Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Glenn?’ Chib was saying. ‘I want you to round up Billy, Kev, Dodds and Bellboy. Get them round to the snooker hall pronto.’ As he snapped shut his phone, Mike’s sounded. Westie’s number on the screen.

‘Mind if I take this outside?’ he asked Chib.

‘Someone I shouldn’t know about?’

‘Just personal,’ Mike said, hauling open the door. Outside on the pavement, he took a few deep gulps of air as he answered the call.

‘Hello?’ he said, wondering whether to expect Westie himself or the girlfriend, Alice.

‘Mike, is that you?’ Westie’s voice.

‘What can I do for you?’ Mike asked.

‘I just wanted to… I want to say sorry… I’d no idea Alice was going to send you that text. And it stands to reason she didn’t really mean it. We don’t… I don’t want any more money. Or a painting, come to that. I’m quite happy with everything.’

He didn’t sound it. ‘You’ve got enough paintings, then?’

‘I suppose so.’ Westie sounded confused.

‘And how many’s that, Westie?’

‘What do you mean? Just the DeRasse – you know that, Mike. So are we okay now, yeah?’

‘I’m not sure, Westie.’

‘See, I’ve got a favour to ask.’

Mike’s shoulders tensed. The street was mid-morning quiet: a newsagent’s at the corner, a second-hand shop still waiting to open. Tenements across the way, but no one at the grimy windows. ‘I might not be in the mood,’ he told Westie.

‘I can appreciate that, Mike. But I’ve apologised now, so maybe you can… you know…’

‘What?’

‘Get Calloway off my case!’ The words were just short of a scream, so that they came over in a distorted crackle.

‘I wasn’t aware he was on your case.’

‘You didn’t send him round here to scare me off?’

Mike’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s he been saying, Westie?’

‘He wants me to do more fakes for him – loads of them. And I’m scared, Mike – scared to say no, but scared of what’ll happen if I say yes.’

Mike had turned round to face the windowless snooker hall. It was called Diamond Jim’s, the paint peeling from its signage. Had there ever been a Diamond Jim? And if so, what had happened to him? ‘Why does he want them, Westie?’

‘You think I was going to ask? He’s a monster, Mike, everybody knows that. He threw a guy off the Scott Monument once.’

‘Threatened to,’ Mike corrected him. ‘Did he tell you what paintings he wants?’

‘I don’t think he knows yet. Says they’ve got to be like the ones we took – you know, unlikely to be posted missing.’

Mike found himself nodding. ‘Have you seen the news, Westie?’

‘Christ, no – has something happened to her?’

Mike wasn’t really listening. He’d spotted a bag of rubbish in the pend that separated the two tenement blocks. It had burst open and a rat was feasting on the contents, slithering over the remains of takeaway meals and beer cans. It dawned on Mike that he was a very long way from home. Westie had called Chib a monster – hard to disagree. And after all, wasn’t Edinburgh the very city that had spawned Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? Mike placed a hand against the snooker hall’s dank, defaced wall, and felt it leave a thin residue all across his palm.

A hellish spot, he thought to himself.

So why go back inside? Why not run for it and try to forget that he had once known anyone called Chib Calloway? Somehow he didn’t think it would be that simple. And the first to flee… well, they would become the prime suspect, wouldn’t they?

‘What?’ he asked into the phone. Has something happened to her? Westie had asked, and now he was saying something else.

‘Alice,’ the voice repeated, cracking with emotion. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do…’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I had a go at her last night… about her sending you that text, and Calloway and everything… She walked out, Mike. She’s been gone all night.’

Mike swore under his breath and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘You’ve got to go after her.’ He spoke quietly and calmly into the mouthpiece, despite his pounding heart. But he noticed that he was having to hold the phone in both hands to stop it being shaken out of his grip. ‘You’ve got to bring her back, sort things out between you, get her to see sense. She knows everything, Westie – and she’s got less to lose than the rest of us.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If she goes to the police, there’s practically nothing they can charge her with.’

‘She wouldn’t do that.’

‘And if she’s feeling like you’ve turned against her… well, what’s to stop her trying a spot of blackmail again?’

‘She won’t… not now she knows Calloway’s involved.’

‘She might. So here’s what you have to do, Westie – you call her, text her, go knock on her friends’ doors, any family, that cinema she works in – you track her down and then you drop to your knees and tell her you’re sorry. She’s got to come back, Westie. She’s got to.’

There was silence on the line for a moment, then the sound of sniffles being wiped away. ‘I’ll try, Mike. What about Calloway?’

‘First things first, Westie. Let me know, soon as you find her.’

‘Find who?’ Chib was standing in the doorway to Mike’s left. Mike ended the call and thrust the phone back into his jacket.

‘Nothing,’ he lied, making a show of checking his watch. ‘You reckon your lads will be here soon? I have other business…’

‘They won’t be coming, Mike.’ Chib looked up and down the street as if for witnesses. ‘I changed my mind. We both know this has nothing to do with them. But from the sweat on your face and the way your hands are shaking, I’d say it could have something to do with that call you just took.’

‘It was from Westie,’ Mike confessed, rubbing at his forehead. The day was muggy. His shirt was sticking to his back.

Chib thought for a moment, then offered a smile. ‘He told you about my little scheme?’

‘Bit late to start replacing the missing paintings, I’d’ve thought.’

Chib shook his head slowly. ‘You’re not even close.’

‘So what are you up to?’ Mike folded his arms, trying to control the tremors.

Calloway sniffed the air as he considered his answer. ‘Seems to me,’ he eventually offered, ‘we’re all up to something, Mike – even you. That means there’s going to be winners and losers. Want to take a bet which side I’ll be on? Now come back indoors and we’ll grab a couple of cold drinks.’ Chib was holding open the door. Mike stared at it. A scene from Goodfellas flashed through his mind – the hero’s wife, offered a fur coat by the bad guy. All she had to do was walk into the warehouse and pick one out…

‘I’ve got to be going.’

Chib seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Of course you do, Mike,’ he said quietly. ‘But do me a favour, will you?’

‘What’s that?’

A dark smile spread across the gangster’s face. ‘Tell Westie I hope Alice comes home…’

‘Took your time,’ Ransome complained into his phone. He was at his desk, doing some actual real work for a change. That was exactly how DS Ben Brewster had put it: actual real work. Sarky little bastard. But now Glenn had called, and he had some information for him.

‘I’ve got good news and bad,’ the voice rumbled.

‘I always like the bad news first, Glenn – that way there’s something to look forward to.’

‘Chib had you tailed yesterday.’

Ransome’s grip on the receiver tightened. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Johnno’s just told me…’

Ransome wondered if Johnno had been there when he’d visited First Caledonian’s HQ. Had to give the man credit: Ransome hadn’t spotted him.