Ian Rankin - Doors Open

And Hendricks, too, come to that. Hendricks had given him an earful on the phone. Somehow he’d got to hear that Ransome had visited the warehouse. Stay the fuck away, those had been Hendricks’ instructions. Ransome had come back with a few choice words of his own before ending the call and refusing to answer when Hendricks rang back. Sod him. Sod the lot of them. A bit more hard evidence was needed, that or a confession. Evidence would be difficult without search warrants, and his various hunches and titbits of surveillance were never going to secure any of those. Not even his covert source could connect Calloway to the heist in any way other than tangentially.

He really needed more.

Hard evidence or a confession…

And suddenly, Ransome knew exactly what to do. And who to do it to.

Tuesday morning, just gone eleven, Westie was working on his degree show. He was stuck in the basement of the College of Art, which meant no windows, no natural light. Westie’s solution was a series of striplights, standing at angles against the walls so that any paintings hung nearby would throw jagged shadows across sections of the room. The problem was, it was hard to see the paintings themselves. Added to which, the floor had become treacherous, snaking coils of electrical flex leading from the lights to an overloaded junction box. He’d been told by the janitor that there were Health and Safety issues and by one of his tutors that the ‘art of display’ was part and parcel of the exhibition. In other words, if Westie couldn’t provide proper lighting and an environment that wasn’t a potential deathtrap, he might be marked down.

Not that Westie needed to worry, of course. He was whistling a happy tune – ‘So What?’ by Miles Davis – as he worked, safe in the knowledge that his extra-curricular activities on behalf of Professor Gissing and his friends had already secured him a high pass… maybe even a distinction.

‘Doesn’t mean you can slack,’ Gissing had warned him. ‘Your show has to exhibit a basic level of competence, otherwise the mark’s going to look overly suspicious.’

Westie reckoned he could do ‘competence’. And he was proud of his seven chosen canvases, pastiches of Runciman, Nasmyth, Raeburn (twice), Wilkie, Hornel and Peploe. The Peploe was a particular favourite: a still life featuring potted plant, fruit bowl, and, at the very edge of the canvas, ketchup bottle. Gissing, a fan of Peploe, hated it, which was why it was going to be Westie’s centrepiece. He wanted to hear the professor praise it to the other assessors, albeit through gritted teeth.

The fresh injection of cash into Westie’s bank account had meant he could go to town on his frames – no trawling the junk shops and skips. He had bought from an architectural reclamation specialist in Leith. The frames were gilded, ornate, original, and immaculate. He’d spent some more of the money on a couple of meals out and was thinking of renting a proper studio so that Alice could have her living room back.

‘That’s going to eat into my film studies funding,’ she had complained. ‘Unless we do something about it.’

It had taken a lot of talking to persuade her not to go asking Mike for any more cash. But then she’d started saying they should sell the DeRasse and pocket what they could.

‘No point us having it if it’s got to be kept hidden – I’d be as happy with one of your copies anyway.’

He’d asked who they should sell it to and she’d just shrugged her shoulders. ‘Got to be someone out there who’d want it, no questions asked. I’ll bet we could get fifty thou easy…’

Never easy, Westie thought to himself now. She had worked hard to talk him out of including the DeRasse in his exhibition. He realised that thinking about all of this had interfered with his whistling. Back to the top, Miles… Every time he replayed the heist itself, he ended up laughing. Bloody Lavender Hill Mob and no mistake. Gissing clutching his chest like he was about to peg it – that would have been interesting. Allan with a waterfall of sweat running down his face from under that ridiculous wig. Mike had done okay, though – he’d been cool throughout, definitely cut out for it. That was another reason Westie didn’t want to start hassling for a bigger cut: Mike had something about him. The four hoodies had been Mike’s doing. You got the feeling with Mike that, despite the haircut and the hand-crafted boots, he definitely knew people. People you didn’t want to know.

Could probably handle himself, too, while Westie was a fully paid-up pacifist – give peace a chance and all that…

‘This is some awful dump, by the way,’ a voice growled from the doorway. Westie studied the man who was lumbering into the room. Shaved head, leather coat, gold rings and neck chain. ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, son – nobody’s going to find you down here unless you leave a trail of breadcrumbs.’

‘Can I help you?’ Westie asked as the stranger chuckled at his own joke.

‘Course you can, Westie. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ The man was holding out a pudgy hand. Westie could have sworn there was scar tissue on the knuckles. ‘I’m Chib Calloway. Reckoned it was high time we had an actual face-to-face.’

‘Chib Calloway?’

The man nodded. ‘Judging by the way your jaw’s grazing the floor, I’m guessing the name means something to you. That’s good – saves lengthy explanations.’

‘I know who you are,’ Westie admitted.

‘Then you know why I’m here?’

Westie felt his knees trying to buckle. ‘N-no… I’ve no idea w-why you’re here.’

‘Has nobody bothered to tell you, Mr Westwater? Dearie me…’

‘Tell me what exactly?’

Calloway chuckled again and patted him on the shoulder. Westie’s knees almost went again under the pressure. ‘The extra guys on your team last Saturday, did you think they maybe appeared in a puff of smoke? The shooters and the van… who the hell did you think organised it all?’

‘You?’ Westie just managed to choke the question out.

‘Me,’ Chib Calloway confirmed. ‘I’m pretty impressed, actually… reckoned someone would have blabbed. Good that my name’s kept out of the spotlight. And yet I find myself having to come here…’ The gangster started tutting as he began a tour of the studio and its contents. Westie wanted to ask what was going on, but the greater part of him really didn’t want to know. Only a couple of the paintings had actually been hung, the other five resting against one of the whitewashed walls. Calloway had crouched down to flick through them, saying nothing. Eventually, he stood up again, brushing imaginary dust from his palms. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he apologised, ‘except for the noble art, of course. Know what that is, Westie?’

‘Boxing?’ Westie offered.

‘That’s it exactly – boxing.’ The gangster was walking away from Westie, heading towards the doorway. ‘Closely followed by hammering, battering, kicking, gouging, slashing, hacking and stabbing.’ He turned and gave a smile. ‘Not quite so noble by the time it gets to that stage, of course.’

‘L-look, Mr Calloway, I just did what I was told. N-nobody said you were part of the… I mean, you’ve got n-nothing to worry about, not from me.’

Calloway was advancing slowly on Westie again. ‘You saying it’s all down to your girlfriend, then? How is Alice, by the way?’

Westie’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’

Calloway took a deep breath. ‘Your dear, sweet little Alice sent a warning to my friend Mike Mackenzie. She says you want an extra twenty K on top, either that or another painting. According to her, you feel cheated. Is that right, Westie? Do you feel hard done by?’ But the student’s powers of speech had deserted him.