aftermath of some flooding in England. The journalist at the scene said something about the locals fearing they’d ‘got in too deep’. Gissing was popping a third tablet, hands unsteady, while Allan rubbed at the pulse in his eyelid and hopped from one foot to the other like a hyperactive kid.

In too deep? Nobody knew the half of it…

DI Ransome was seated at his desk in the empty CID suite when he heard the news. The radio had been providing him with background music and blather. It was some local station, mixing golden oldies with traffic and weather. Ransome had been in the office for a solid two hours, clearing an inch from his in-tray. He was due to appear in court three times over the next two weeks, and needed to bone up on his evidence. The amount of time cops – uniform and CID – wasted in the city’s sheriff and high courts was a scandal, and often, at the last minute, some plea deal was done, meaning they didn’t have to go into the witness box anyway. One officer he knew had earned himself an Open University degree, doing most of his studying and essay-writing while seated outside various courtrooms waiting to say his piece.

Ransome was spending an idle minute wondering what subject he would study, given the chance, when the radio DJ announced a ‘break-in at an industrial site in Granton’. Ransome had started to tune out until he heard the words ‘valuable artworks’. What the hell were those doing in a warehouse in Granton of all places? Holdings belonging to several city-based museums… staff and visitors threatened with guns… not known as yet which items are missing…

Artworks and guns.

Guns and artworks.

Ransome phoned Laura at the auction house, but there was no answer. Same story with her mobile. Cursing under his breath, he headed out to the car park. It took him only twenty minutes to reach Marine Drive. It was one of the things he liked about the city: nowhere was more than half an hour from anywhere else. Felt more like a village sometimes, which was why his mind was already turning. A warehouse heist, artworks stolen… and Edinburgh’s premier gangster having so recently started showing an interest in paintings. He remembered Calloway that day in the National Gallery, drinking tea with his old school pal Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie the computer wizard, the art collector. They made an odd couple and no mistake…

The white Transit had been cordoned off with blue-and-white-striped crime-scene tape. Uniformed officers were diverting what traffic there was away from the immediate vicinity. A forensics team was busy at work, dusting surfaces, taking photos. A detective inspector called Hendricks seemed to be calling the shots, causing Ransome to wince a little as he got out of his car. He considered Hendricks a serious rival in the promotion stakes – same sort of age; good track record; personable and presenting himself well to public and top brass alike. He’d been in the same intake as Ransome at Tulliallan Police College, more years ago now than Ransome cared to calculate. There had been a special challenge for all new recruits – raising money for charity. Despite Ransome’s best endeavours, Hendricks had won by a country mile, hosting a sportsmen’s dinner in Stirling and attracting a couple of high-profile footballers to the event as speakers. Only later did Ransome discover that Hendricks’ uncle was chairman of a Premier League club. Strings had obviously been pulled…

There was never any animosity between the two men – Ransome knew better than to get on his rival’s wrong side. In public, there were displays of professional courtesy and even occasional collaboration. Besides, with Ransome stationed at West End and Hendricks across town at Gayfield Square, they met only infrequently. Ransome wondered now whether Hendricks had been on call or had barged his way on to the inquiry. He was dressed in a sharp suit with a new-looking shirt and tie. Maybe he’d been doing the same as Ransome – working unpaid hours behind his desk in the hope of snaring something interesting.

A TV crew was already in situ, along with radio and print journalists. Dog-walkers had come up from the beach to spectate. The media were in a sort of scrum, comparing notes. One of them recognised Ransome and came bounding over, asking if there was anything he could add to the story. Ransome just shook his head. High-profile case… and it just had to fall into Hendricks’ lap.

‘Ransome? What are you doing here?’ Hendricks was trying to make the query sound matey. He’d slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and was coming towards Ransome with a spring in his step. Neat hair, trimmed moustache, but the slip-on shoes looked cheap. Ransome consoled himself with that.

‘I’m nosy, Gavin. You know me. How are things at Gayfield Square?’

‘A damn sight quieter since you-know-who retired. Look, good to see you and all that, but I’d better…’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. Busy man, lots to do.

Important man.

Ransome nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t mind me, Gavin.’

‘Just don’t get in the way, okay?’ Adding a little laugh at the end, as though he meant it as a joke when in fact he was being deadly serious. Which left Ransome bristling and trying to think of a comeback as Hendricks moved away again. He took a couple of steps closer to the action. The van doors were wide open, and one of the paintings lay on the ground. It had come loose from its wrapping, and Ransome could make out an ornate gold-coloured frame. He kept staring at it as one of the scene-of-crime officers took a few more snaps.

‘I hear tell,’ the SOCO commented, ‘it’s by someone called Utterson.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘It’s signed in the bottom corner. One of the reporters says it’s worth a couple of hundred grand. My house didn’t cost half that.’

From what little Ransome could see, it was a bleak country landscape, maybe thirty inches by twenty. He’d seen better stuff on the walls of his local pub. ‘Who’s that Hendricks is talking to?’ he asked.

The SOCO looked over towards where Hendricks was in close conversation with a short, bald, worried-looking man. He shrugged and shook his head, so Ransome wandered back towards the reporter who’d recognised him and asked the same question.

‘You’re not in the loop, then?’ the reporter teased. Ransome just stared him out. ‘He’s head of the National Galleries,’ the man eventually admitted. ‘And the guy just turning up…’ Ransome followed the direction of the pointed finger. A black cab had drawn up, its passenger emerging. ‘He runs the city’s museums. And that’s one you owe me, Inspector.’

Ransome ignored this, focusing instead on the new arrival. He was taller and a bit calmer or more resolute than the galleries boss, whose hand he shook before giving a consoling pat on the shoulder. Ransome edged forward until he was within eavesdropping range.

‘We think they must have been making the transfer,’ Hendricks was explaining for the benefit of the newcomer. ‘A member of the public phoned it in – he probably disturbed them, they lost their bottle and fled the scene in a hurry.’

‘Luckily for you, Alasdair,’ the museums boss told his colleague with another apparently sympathetic pat. Alasdair seemed to resent this and shuffled half a yard further away from his tormentor.

‘We can’t be sure yet if everything’s been recovered,’ Alasdair said, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

‘Witnesses say there were only about three or four of them doing the actual taking,’ Hendricks offered. ‘The others were holding the hostages. Whole thing was over in ten or fifteen minutes. They can’t have got away with much…’