Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘You could ask around, see if Chib’s made any visits without you knowing.’

‘If he gets wind of it…’

‘Make sure he doesn’t. Are you absolutely sure Mike Mackenzie’s a recent addition to Chib’s social scene?’

‘I’m sure. But, Mr Ransome, maybe that means Mackenzie’s hiding the paintings for Chib.’

‘The thought had crossed my mind. Tough to get a search warrant, though…’ Ransome gave a loud sigh. ‘Look, Glenn, it’s all very simple really. If we can get your boss for the warehouse, there’s no fallout. No one’s going to know you played any role in it at all. Makes your accession all the easier.’

‘My what?’

Ransome closed his eyes for a second. ‘You taking Chib’s place as the city’s number one,’ he explained.

‘Right.’

The pub’s double doors flew open as a stag party burst in. Easy enough to spot the bridegroom-to-be, reduced to his underpants, shoes and T-shirt, the latter defaced by graffiti and egg yolk. Ransome angled his phone away from the fresh wave of noise.

‘Keep your eyes and your ears open, Glenn. Next day or so is going to be crucial. Believe me, Chib’s empire is ready to fall. Make or break time for you, my friend. You ready to ascend your boss’s throne?’

‘Ready for what?’ Glenn had pressed a finger to his ear, holding the phone more closely to the other. ‘I didn’t catch that, Mr Ransome. Too much noise. Hello? Mr Ransome?’ Glenn took a few steps back, the better to see the far end of the bar. But the detective had already headed out into the night.

It was eight o’clock on Wednesday morning before Mike got through to Chib. They arranged to meet at ten at the disused snooker hall. Mike had been cagey on the phone, keeping it short, intent on saving his fury for the meeting itself. But then he reminded himself who – and what – Chib was, and revised his strategy accordingly.

Chib was standing behind one of the unlit tables when Mike pushed open the door. The gangster’s face was in shadow as he rolled a series of reds against the opposite cushion, studying their trajectories and momentum.

‘What’s on your mind, Michael?’ Chib asked, his voice refrigerator cold.

‘I think you know.’

‘Let’s pretend I don’t.’

Mike slid his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘The warehouse is missing a few paintings, Chib. A dozen or more, as it turns out – which kind of blows our brilliant plan to smithereens. They may not have noticed the switch, but they know a robbery’s happened because they’re suddenly short twelve masterpieces!’

One snooker ball hit another and sent it spinning on its axis. ‘I saw it on the news,’ Chib intoned. ‘One reason I was off limits last night. If we’d met then, I might’ve been a bit hotheaded. Still can’t say I’m too thrilled about it, though…’

‘If you’d thought about it for one second… one single, solitary second… you’d have realised they were bound to do a full stock check.’ Mike paused. ‘Or did your four bright young things just get greedy and grab the oils for themselves?’

‘Sorry, Mike, I’m a bit confused…’ Calloway leaned down with his elbows on the rim of the table. His face was visible now, eyes peering up at Mike. ‘Didn’t you use those same four guys to cover the guards and the gatehouse? Leaving you and your friends to empty the vaults?’

Mike burst into an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve had all night to come up with a story and that’s the best you can do?’

‘I’m tempted to say the same thing.’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting we lifted those paintings? Are we supposed to have tucked them under our jumpers?’

‘How would I know? I wasn’t there – but then neither were my boys. They were keeping an eye on the hostages while you went about your business. When are they supposed to have pulled off this miracle? Did they make themselves invisible so they could get past you in the vaults without anyone noticing?’

Mike thumped a fist down hard against the green baize. A cloud of dust flew from it. ‘Why the hell would we go to the bother of stealing paintings? We’d taken all the trouble of switching them so nobody would ever be the wiser!’

‘Maybe one of you got greedy.’

‘I would know if that had happened.’

‘Really? You were standing over your pals the whole time as they emptied their vaults?’ Chib was silent for a moment, then exhaled noisily. ‘You talk a good game, Mike. I could almost use someone like you on my team.’

‘This is crazy!’ Mike spun away from the table, running his hands through his hair, stopping just short of tearing out a few clumps.

‘I’ll tell you what’s crazy,’ Chib stated quietly. ‘Your pal Allan was paid a visit yesterday by Ransome.’

‘How do you know that?’

Chib was standing upright again. His grin just showed against the shadows, much like the Cheshire Cat’s. ‘I had Johnno tail the bastard for a few hours, wanted to know what he’s up to. Ransome paid a visit to First Caledonian Bank – I remember you telling me that’s where Allan works…’

‘It’s not a big deal – Allan called me at the time to tell me it was happening.’

‘And?’ Chib was slowly rounding the table.

‘And nothing – I spoke to Allan afterwards. It was a fishing expedition, that’s all.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Look… is this you laying down some smoke? Right now, it’s these missing paintings I’m bothered about.’

‘Who else was in the warehouse?’

‘Westie and Allan.’

‘Not the professor?’

‘He stayed in the van – couldn’t risk him being ID’d.’

Chib was by now face to face with Mike. ‘What about afterwards? ’

‘How do you mean?’

Chib rubbed his jaw. He had neglected to shave for a couple of days and there was a rasping noise as his fingers crossed the greying stubble. ‘I’ve heard of it happen – a bank gets turned over… doesn’t have to be a bank, could be a petrol station, supermarket, anywhere really… Once the thieves have hoofed it, the staff call the cops, but then they’ve got that five- or ten-minute wait… all this stuff’s still lying around the place, and whatever goes walkies will be blamed on the robbers…’

Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re saying the guards at the warehouse…? But wouldn’t the visitors see something?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’m not buying that.’

‘You’d rather convince yourself it was me?’ Mike could feel the man’s breath on his face – garlic had played some part in the previous evening’s meal. There was a hint of milky tea, too – breakfast, probably. ‘Only three of my guys,’ he went on, ‘were in the actual warehouse, meaning they must’ve taken – what? – four paintings apiece. What in God’s name were they wearing – tents?’ Chib offered a cold chuckle. ‘No, my friend, this was down to your lot, and I’m sure if I ask them nicely, Westie and Allan will spill their guts – literally, if need be.’

‘What about asking your own guys first?’

‘I don’t need to.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time a small-time crook had given in to temptation…’

Their mutual staring contest lasted twenty seconds, Chib the first to blink as he reached into his jacket for his phone. Mike concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, his demeanour solid. Not much sleep last night – too many questions. Of course he’d been turning over some of the same suspicions Chib had just voiced. Little phrases had kept recurring… no such thing as the perfect crime… honour among thieves… traitor in the ranks… Chib’s eyes were on him as he punched in some numbers. Mike knew he was right – no way those four had been hiding anything under their jackets, and nowhere in the back of the van to stash so many extra paintings, sketchpads and illustrated books. Mike needed to think, needed to talk to Allan and Westie. He’d decided not to call them straight away, see if either decided to call him first, as soon as they heard the news. Not a peep. On the other hand, maybe they were just following orders – Gissing’s orders: lie low…