Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘That’s good, that’s very good.’ Edvard’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. ‘So then, to cut the story short, perhaps more of our business could be transacted in similar fashion in future?’

Chib doubted it.

‘Sure,’ he agreed, sounding enthusiastic. ‘No problem at all, Edvard. You like your art, huh? Me, too.’

‘I like money better, Mr Calloway.’ The voice had turned cold. ‘And what I’m really passionate about just now is the money you still owe me.’

‘It’s coming, Edvard…’

‘I’m happy to hear that. I’ll be in touch soon about further transactions. ’

The phone went dead – Edvard never stayed on too long, just in case. Chib snapped the phone shut and tapped it against his teeth. He was replaying the conversation, and winced when he got to You like your art, huh? To anyone listening in – on a wire-tap, say – he’d just given away the nature of the bloody collateral!

Good work, Chib… Nice fucking going…

Still, Edvard wanted to do business with him. More paintings to be swapped between gangs as security on various deals. Tap, tap, tap of the phone against his teeth. The dog howling now in frustration. The BMW drawing up alongside Chib, making him realise he’d kept on walking. He was thinking about Edvard and the people Edvard did business with, hundreds and thousands of miles away from Edinburgh. How much did they know about art? About the Glasgow Boys and the Scottish Colourists? If paintings were just collateral to them, just something to be held on to while deals were being done…

Professor Robert Gissing reckoned that this kid Westie was a master forger, and Chib began to wonder about that, too. He was still thinking as he got back into the car, thinking as they pulled away from the kerb. Westie and Alice, Alice and Westie.

Westie short-changed.

‘I know how you feel, pal,’ Chib said out loud.

‘Boss?’ Glenn asked from the driving seat.

‘Nothing.’

‘Who was on the phone? Was it Hate?’

Chib sat forward in his seat until his face was almost level with Glenn’s. ‘Any more sticking your big pointy nose in, you’ll have my hands around your throat – understood?’

‘Loud and clear,’ Glenn said, sounding suitably chastened. ‘It’s just that…’ He swallowed hard, as if fearing his boss’s hands. ‘If you’re in trouble, me and Johnno want to help.’

‘What we’re here for,’ Johnno piped up.

‘Well, isn’t that touching?’ Chib crooned.

‘We feel maybe you don’t trust us the way you used to,’ Glenn persisted.

‘Oh aye? And who are you going to complain to – your shop steward? Get a grip, Glenn. Some of my business you’re better off not knowing. I’m taking more than my share of flak, just to keep you two off the radar, know what I mean?’

‘Not really, boss,’ Johnno eventually admitted. Chib just groaned and slouched back again. Mackenzie’s coffee was giving him a headache. Had to be the coffee. Either that or brain cancer from the mobile phone. One or the other.

What else could it be?

There was a restaurant next to the auction house. It had been a bank at one time, and still boasted a rococo interior of vast fluted columns and intricate cornicing. In the morning the tables were kept empty, ready for the lunchtime rush, but breakfast could be had at one of the booths by the window. Laura was stirring a foamy cappuccino when Mike arrived. He pecked her on both cheeks and ordered water – frizzante – from the waiter before sliding on to the bench across from her.

‘No coffee?’ she asked. There was a plate in front of her, showing leftover crumbs from a croissant. Little pots of jam and pats of butter sat untouched.

‘Already had my share of jolts this morning,’ he explained. ‘I haven’t seen you since the day of the auction – how did it go?’

‘Not quite record-breaking.’ She was stirring her spoon slowly around the remains of her drink. ‘Did you hear about the warehouse? ’ She seemed to be studying him as he adjusted his shirt cuffs.

‘Yes,’ he said, eyes widening. ‘Wasn’t that extraordinary?’

‘Extraordinary,’ she echoed.

‘You probably know the people at the National Gallery – they must have had a fit.’

‘I’d imagine so.’

‘Bloody lucky the gang didn’t get away with it.’

‘Lucky, yes…’ Her voice drifted away, though her eyes stayed locked on him.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mike said, affecting a laugh. ‘Shaving foam on my ear lobe?’ He made a show of checking, but wasn’t about to be rewarded with anything like a smile.

‘One of the paintings was the portait by Monboddo of his wife, Beatrice.’ She pronounced the name in the Italian style. ‘I remember it from the exhibition and how you couldn’t take your eyes off it…’ She waited for him to speak.

‘Nice to know I was under surveillance,’ was all he could think to respond.

‘Allan teased me,’ she went on, ‘said the reason you were so keen was because she looked like me.’

‘Well… I suppose there’s a certain truth in that.’

‘You remember that night of the exhibition? Some of us went to a restaurant after…?’

Mike winced. ‘Don’t,’ he said. Too much wine at the preview, and Mike giddy at this new world he had entered, a world where people knew about art, and spoke from the heart. One too many brandies at the restaurant. He’d caught Laura’s eye several times. She’d always smiled back. Then she’d gone to the ladies’ and he’d followed her, barging in and trying to kiss her…

‘Do you know anyone called Ransome?’ she asked suddenly, bringing Mike back to the present.

‘Should I?’

‘I knew him at college – he tried much the same thing with me once at a party. Followed me to the loo…’ Noting the pained look on Mike’s face, she broke off the reminiscence. ‘I hadn’t laid eyes on him in a while,’ she said instead, ‘but then the day of the auction, he came to see me afterwards. He said he was interested in a local villain called Chib Calloway who’d been sitting in the front row with two of his henchmen close by.’

‘I was at the back, cosying up to the dealers.’

‘You didn’t see this man Calloway?’ She watched as he shook his head. ‘But you know who he is?’

‘I know the name,’ Mike conceded, straining his neck to see if the waiter was on his way. ‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’

‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Ransome thought maybe you’d brought Calloway to the auction.’

‘Me?’ Mike raised both eyebrows. ‘Why would he think that?’

‘He didn’t say, but he managed to describe you.’ She paused, her stare intensifying. ‘And Allan and the professor, too. He wanted your names, and I didn’t see how I could refuse…’

‘Where’s my water got to?’ Mike muttered, craning his neck again. His mind was racing. Ransome must have been watching Chib that day. He’d seen Mike leaving the auction house with Gissing and Allan… probably followed Chib and his men there and was watching outside… He’d have seen Mike, Allan and Gissing heading for the Shining Star – with Chib and his men following close after… Had Ransome actually been in the bar and seen Mike talking with Chib? No, the place had been dead – Chib, sensitive to surveillance, would have noticed him, surely. So what had led him to connect Mike and the others to Chib? The answer seemed simple enough – he’d been at the National Gallery, and had spotted Mike and Chib in the café. More crucially, however, Ransome now had all their names…

‘And then,’ Laura continued, ‘after the robbery, Ransome called me. Twice, actually. It was Saturday night, so it had to be important to him, even though he made the questions sound casual…’