Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Clever sod like you, Mike, my guess is you’ve already worked it out. I owe some money on a deal – the Utterson buys me time.’

‘I know it happens with the mafia and Old Masters.’

‘Well, now it happens in Edinburgh, too. You want a drink?’ There was a bar area in one corner. Chib unlocked one of the cupboards and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whisky and two tumblers. Mike brushed dust from a stool with the palm of his hand before sitting down.

‘In a funny way,’ he offered, ‘it actually makes sense.’

Chib drained his glass and exhaled. ‘What does?’

‘If the painting’s not in your hands, the police haven’t a chance of finding it in your possession.’

‘That’s true – maybe they’ll try running Hate in instead.’ Chib gave a snort and poured himself another. ‘Sure you don’t want to swap professions?’

‘I don’t have a profession.’

‘That’s right – you’re a man of leisure. Unless you fancy “gentleman thief” on your passport instead.’

‘This was strictly a one-shot deal, Chib.’ Mike’s mobile was vibrating. He lifted it from his pocket and checked the screen – it was Robert Gissing.

‘The prof,’ he explained to Chib, answering the call. ‘How did it go, Robert?’

‘I’m only just finishing up.’ Gissing was keeping his voice low – obviously there were people in the vicinity.

‘Remember,’ Mike said, ‘when you order a cab, make sure you give your home address as the destination – just in case anyone’s listening. Once you’re on your way, you can tell the driver you’re headed to mine instead.’

‘I’m not a fool, Mike!’

‘What’s wrong?’ Mike had sensed something in the professor’s voice. The whisky froze halfway to Chib Calloway’s mouth.

‘Are you with our friend?’ Gissing was asking.

‘As arranged. He’s happy with the goods.’

‘Never mind that – I’m sending you a snap. Bloody amazing things, these camera phones. I think I got it without him knowing.’

‘Got what?’ Mike asked, eyes narrowing.

‘The photo – your phone does accept photos?’

‘What’s this all about, Robert?’

‘I just want to know if we’ve got a problem.’ Chib was by Mike’s side now, listening in. He smelled faintly of sweat beneath the aftershave and the whisky. ‘I didn’t like the way he was looking at me,’ Gissing was saying. ‘Get back to me in five.’

The call ended. Mike stared at his phone’s blank screen.

‘Is that meant to be a dig at me?’ Chib asked.

‘What?’

‘“I didn’t like the way he…”’

‘Hell, no. It’s just that he has something he wants us to see.’

‘Don’t tell me the paint’s still wet on your student pal’s efforts.’

Mike’s phone trilled: a photo was coming through. Chib peered at the screen as Mike held it in the space between them. The professor had a quality mobile – he’d used it to take pictures for a recent photography exhibition at the college. Highest possible resolution… zoom… the works. Mike’s own phone was the latest model, too, with a nice big screen. The photo itself appeared in three horizontal chunks of download. It showed the profile of a man, taken from the waist up. He’d been shot from some distance and using the full extent of the zoom, meaning the picture was slightly blurred. All the same, Chib let out a hiss of air.

‘That’s Ransome,’ he growled. ‘He’s CID, been chasing me all across town since way back.’

‘Is he the one you thought was following you the day we went to Arthur’s Seat?’ Mike watched Chib Calloway nod slowly. ‘Well, he’s now showing an unhealthy interest in Professor Gissing.’ Mike gnawed at his bottom lip for the best part of a minute, while Chib explained that Ransome had tailed him on and off for a while… reason he always took evasive action when driving anywhere in the city… thought by now maybe the detective had given up the fight, been a while since Chib had clocked him… but then again…

‘I knew he was trying to tail me that day we bumped into one another at the gallery.’

‘So he might have seen us there?’ Mike asked, not really expecting an answer. ‘That’s more than a little worrying.’ He stared at Ransome’s picture for a while longer, then called Gissing back.

‘Houston,’ he began by saying, ‘we do indeed have a problem.’

The man who called himself Hate had brought a laptop with him on his trip to Scotland. In fact, he never travelled anywhere without it, though he was careful to keep nothing on its hard drive that the police of any country he visited might find interesting. With the painting by Samuel Utterson – the possibly worthless painting – stowed in the rental car’s boot, he fired up the laptop and got to work, accessing the internet and running a search on the artist. If he failed to be convinced, he might visit a bookshop or library, seeking further information. The man back in the snooker hall – Mackenzie, if that was his real name – had warned that the painting was stolen. Well, that wasn’t Hate’s problem, was it? His problems only started if it turned out to be worth less than Calloway owed. Hate needed to know, and that might well mean asking someone. In fact, it would mean showing them the painting… which could bring further potential problems.

Hate had already texted his client with news that he had taken receipt of the Utterson. Like him, they’d never heard of the artist. Again, not an insurmountable problem – money was money. A search of the BBC’s regional news site showed that a warehouse belonging to the National Galleries of Scotland had been broken into earlier that day. But ‘a number of paintings’ had been recovered afterwards. It was not known if anything was still missing. Hate tugged at his ear lobe as he considered his options. He could feel the little hole where one of his earrings usually rested. When off duty, he preferred denims and a T-shirt, but knew that the suit unnerved people – or rather, the combination of the suit and the man inside it unnerved people. Hate couldn’t wait to get home. He disliked Edinburgh. It was all surface, a kind of street con – showing visitors one thing while easing the cash from their wallets without being noticed. All the same, at least the galleries and museums were free of charge. Hate had visited a number of them, looking at paintings. He’d hoped the exercise might pay off, hoped it would help him spot a fake. But all that seemed to happen was, members of staff followed him round, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. Perhaps they were expecting him to take a knife or razor to one of their precious canvases. Calloway, the first time he’d mentioned the possibility of collateral to Hate, hadn’t said where the painting would come from. Hadn’t mentioned an artist’s name. Hate didn’t recall Utterson from any of the galleries he’d visited, but he knew now from the internet that the man was collectable. Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Bonham’s – they had all sold examples of his work in the past couple of years. The highest price paid at auction had been three hundred thousand pounds, so maybe the man called Mackenzie hadn’t been exaggerating. On a whim, Hate decided to run a search on Mackenzie’s name, too.

And found almost as many hits as for Samuel Utterson himself.

One of which took Hate to a magazine’s website and photos of Mackenzie’s penthouse apartment. There looked to be some nice paintings on the walls. And it was the same guy, no doubt about it – there was a small photo of him – a man of wealth and taste, as Hate’s favourite song might have put it. Hate tugged on his ear lobe again. He was going to have to rethink his opinion of Charles ‘Chib’ Calloway. The man might be a boor, an oaf, an ugly, low-life specimen.