Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Why Allan?’

‘What?’

‘Why put Allan at the top of that list?’

Mike rubbed at his temples, trying to dull the pain. There was a pharmacy next door to the café, and he decided he needed some aspirin. A couple of hundred should do it…

‘No reason,’ he eventually said, knowing the preceding silence had already given the lie to this.

‘If Calloway has the paintings, maybe you could talk to him,’ Laura was suggesting now.

‘Did he look to you like the sort of man you can reason with?’

‘Are you trying to tell me he does have them?’

‘Christ, no – I don’t know anything about these missing paintings! What I’m saying is, I don’t want to be the one making that accusation to Chib Calloway’s face.’

‘Mike… just how involved are you?’

‘Unattached at the moment, as it happens.’ The sound she made was a sigh of frustration. ‘I’m fine, Laura. This is all going to peter out, trust me.’

‘Can I do that, though, Mike? Can I really trust you?’

It was an excellent question, Mike thought. He was wondering who he could trust, now that the game had changed.

Did anyone have the new rulebook to hand?’

Alice was late back from the cinema. She’d been hosting another of her quiz nights in the bar. Themed this time, the subject being ‘American New Wave’. Didn’t seem to matter – the same team of four always won. Which probably explained why the turnout had started to drop. It was a problem, and she didn’t have an answer to it as yet. As she climbed the steps to the flat’s front door, she tried to remember if there was any food waiting for her. Hell with it, they could always phone out. She reckoned Mike would come across with the extra money – not all of it, obviously; there’d be some negotiating. But enough to keep her and her dreams on track. She was surprised she hadn’t heard from him – maybe it was time for another text, issuing a deadline. As she started to turn her key in the lock, the door was flung open from within. Westie was bug-eyed, brandy on his breath. His clothes looked ready for the bin.

‘What the hell have you done?’ he shouted, hauling her inside by the arm and slamming shut the door.

‘No idea,’ she bristled. ‘Care to give me a clue?’

‘You stupid, stupid bitch.’ He’d turned away from her, stalking into the living room, his hands held to his head as though to prevent it from splitting open. She’d seen him in some manic states before, but never like this.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘all I did was ask for a bit more money – no harm in trying. I take it Mike’s been on to you…’

‘Mike? Mike?’ Saliva was flying from the corners of his mouth. ‘If only…’ He turned to confront her. ‘Remember I told you there was a sleeping partner? I’d to paint an extra fake for him? Turns out it’s Chib Calloway.’

Alice looked at him blankly. ‘Who’s Chib Calloway?’

‘He’s Edinburgh’s equivalent of the mafia. Not the sort of guy you want on your back.’

‘So Mike’s gone running to him?’

‘He’s the sleeping partner! The one who loaned us the guns, the van, the extra pairs of hands… Calloway came to see me today at the art college. He had two messages for me. One, we don’t get any extra cash. Two, he wants me to do more paintings.’

‘What for?’

‘Does it matter? Thing is, your hare-brained scheme has gone tits up, and I’m the one in the shit. How could you be so stupid?’

Alice’s face had hardened. ‘I was thinking of us, Westie – thinking of you. They weren’t treating you right.’

‘At least they were letting me live, which is more than’ll happen if I don’t come good for Chib Calloway. I can’t believe you’d do this to me!’

‘Do what?’

‘Try blackmailing Mike.’

She leaned forward so that her face was an inch from his. ‘Get a grip, Westie. You could just say no to this guy – what’s he going to do? If he tries anything, we go straight to the nearest cop shop.’

Westie stared at her for a moment, then slumped on to the sofa, elbows on knees, hands still wrapped around his head. ‘You don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t get it.’

‘Oh, here we go.’ Alice rolled her eyes. ‘The tortured artist bit – like I haven’t seen it before a hundred times.’

‘Just leave, will you?’

‘Leave?’ Her voice was rising again. ‘It’s my bloody flat, in case you’ve forgotten!’ He didn’t move, didn’t speak. ‘I’ll leave, all right,’ she stated into the silence. ‘Just you try and stop me!’

Westie heard her grab her things and go. When he finally looked up, the room was blurred with tears.

Ransome and his CHIS were in a pub on Rose Street, standing either end of the bar and communicating by mobile phone. CHIS stood for Covert Human Intelligence Source, this being the police’s new favoured terminology. But Ransome knew precisely what Glenn really was – he was his grass, his nark, his snout, his snitch.

His mole in Chib Calloway’s organisation.

‘It’ll be you running the show soon,’ he was reminding the hoodlum, even though Ransome had no intention of allowing Glenn to step into Calloway’s shoes. Only thing he’d be stepping into was the same prison cell as his boss… and wouldn’t that make for fun and games, once Chib knew the part his one-time lieutenant had played in his downfall? ‘Chib’s men all trust you,’ Ransome continued. ‘So all we need to do now is nail him for that art heist – more than a dozen paintings missing at the latest count. Must be tucked away somewhere.’

‘I thought the thieves left them in the van…’

‘Keep up, Glenn – inventory on the warehouse keeps throwing up pictures that are no longer there.’

‘So they did get away with some?’

‘Looks like – nothing in your boss’s house or the boot of his car?’

‘I’ve not had the boot open in a while… I could take a peek.’

‘And while you’re at it, make some excuse to get inside his home, too – have a rake around. Where else could he be stashing them?’

‘You sure it’s him in the first place?’

‘Come on, Glenn… he must have let something slip.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then he didn’t want you in on it. Maybe you’re on the way to the subs’ bench, Glenn – you and Johnno. Maybe Chib’s building himself a new team…’ Ransome lifted the whisky glass to his nose, smelling seaweed and peat smoke and maybe a hint of hot road tar. The produce of a coastal distillery, somewhere far to the north and west of Edinburgh. Just the one drink, though – he had Sandra’s Vietnamese duck to look forward to. He forced himself to stare straight ahead at the row of optics, rather than try for eye contact with Glenn. There were plenty of drinkers between them. ‘What is it you’re drinking, Glenn?’ he asked.

‘Smirnoff Ice. Cheers, Mr Ransome.’

‘I wasn’t offering to buy you one. If I go telling the barman to send a drink to the other end of the bar, it’ll look like a pick-up.’

‘Then why did you ask?’

‘Just curious, same as I’m curious about the whereabouts of these pictures.’

‘Funny thing,’ Glenn said, ‘but remember I told you we’d been to Henderland Heights?’

‘Mike Mackenzie’s flat, yes.’

‘Well, on the way back, Chib got a call. Someone called Edward, but pronounced funny. And Chib said something to him about “collateral” and how it wasn’t even posted as missing.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘Dunno. He realised Johnno and me were being nosy and made sure we were out of earshot for the rest.’

‘He’s got to have it stashed somewhere, whatever it is…’

‘There’s the clubs and pubs – they’ve all got cellars and store-rooms. Plus the snooker and pool halls… dozens of places.’