Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Now,’ Calloway went on, seemingly satisfied by this reaction, ‘how do you suppose she got Mike’s mobile number? Want to go fifty-fifty or ask the audience? No, because she got it from you, Westie. She got it from you…’ A forefinger stabbed Westie in the chest. It felt like the heft of a blade, the barrel of a gun. Calloway had leaned forward from the waist so he was eye to eye with the student. ‘Unless you can come up with some other highly convincing explanation.’ Spittle hit Westie’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it away until Calloway had started another circuit of the room, taking care not to trip over the various cables. ‘These are dangerous times, Pretty Boy,’ he was saying. ‘People get a bit frantic, a bit crazy.’

‘I didn’t know the silly cow had sent that text!’

‘But you knew she was thinking about it, didn’t you? You knew it was a text, even though I never mentioned the fact.’ Calloway had turned and was closing in on Westie again. His hands had emerged from his pockets. They were bunched into fists. ‘The pair of you talked it over, maybe tweaked the wording till you’d got it just right…’

‘We only thought…’

The punch hit Westie in the stomach and sent him backwards until he hit the wall, either side of a framed canvas. Calloway had followed up with a hand around the student’s throat.

‘It’s good that we’re getting to know one another,’ he spat, ‘because you’re going to do something for me. Two things, in fact. For one, persuade your bony-arsed girlfriend that nobody’s getting shafted around here except her.’

Westie, eyes bulging, had started to nod as best he could. Calloway released his grip and the young man collapsed to his knees, coughing a string of phlegm from his mouth. Calloway crouched down in front of him, a hand resting on either shoulder.

‘Is that a deal?’ he asked.

‘No bother, Mr Calloway,’ Westie managed to gasp. ‘I’m on that straight away.’ He managed to swallow. ‘And what’s the second thing?’

‘The second thing is this, Westie – we’re going to be a team, you and me.’ Calloway was nodding as if to reinforce the point.

‘A team?’ Westie’s ears were ringing and his mouth felt full of sand. There was juice in a carton on the floor next to him, but he didn’t think now was the right time for a refreshment break.

‘Looks like those forgeries of yours did the business, young Westie,’ Calloway was telling him. ‘In my book, that means you know what you’re up to. Quick turnaround, too, from what I’m told. So now you’re going to make me a few more.’

‘More copies?’

Calloway nodded again. ‘Plenty more paintings in that warehouse. ’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Don’t fret.’ The gangster offered a smile. ‘We’re not going to turn the place over again – do I really look that thick?’

‘So you want them for yourself?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

Westie felt himself relax a little. ‘Sure, Mr Calloway, I can do that. After all, what’s the difference between hanging a fake on your wall and owning the real thing?’

‘If the fake’s perfect, no difference at all.’ Calloway helped Westie back up on to his feet, brushing dust from his shoulders.

‘Do you have anything particular in mind?’ Westie asked. ‘Doesn’t have to be from the warehouse – I can do you a Mona Lisa if you like.’

‘No, Westie, not the Mona Lisa. These have to be paintings that are kept locked away from the public gaze.’

‘How many are we talking about?’

‘Couple of dozen should do it.’

Westie puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of work.’

Calloway’s face tightened. ‘You’re forgetting – you’ve a lot of making up to do after that little stunt Alice tried to pull.’

Westie raised his hands in surrender. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Not for you, Mr Calloway. I’m flattered you think I’d be good enough.’ Watching the gangster’s features relax again, he decided it was safe to ask a question. ‘By the way, which painting did you get from the raid?’

‘It’s by some guy called Utterson – Dusk on Rannoch Moor. How about you?’

‘A DeRasse,’ Westie was able to say, despite the sudden queasy surge in his gut.

‘Never heard of him.’ Calloway’s hands still rested on Westie’s shoulders. ‘Any good, is he?’

Westie cleared his throat. ‘Not bad. Experimental… style of Jasper Johns but a bit hipper… Do you want to swap?’

The gangster just laughed, as though Westie had been making a joke. Westie tried smiling back, maintaining the illusion while his brain screamed.

The Utterson! Why did it have to be the bloody Utterson?

Allan Cruikshank was in his office at First Caledonian Bank’s HQ on the corner of George Street and St Andrew’s Square. The building was becoming cramped, and being Grade I listed there was little way to renovate it to accommodate the twenty-first century. Allan’s office was half its original size, subdivided by means of a partition wall. The only view from his remaining window was of a ghastly seventies office block to the rear of the building. Along with everyone else at his level, Allan worked to monthly targets. His roster of High Net Worth clients had been underperforming of late, and he should have been making a few calls, maybe arranging lunches or pre-dinner drinks, the better to talk them into sticking some more of their money the bank’s way. He knew that, if asked, Mike Mackenzie would come on board as a client, but then they would cease to be just friends; the transaction would sit between them, changing everything.

But then who was Allan kidding? They were no longer ‘just friends’. They’d pulled off a heist together, and Allan now had something he’d always wanted – at least theoretically. He owned two paintings that First Caledonian, despite its muscle, its own extensive portfolio of art, and its own curator, could never possess.

And he hated the fact. He didn’t think it was simple cowardice that had convinced him to hand the paintings over to Mike for safe keeping. It was just that the Coultons didn’t mean anything to him. He realised he’d have been as happy with Westie’s reproductions. And at least he could have displayed those… His fingers drifted over a nick on his chin. He’d been shaving this morning, not really concentrating. Hadn’t slept much either, not since Saturday. He tossed and turned and imagined himself in a police cell, a court-room, a prison.

‘You were a bloody fool, Allan,’ he said out loud. Not that any of it had been his idea, not really. Gissing had come up with the original notion, and Mike had fleshed it out. Without Mike as a conduit to Chib Calloway, they’d probably never have gone ahead with it. Allan’s role had been secondary, negligible. Christ Almighty, he sounded as if he was explaining himself to the prosecutor.

When the alarm bell sounded, he jolted upright. But it was only the phone: the buzzer signalling an internal call. He picked it up.

‘Allan Cruikshank speaking,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

‘Front desk, Mr Cruikshank. There’s a gentleman here to see you.’ Allan’s appointment diary was open in front of him, empty till mid-afternoon. He knew what the receptionist was going to say, but still felt a rush of cold at her words.

‘He’s with the police – Detective Inspector Ransome. Shall I send him up?’

‘Can you tell him I’m in the middle of a meeting?’ Allan waited while his message was relayed.

‘He says he’s happy to wait,’ the receptionist trilled, ‘and he’ll only need five minutes of your time.’

‘Then tell him to wait there in the lobby. I’ll be another quarter of an hour or so.’ Allan slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. The window looked inviting: four floors to the waiting roadway and oblivion. But he knew it only opened an inch and a half – nobody at First Clay wanted an accident. If he exited his office and walked towards the lifts, there was a stairwell for use in a fire. He didn’t know where it would bring him out, though… maybe into the very lobby where his nemesis was waiting.