Ian Rankin - Doors Open

But he had a good class of associate.

Laura was at a dinner party in Heriot Row. The host had just sold two paintings at Laura’s auction, but neither had achieved the top end of estimate. As a result, Laura had been expecting to have her ear bent, but thankfully all anyone could talk about was the heist – its audacity, its stupidity, and how close a call it had been. She had thought about asking Mike Mackenzie to be her date for the evening, but had been unable to summon up quite enough courage. As a result, the host and hostess had placed her next to a lawyer whose divorce, as it turned out, was still a fresh and painful wound, to be anaesthetised only with alcohol. The call on her mobile had come as blessed relief towards the end of the pudding course. She’d mumbled an apology for not having had the foresight to turn the thing off, then had plucked it from her shoulder bag, stared at the screen, and told the room that she had to take it. Walking briskly into the hallway, she’d expelled breath noisily before holding the phone to her ear.

‘What can I do for you, Ransome?’

‘Not interrupting anything, I hope?’

‘Actually you are – a dinner party.’

‘I’m hurt I didn’t make the guest list…’

‘I’m not hosting.’

‘I could still have chaperoned…’

She let out another sigh for his benefit. ‘Is it anything important, Ransome?’

‘Just wanted to pick your brains. It’s to do with the Granton warehouse. I’m guessing you’ll have heard.’

Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re working on that?’ She had to step aside as one of the liveried waitresses – hired for the evening from an agency – wheeled a cheese trolley towards the dining room.

‘I’m not alone,’ Ransome was saying. ‘Your friend Professor Gissing is lending a hand, too.’

‘He’s hardly my friend…’

‘But he is some sort of authority?’

‘Depends on the period.’ Laura saw the hostess’s head peer around the doorway and nodded to let her know she was nearly finished. ‘I’ve got to go, Ransome.’

‘Could we meet later for a drink?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Other plans, eh? Who’s the lucky man?’

‘Bye, Ransome,’ Laura replied, ending the call. She entered the room again and made another apology. The lawyer got up to help her into her chair.

‘Nothing untoward?’ he asked solicitously, face reddened with drink.

‘No,’ she reassured him. Who the hell said ‘untoward’ these days? Well, Robert Gissing almost certainly did. She wondered about Ransome’s call. Was Gissing really the best qualified man for the job of checking the paintings? She doubted it. She remembered the last time she’d seen him, in the doorway during her auction. Mike had made his way towards him and the two men had then left, Allan Cruikshank following soon after. It was Allan who’d introduced her to Mike, the evening of the Monboddo retrospective opening party. She seemed to remember he’d introduced Mike to Gissing that night, too. She’d been talking to Mike, enjoying his company. And, by his body language, he’d seemed to be enjoying hers. But then Allan had brought the professor over, and Gissing had begun the job of monopolising the conversation, droning on about ‘the importance of taste and discrimination’. Eventually, Laura had moved to another part of the gallery, connecting with other people she knew, but still feeling Mike’s eyes on her from time to time.

You’re only a couple of months out of a two-year relationship, she’d told herself. Don’t you dare give in to the rebound…

‘A piece of brie, Laura?’ the hostess was asking, knife hovering over the cheese trolley. ‘And quince or grapes with that?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Laura said, aware that the lawyer’s eyes were lingering on the swell of her chest as he poured her more wine.

‘You used to have a Monboddo, didn’t you?’ another guest was asking the host.

‘Sold it a decade back,’ she was informed. ‘School fees…’ The host gave a shrug of the shoulders.

‘The raiders tried to get away with a Monboddo,’ the guest explained to the table. ‘Portrait of the artist’s wife.’ She turned to Laura. ‘Do you know the one I mean?’

Laura nodded. She knew it all right, and remembered the last time she’d seen it.

And who’d seemed most interested in it…

That night, Westie and Alice ate at their favourite Chinese restaurant, then headed for a couple of bars and a nightclub, where they could dance off some of their excitement. The DeRasse abstract had been given pride of place in Westie’s studio, on an easel recently vacated by one of the fakes. Westie had even proposed a wild notion to Alice – he would display the DeRasse as part of his portfolio at the art college, passing it off as one of his copies.

‘And Gissing will see it and kick your arse to Iceland and back,’ Alice had shrieked, laughing along with him.

Dancing, dancing, dancing into Sunday.

While Ransome lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, careful not to disturb his wife by moving about too much, even though his nerves were jangling, his heart pounding. The late supper of spiced vegetable couscous lay like a slab in his stomach.

Allan was awake, too. His eyes were still sore from the lenses, his scalp itchy despite a shower and half a bottle of shampoo. He stood by the window in his darkened living room, staring out across a patch of grass towards Gayfield Square police station. A couple of TV crews had come and gone, the reporters illuminated as they said their pieces to camera. Every time a patrol car arrived, Allan expected to see somebody he knew – Westie or Mike or the professor – being led from it in handcuffs. He wanted to tell someone – Margot, maybe, or one of the kids. Or just pick up the telephone, press buttons at random, and blurt it all out to the first stranger who answered.

But instead he kept vigil by the window.

Robert Gissing had a busy night ahead, but took time to inspect his paintings. Nice additions to his little collection. He’d been driven home by Allan, and hadn’t said much during the journey. The detective, DI Ransome, worried him. Michael, however, had warned him to say nothing to Allan, confirming Gissing’s fears. If anyone were to unravel, it would be Allan Cruikshank.

And it might happen at any moment – hence the busy night ahead. Not that Gissing minded. Sleep could be left till later. Afterwards, he would have nothing but time. He even spoke the words out loud – ‘Nothing but time.’ And smiled to himself, knowing this to be anything but the truth…

Edinburgh was Sunday-morning quiet: the rhythmed tolling of church bells; a warming sun; denizens and visitors alike spreading out their newspapers across café tables. Nice day for a drive, though not many people would have chosen Granton as their destination. Gulls shrieked all along the waterfront, feasting on fast-food leftovers from the previous night. In the near distance, another new development of high-rises was creeping skywards, surrounded by wasteland and gasometers.

Not for the first time, Ransome wondered why the National Gallery of Scotland had sited its overflow warehouse here. He didn’t even know why one was necessary – couldn’t the various paintings and statues have been loaned to needy collections across the land? Surely there had to be room in the likes of Dundee, Aberdeen and Inverness. Wouldn’t Kirkcaldy have welcomed a few sketches or the bust of some historical personage? He could almost see Kirkcaldy through the haze that lay across the becalmed Firth of Forth, yesterday’s rain a memory. There was a fresh guard manning the gates of the warehouse, his colleague having been excused duties, the better to answer police questions.