Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Full inventory needed?’ the museums boss was asking Alasdair. ‘Wasn’t one about to happen anyway?’

‘You’re not off the hook, Donald,’ Alasdair snapped back. ‘They could have walked off with anything. Most of the paintings are kept in the vaults, but the majority of your stuff is just lying there on the open shelves – especially with the influx from the Chambers Street refit.’

The look on Donald’s face seemed to cheer Alasdair up a little. It was as if a load had been lifted.

Not just colleagues, Ransome thought to himself, but rivals, too…

‘It’s a good point, sir,’ Hendricks was telling Donald. ‘The sooner we get that inventory underway the better. Meantime, can I ask how many people knew about the warehouse and its contents?’

‘The whole bloody city,’ the man called Donald grumbled. ‘This is Doors Open Day, remember? Only day of the year they could just waltz in and take whatever they liked.’ He stabbed a finger towards the contents of the van. ‘But mostly paintings, from what I can see – vaults or no vaults.’

It looked as though Alasdair was about to remonstrate, but their attention was diverted by the diesel chugging of yet another taxi as it arrived on the scene.

‘Ah,’ said Alasdair, ‘here comes our resident expert.’ He strode towards the cab and yanked open its back door. Handshakes were exchanged, after which he led the distinguished-looking gentleman towards the small group. In the interim, Hendricks had noticed Ransome again and given him the benefit of a practised glower. But Ransome didn’t think his colleague would want to cause a scene – not in front of the Edinburgh establishment (Donald was even wearing a New Club tie) – so he held his ground.

‘Our chief curator was the victim of a street attack near his home last night,’ Alasdair was explaining. ‘But we’re grateful that Professor Gissing, head of the College of Art and no mean expert himself, has made his services available.’

‘Thought you’d retired, Robert,’ Donald was saying, shaking hands. Gissing said nothing by way of reply, but allowed himself to be introduced to DI Hendricks. As the conversation continued, Gissing seemed to realise he was the object of scrutiny from beyond the immediate circle. He gave a surreptitious glance in Ransome’s direction, Ransome turning away a moment too late.

‘I was sorry to hear about Jimmy,’ the professor was saying. Ransome remembered hearing about the mugging – guy down by the canal. Turned out the victim was an art expert. Well, well, well. And now here was Gissing… Professor Robert Gissing… friend to Michael Mackenzie… one of Laura’s ‘Three Musketeers’. He’d been at the auction house the same day as Calloway. And all of them had ended up in the wine bar just along the street.

Oh, it was a small city, all right, was Edinburgh. Staring at Hendricks’ back, Ransome knew he was going to keep it all to himself, all the various connections and coincidences, the personalities, permutations and probabilities. Alasdair was explaining to Gissing that they needed to verify the identities and authenticity of the abandoned paintings and also ensure they were undamaged.

‘But we’ll need to dust them for prints, too,’ Hendricks was saying. ‘The thieves may have got careless.’

‘Not a chance,’ the friendly SOCO next to Ransome muttered for his benefit. ‘That van’s as clean as a whistle.’

‘Have you ID’d it yet?’ Ransome asked in an undertone. The SOCO shook his head.

‘It’ll have been stolen to order, though, you mark my words – probably changed the plates and all…’

Ransome nodded in agreement, his gaze fixing once again on Professor Gissing. The man’s arms were folded as he listened to Hendricks. Might just have been concentrating, but to Ransome the body language was all about defensiveness. Maybe they’d fail to find any fingerprints – he’d seldom known the SOCOs to be wrong – but something was whispering a name into his ear.

The name of Charles ‘Chib’ Calloway…

‘Not too many snooker halls left,’ Calloway was telling Mike Mackenzie. ‘I mean proper ones, full-sized slate tables. Know how much they weigh? You need to check that your floor can stand up to them.’ The gangster was switching on some of the lights in the cavernous yet musty-smelling room. Mike could make out six tables, but none of them in the best of health. Two were covered with gashed and stained dust sheets while the remaining four had suffered nicks, rips and rudimentary repairs to their green baize. A game seemed to have been abandoned on one of them, Mike rolling the pink ball towards the centre pocket.

‘Why’s this one shut on a Saturday evening?’ he asked.

‘Overheads,’ Chib explained. ‘Costs me more to run than I get back. I could always put pool tables in instead, maybe a few slot machines…’ He wrinkled his pugnacious face. ‘But I’ll probably end up selling it. Some developer can turn it into apartments or one of those huge super-pubs.’

‘Why not do it yourself?’

‘With my reputation?’ Chib gave a cold chuckle. ‘What do you reckon the chances are of me getting planning permission, never mind a licence?’

‘You could bribe a few councillors.’

Chib had picked up a cue, but found it wanting. It rattled when he replaced it in the rack. ‘Maybe a few years back, Mike. Things have changed.’

‘Or set up a front company, so no one knows you’re the one in charge…’

Chib gave another chuckle, warmer this time. ‘Listen to yourself, Michael – maybe we should swap places, eh? You seem to be thinking more like a criminal every day.’

‘Maybe that’s because I am a criminal.’

‘So you are,’ Chib agreed with a slow nod. ‘And how does it feel?’

Mike shrugged. ‘Ask me again further down the line.’

Chib had made a circuit of the table. He now gestured towards the package under Mike’s arm. Mike laid it flat on the dusty green baize and carefully undid the brown paper. He had wrapped it himself, hoping to make it look less like one of the works recovered from Marine Drive, just in case he was pulled over and asked to open his boot. Chib had sent two more texts before Mike had decided to get their transaction out of the way, leaving Allan in the penthouse awaiting Gissing’s return.

‘An extremely good example,’ he told the gangster, ‘of late-period Utterson.’

‘I’d still rather have had something by Jack the Vee.’ But Chib took his time studying the painting, running a finger along the edges of the canvas. ‘Not very big, is it? They look bigger when they’re framed.’

‘They do,’ Mike agreed. ‘Speaking of which…’

‘I know, I know – I can’t go taking it into a shop, tell them I want a nice new surround for it. And I can’t put it up anywhere it might be noticed.’ He affected a disappointed sigh. ‘Hardly worth the effort.’ Then he smiled and looked at Mike, eyes twinkling. ‘My youngsters were okay? Did as they were told?’

‘They were great.’

‘The shooters?’

‘Worked a treat. We handed them all back afterwards.’

‘I know.’ Chib paused for a moment, folding his arms. ‘Had half a mind you might hang on to yours – seemed to be forming quite an attachment to it. I’ve still got it if you want it.’

‘Tempting,’ Mike confessed. ‘But better all round if they just disappear.’

‘Agreed. So nobody got hurt, eh?’

‘It was a piece of cake.’ Mike found himself laughing as he ran a hand through his hair. ‘If I could do it again, I’d grab twice as much.’

‘Getting a taste, eh, Mikey?’

‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’

Chib picked up his Utterson and pretended to study it. ‘I still say you could just have swapped the paintings – no need for the stunt with the van.’