Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Anything?’ Ransome asked.

‘A few fibres… half a footprint. Probably won’t mean much.’

‘They’ll have dumped the clothing?’ Ransome speculated.

The SOCO nodded. ‘So far, the only strands of hair we’ve found are synthetic.’

‘Wigs?’ Ransome reasoned, receiving another dispirited nod.

‘I’ve got a caseload piling up while I waste my time here.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ Ransome turned away and headed back towards the guardroom. During the heist, the guards and visitors had been herded inside and made to crouch on the floor. They hadn’t seen anything useful, so far as Ransome was aware. Nor had they heard anything. Their captors had communicated by means of grunts. One thing the curator in charge of the tour had pointed out – the men who’d held them had seemed younger than the ones doing the actual thieving. Glenn’s words came back to Ransome: Four or five schemies with pool cues… Glenn had been thinking of the lads as a gang to intimidate Hate. But maybe he’d been wrong. The younger thieves hadn’t worn much by way of disguise either – just baseball caps pulled low and scarves muffling mouth and nose. Ransome couldn’t see anyone in the guardroom, so stepped inside. There were TV screens, working again now and showing interior and exterior views of the warehouse. Coverage of the gatehouse was hopeless – the camera was trained on the vehicle barrier. You could make out half the gatehouse but nothing of the pedestrian walkway beyond it. He knew that Hendricks had already complained to the galleries boss about this. Ransome sat himself down at the desk and peered through the window into the warehouse proper. You couldn’t see the relevant vaults from here in any case. The warehouse and its contents were sitting targets – amazing no one had thought to turn the place over sooner…

There was a knock at the open door. Ransome turned his head sharply, fully expecting to see his nemesis, but it was someone else – someone he recognised. Professor Robert Gissing.

‘Oh,’ the academic began, clearly flustered. ‘I was looking for DI Hendricks…’

Ransome was on his feet, taking a step forwards. ‘He’s not here,’ he ventured, offering his hand. ‘I’m a colleague, DI Ransome.’

‘Yes, I saw you at Marine Drive.’

‘Did you?’

‘What about Alasdair Noone?’ Gissing was staring down at his shoes.

‘He’s around somewhere.’

‘Thank you.’ Eyes still directed floorwards. ‘I’d better have a word with him.’

But Ransome wasn’t about to let him go without a fight. ‘Professor?’

Gissing hesitated. ‘Yes?’ Eventually raising his eyes to meet the detective’s gaze.

Ransome was right in his face now. Gissing was a good inch and a half taller than him, but that meant nothing. ‘Just wondered if I could have your take on things, sir. Bungled robbery – someone on the inside – is that your reading of it?’

Gissing folded his arms – defensive again – then gave a pout and looked thoughtful. ‘I dare say more fanciful scenarios exist – I’ve seen them in today’s newspapers. But my job’s not to make wild guesses, Inspector.’

‘That’s right, sir. Your job was to verify the paintings – but you did that yesterday… so what brings you here this morning?’

Gissing straightened his back. ‘My attendance was requested by Alasdair Noone. He seems to think I may be able to pinpoint any gaps in the holdings of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Scottish art.’

‘Because that’s what the thieves took?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Pretty specialised market, would you say, sir?’

‘Hardly – there are collectors from Canada to Shanghai.’

‘Your field of expertise, though?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Well, I’d better let you get on – inventory’s well underway already. ’

For the first time, Gissing seemed to notice the activity going on around them.

‘Due to happen in a few weeks anyway, wasn’t it?’ Ransome added. ‘Robbery just speeded it up.’

‘Look, Inspector, I’m not sure how any of this can be of benefit to your investigation.’

‘Oh, it’s not my investigation, Professor Gissing – I’m just curious, that’s all.’ Ransome paused, watching Gissing try to take this in. ‘Shame about Mr Allison, wasn’t it?’

The question threw the academic.

‘Him being the resident expert and all,’ Ransome pressed on. ‘Do you know him, sir? I believe he’s pretty badly shaken…’

‘Terrible business,’ Gissing seemed to agree.

‘Still, silver linings and all that, eh?’

‘I’m not sure I get your meaning.’

Ransome gave a shrug. ‘I’m just saying, it’s lucky you were on hand to step into the breach, so to speak.’

‘Yes, well…’ Gissing, having nothing to add, was again about to leave.

‘See much of Chib Calloway these days?’

Gissing kept his back to the detective for several seconds, then half turned his head. ‘Sorry – what was that name again?’

Ransome just smiled and winked.

The two paintings were still propped up on one of the sofas in Mike Mackenzie’s penthouse. So far today Mike hadn’t been able to spend as much time as he would have liked with Lady Monboddo. He’d had to surf the web, checking the level of interest – national and international – in the heist. Either the National Galleries had been ‘spectacularly lucky’ or else the robbers had been ‘spectacularly inept’.

‘Cack-handed, they called it in my day,’ Allan Cruikshank had offered when he arrived at the flat. He’d also warned that Mike should be thinking of a hiding place for the two paintings.

‘What have you done with yours?’ Mike asked in return.

‘Under the desk in my study.’

‘Reckon there’s a chance the cops will miss them if they come looking?’

‘What the hell else can I do? Stick them in the bank for safe keeping?’

Mike just shrugged. Allan was looking awful. He kept wandering over to the window and staring down towards the car park, as if fearing the imminent arrival of blue flashing lights. The pair of them had stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, Mike trying to push away the thought that his friend might be about to jump, but glad all the same when they retreated indoors. Mike had made peppermint tea, which Allan said he couldn’t remember asking for. He held the mug cupped in both hands.

‘Help you relax,’ Mike offered.

‘Relax?’ Allan hooted, rolling his eyes.

‘How much sleep did you get last night?’

‘Not much,’ Allan conceded. ‘Tell me, have you ever read any Edgar Allan Poe? “The Tell-Tale Heart”?’

‘We just have to hold our nerve, Allan. A few days of fuss and it’ll all die down – you’ll see.’

‘How can you say that?’ A splash of tea had spilled on to the wooden floor, but Allan seemed not to have noticed. ‘We still know what we did!’

‘Why not shout a bit louder? I’m sure the neighbours will be thrilled.’

Allan’s eyes widened. He removed one hand from the mug so he could clamp it over his mouth. Mike didn’t bother saying he’d been exaggerating for effect – the flat was pretty well soundproofed. When he’d first moved in, he’d cranked up the hi-fi then gone downstairs to ask the couple – he a restaurateur; she an interior designer – if they could hear it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Allan was muttering now from behind his fingers. He went to sit down, but his eyes fell on the paintings again. ‘You really should hide those,’ he advised, voice quavering.

‘If anyone asks, they’re copies,’ Mike explained soothingly. ‘You could do the same – stick them on a wall where you can see them… maybe the Coultons will calm you down where mere mortals like myself can’t.’