Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘I didn’t have much time,’ Mike said by way of excuse. ‘They were on the sofa when you rang the bell.’

‘Mind if I take a peek?’ Chib didn’t wait for assent. He was already easing out the paintings. ‘Four?’ he said.

‘Two belong to Allan – I’m keeping them for him.’

‘Mind if I ask why?’

‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ Mike answered, hiding his mouth behind the coffee mug. ‘Knows a bit about art, so he doesn’t want her seeing them.’ He was hoping Chib would accept the lie.

‘So which two are yours?’

‘The portrait and the landscape.’

‘Glad to hear it – Allan’s two look like something from playschool.’ Chib studied the Monboddo and the Cadell. ‘Nice,’ he decided. ‘Are they worth the same as mine?’

‘Roughly – probably a little less, actually.’

‘But then I only got the one, and here you are with four of the little beauties.’

‘One was all you wanted.’

Chib kept nodding, still appearing to be making an appraisal of the paintings. ‘The portrait looks a bit like that bird from the auctioneer’s.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Mike stated. Eventually, Calloway accepted the proffered mug with a grunt of thanks.

‘Definitely a resemblance,’ he mused, his eyes on Beatrice, concentrating on the swell of her cleavage. ‘Think she’d like me any better if she knew I own an Utterson?’

‘Laura Stanton, you mean? More likely she’d turn you in.’

‘True…’ Calloway gave a dismissive sniff, then took a slurp of the coffee. ‘The reason I’m here is, I’ve been thinking about that bawbag of a copper.’

‘Ransome?’

‘That’s the one – you heard any more from the prof?’

‘Just a text to say everything’s fine.’ Again, Mike hid behind the mug he was holding. ‘The media say it’s someone called Hendricks who’s in charge of the investigation…’

‘Gav Hendricks is a featherweight; it’s Ransome we need to keep an eye on.’ Chib had taken a step towards Mike. ‘Say he takes your friend Allan in for questioning…’

‘Allan’s fine.’

‘He better be.’

Mike didn’t want Calloway coming any closer, so made a show of wandering over towards the window, realising too late that it might make him appear nervous: hadn’t Allan done the selfsame thing? He found himself staring out of the window anyway, and could make out the roof of Chib’s black BMW 5-Series. Two men were resting against the car, one of them smoking a cigarette, the other checking his phone for messages.

‘You brought your boys,’ Mike commented.

‘Don’t fret – they don’t know it’s you I’m visiting.’

‘Why not?’

Chib gave a shrug. ‘Not sure who to trust these days… and it’s nice to keep a few secrets, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so, though it didn’t stop you telling Hate my name.’

‘You leave Hate to me, Mike.’ Chib was wagging a finger. He decided that he’d spent enough time admiring the paintings, and had started on another circuit of the room. ‘It’s all right for some, eh? I mean, look at you – you’ve got your money in the bank, art on your penthouse walls… and behind the sofa. You’re living high on the hog, Mr Michael Mackenzie.’ Calloway gave a humourless chuckle. ‘Some of us still have to go out there and graft for a living. This coffee’s champion, by the way. Any more of it going?’

Mike took the empty mug and headed for the kitchen. He didn’t like it that Chib knew where he lived; liked it even less that his goons were stationed outside, and that Chib now knew there were four masterpieces in the apartment – not forgetting the lesser pieces exhibited on the walls. He heard a bleep from the living area and figured Chib was making a call or sending a text. He hoped it wasn’t an invitation for the goons to join the party – maybe they were coffee-lovers, too…

When he returned with the replenished mug, however, Chib was pointing towards the coffee table, on top of which sat Mike’s own mobile.

‘Sounds like you’ve got a message waiting,’ the gangster explained.

‘Thanks,’ Mike replied, handing Calloway the coffee. He walked over to the table, but then hesitated. Hadn’t his phone been sitting in the inside pocket of his jacket? The jacket that was still draped over the back of one of the chairs? He glanced towards Chib, who was studying Allan’s two Coultons again, slowly shaking his head. Mike picked up the phone and glanced at its screen. Two text messages. The first was from Laura: Need to see you was all it said. Under normal circumstances, this would have gladdened Mike’s heart, but these were far from normal circumstances, as the second text demonstrated.

Westie short-changed. Another picture or 20K cash, you choose. Alice.

‘Nothing urgent, I hope?’ Chib was asking.

‘Not really.’ Mike pretended to be punching a reply into the keypad, aware of Chib’s eyes drilling into him.

‘So you’re pretty confident about your pal Allan?’

The question caught Mike off guard. ‘Of course,’ he spluttered. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Well, because of his taste in art for one thing.’

Mike barked out something that he hoped might be construed as a laugh, Chib obliged by smiling back. He straightened his back and clasped his hands behind his head, studying the room again as if he were considering its purchase.

‘Very nice,’ he commented. ‘Bet it cost a few bob.’

‘A few,’ Mike conceded.

‘Owe any money on it?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t expect you would, man of your talents. What’s that word they use about businessmen when they know what they’re doing…? Ecumen?’

‘Acumen,’ Mike corrected him.

‘That’s it.’ Chib nodded slowly. ‘Now do us all a favour, Mike…’ He was bearing down on Mike, for all the world as though he was going to back him against the wall. ‘Use some of that famed acumen of yours to make sure nothing goes wrong, starting with your good friend Mr Allan Cruikshank. A chain’s only as strong as its weakest link, isn’t that what they say?’ The two men stood only inches apart, so that Mike could feel the gangster’s breath on his face. He took a moment to steady himself.

‘From where I’m looking,’ he said eventually, ‘the weakest link is that headcase Hate. If he wants to take you down, all he has to do is send the cops an anonymous tip-off.’

‘But then his clients wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting what’s owed them. When it comes down to it, they’re business people, same as you. So don’t you go worrying about that, and don’t give me cause to worry about anything at your end.’

‘A chain doesn’t have an end,’ Mike said quietly.

‘A chain’s nothing but ends!’ Calloway snapped back. They locked eyes for a moment, and then the gangster turned away. It looked to Mike as if he was readying to leave. The replenished mug, still three quarters full, was placed on the coffee table. Chib exited into the long hallway, Mike following.

‘Maybe next time I’ll get the full tour, eh?’ Calloway was gesturing towards the art that lined the walls. ‘And like I say, there’s an open invite to mine. Not half as snazzy as yours, of course, but then it’s been through the wars – a bit like its owner.’

The thing is, Mike thought to himself, I don’t know your address, while you now know mine. The front door was open, Chib striding out on to the landing with a backwards wave of the hand. Mike pressed the door closed after him and leaned against it, as if to repel further intruders. He listened out for the sound of the lift arriving, and hazarded an eye to the spy hole. The lift doors were sliding closed. He turned and walked back to the living area, scooping his phone up and making for the window. As yet there was no sign of Calloway. Mike didn’t want the gangster seeing him making a call – no telling who he’d think Mike was talking to – so he retreated a few steps into the room before punching Gissing’s number into the keypad.