Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Hell and damnation,’ he muttered, picking up the phone again. Mike wasn’t answering at home, so Allan tried his mobile. This time he got through.

‘Hello?’ the voice said.

‘That bloody detective’s here,’ Allan blurted out. ‘Wants to talk to me. He knows, Mike. He knows. You’d better get yourself over here.’

‘Who is this?’

In horror, Allan studied the display. He’d transposed two digits of Mike’s number! He ended the call, squeezed shut his eyes, and felt like weeping. Eventually, he took a deep breath and tried again, making sure this time that it was Mike who answered.

‘It’s got to be about the heist, Mike,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to help me.’

‘By rushing over there?’ Mike asked after a lengthy pause. ‘And what message would that send, Allan? You’ve got to brazen it out.’

‘Why the hell is he here? Who’s been talking?’

‘He’s fishing, that’s all.’

‘You don’t know that!’

‘We won’t know anything until you’ve talked to him. Have you got something you can take to calm down?’

‘Maybe if someone whacked me with a hammer…’ As the words left Allan’s mouth, he regretted them. He didn’t want Mike getting ideas, ideas he might take to his new best friend – Chib Calloway. Allan swallowed hard and took a nice deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, Mike. Sorry if I overreacted.’

‘Call me when you’re done with him.’ Mike’s voice was all steel.

‘Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call.’

The joke was weak, but Mike laughed anyway. ‘Just be yourself, Allan. You’re a deal-maker, remember that. And Ransome’s not even part of the official investigation. As far as I can tell, he’s been on Chib’s case. He’s probably sniffing around anyone who knows him.’

‘But how does he know?’

‘There’s a chance he saw us at the auction, and maybe at the Shining Star afterwards.’

‘So he knows we’re interested in art and drinking…’

‘You can bet I’ll be on his list, too. But you’ve barely met Chib, Allan – and that’s all you need to tell him.’

‘Okay,’ Allan agreed. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

‘Call me straight after.’

‘Sure,’ Allan put the receiver down, then picked it up again and spoke to his secretary, asked her to head down to reception in a couple of minutes and sign in a Mr Ransome. He didn’t bother saying who Ransome was. Then again, she’d know by day’s end – the receptionists and secretaries were as thick as thieves. Allan spent the time trying to compose himself. He pulled some paperwork from his drawer and spread it across the desk. Switched on the TV to the stock market screen. By the time the knock came, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, calculator to hand, jacket draped over the back of his executive chair.

‘Come in,’ he called.

Ransome was younger than he’d expected, and dapper with it. He’d known HNWs with less style.

‘Nice place to work,’ was the detective’s opening gambit. Allan had stood up long enough to shake hands across the desk. He gestured for Ransome to sit down. ‘Lot of expensive-looking art on the walls,’ Ransome continued. ‘Down in the lobby… all along the corridors…’

‘First Caledonian has its own curator,’ Allan informed him. ‘Our portfolio is worth in excess of twenty million.’

Ransome gave a whistle. ‘Do they ever let the staff borrow something for a couple of nights?’

‘Not at my lowly level of management.’ Allan attempted a self-deprecating smile. ‘What’s this all about, Inspector? I admit I’m intrigued.’

‘You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Cruikshank. The hoops I’ve had to go through…’ The detective shook his head slowly. ‘All I had was your name, you see. That and the name of your bank… Ever had any trouble with money-laundering?’

‘Certainly not – the regulations make sure of that.’

‘A banker would be a useful contact, though, wouldn’t he? If you did want to launder money.’

‘Quite the opposite. As I say, we’re obliged by law to report unusual levels of activity to the authorities.’

Ransome didn’t seem particularly interested in any of Allan’s answers. Nevertheless, the questions kept coming. ‘I understand you work with High Net Worth individuals, Mr Cruikshank?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is Michael Mackenzie a client?’

‘That comes under the heading of privileged information, Inspector. Has something happened to Mike?’

‘You do know him, then?’

‘We’ve been friends for over a year.’

‘And Charles Calloway?’ Ransome broke off. ‘Sorry… you probably know him better as “Chib”.’

‘I really don’t know him at all – we ran into him in a wine bar one day, but that’s about it.’

‘This would be the Shining Star wine bar? Just along the road from here?’

‘That’s right.’ Allan had been expecting a flipped-open notebook and pen, maybe a hulking junior colleague standing against the door like a silent sentry. But Ransome just sat here with his fingertips pressed together, one leg crossed over the other.

‘When you say “ran into him”…?’

‘I mean just that. He saw us looking at him, came to the table and gave a couple of scowls and snarls.’

‘He’s good at that, is Calloway.’

‘A professional, I’d say.’

‘And this was just yourself and Mr Mackenzie…?’

‘Another friend was there – Professor Robert Gissing.’

Ransome raised an eyebrow. ‘I seem to know that name. Wasn’t he the one called in to run an eye over those paintings from the Granton heist?’

‘That’s him. He’s head of the College of Art.’

Ransome gave a thoughtful nod. ‘So you didn’t speak to Chib at the auction?’

‘Which auction?’

‘The one a couple of weeks back… and again – funny coincidence – just along the road from here.’

‘I’d no idea Mr Calloway had an interest in auctions.’ Allan leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Ransome just smiled and was thoughtful again. ‘I’d really like to know what this is all about, Inspector,’

‘You say that Calloway came over to your table and a few words were exchanged…’

‘Yes?’

‘So what was your friend Mackenzie doing joining Calloway at the bar, chatting and sharing a drink?’

‘Must have been after I left,’ Allan improvised.

‘Loyalty’s an admirable quality, Mr Cruikshank, when it’s not misplaced. What do you think those two would have had to talk about?’

‘I don’t know… schooldays maybe.’

‘Schooldays?’

Allan licked his parched lips. ‘They were at the same school for a short time.’

The way the detective nodded to himself told Allan that this wasn’t news to him. ‘Might start to explain why they’ve been spending so much time together recently,’ Ransome speculated. ‘I happened to see them at the National Gallery, and at that auction, and at the Shining Star. And I know they’ve been taking little drives together – sure you weren’t there with them, Mr Cruikshank?’

‘I can assure you I wasn’t.’

Ransome leaned forward. ‘Well what about this, then – Calloway has been to Mr Mackenzie’s home at Henderland Heights. What does that suggest to you, Mr Cruikshank?’

‘It doesn’t suggest anything to me.’

‘Your friend Mackenzie collects art, doesn’t he? Someone at the auction house told me as much. Then he takes a known criminal on a tour of our national collection, after which they attend an auction together, checking out the going rate for various artists. Doesn’t that begin to suggest anything to you, Mr Cruikshank?’