Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Not a clue,’ he said, lifting his watch from the bedside table.

‘That’s nice,’ Hate said, meaning the watch. ‘Cartier – the Santos 100.’ Even Chib turned to stare at him. ‘I’ve got one at home,’ Hate explained. Then, to Mike: ‘I looked you up on the web, Mr Mackenzie. You’re a wealthy man. That’s lucky… means we can work something out, perhaps.’

‘First things first, eh?’ Chib reminded him. Then, turning to Mike: ‘I was asking if you knew Hate’s friend there… His name’s Jimmy Allison – ring any bells?’

Mike’s eyes widened. ‘The specialist?’

‘And now the recipient of two beatings, which I think you’ll agree is a mite unfair.’ Chib paused for effect. ‘Especially when nobody’s laid a hand on you. Now get into that fucking living room. We’re going to have words, you and me.’ He scooped up all four paintings and marched towards the door. Hate waited for Mike to follow, then brought up the rear with Mr Allison. Mike was still avoiding eye contact. The mugging might have been Gissing’s idea, but he’d gone along with it. In fact, he’d told the professor it was ‘genius’. Hard now to justify his elation – consequences had been missing almost entirely from the plot. And what the hell was Hate doing with Allison anyway? Mike didn’t doubt that the answers were waiting for him in the living room, but feared what else might be there.

Hate dumped the curator on one of the chairs. The man’s hands were tied behind him, his mouth covered with tape. Mike thought about pouring himself a drink, but wasn’t sure his hand would be steady enough. Besides which, the parched-looking Allison might see it as yet another small torture.

‘See this?’ Chib was saying. He’d placed the paintings on the coffee table and was pointing towards the sofa. There was another picture displayed there.

‘It’s your Utterson,’ Mike told him. ‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor.’

‘That’s right. And what did I do with it?’

‘You gave it to Hate.’ Mike had no idea where the conversation was going.

‘And what did Hate do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, have a think about it, shit-for-brains!’

But Hate had noticed the home cinema system. ‘Pioneer,’ he commented. ‘Good make.’

‘Jesus, will you shut up?’ Chib yelled at him.

Mike wondered which was preferable: that the soundproofing stop his neighbours downstairs hearing any of this, or that they decide to call the police to say that something bad was happening in the penthouse. Chib had turned towards him again.

‘Come to any conclusions yet?’

Mike rubbed at his eyes again and slicked back his hair. ‘At a guess, Hate decided he would verify the painting – despite my warnings. He went to Mr Allison here, who is an authority on the artist, and somehow Mr Allison had an accident and you came to me for help instead of heading for A and E.’ Mike held Chib’s stare for a full twenty seconds. With a growl, the gangster fetched the Utterson from the sofa and held it four inches from Mike’s face.

‘I’m not exactly the expert here,’ he snarled, ‘so maybe you’ll know better. When exactly was this painted?’

‘Early twentieth century…’

‘Is that so? Well, maybe you’re right. Take a closer look. In particular, tell me what’s going on in the bottom left-hand corner.’

Mike didn’t know what to expect. The artist’s signature, most probably. He saw heather and long blades of grass and a bit more heather.

‘Right at the very corner,’ Chib suggested. And then Mike did see it, and he screwed shut his eyes. ‘Well?’ the gangster prompted him.

‘Looks like there’s something lying in the grass, half-hidden,’ Mike muttered.

‘And what does it look like to you, Mike?’

‘A condom… a used condom.’

‘And can you enlighten us all – why exactly would a painter of Samuel Utterson’s reputation have felt the need to add that particular touch?’

Mike opened his eyes again. ‘It’s Westie,’ he stated. ‘It’s a sort of calling card of his. He copies famous paintings, then adds an anachronism, like an airliner or a mobile phone…’

‘Or a condom,’ Chib added. Mike nodded his agreement. ‘See, Mike, what I can’t understand here, what I’m really failing to get my head around, is why you would do this to me. You really thought I was so stupid I wouldn’t notice?’

‘In actual fact,’ Hate interrupted, ‘you did not notice.’

‘This is me talking here!’ Chib yelled at him again.

‘I don’t know anything about this,’ Mike said. ‘Really I don’t.’

Chib burst out laughing. ‘You can do better than that, Mike!’

‘I promise you I can’t, because it happens to be the truth.’

‘Well, we’ll just go and ask Westie then, see what he has to say about it during his last few minutes of life. But before we do that, there’s the small matter of my fee. What I’d like from you, Mr Michael Mackenzie, software millionaire, is one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds – payable in cash. That way, Hate here can return home, job done. The amount of grief you and your lot have caused me, I should be asking for more, but let’s open proceedings at one seventy-five…’

‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.

‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once…’

‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too…

Chib had hunkered down in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his face up so they were eye to eye.

‘Am I in the mood for jokes?’ the gangster spat. There were flecks of white either side of his mouth.

‘I don’t keep cash around the house,’ Mike said between gasps. ‘Never know when someone might come waltzing in. And even… even making a request to my bank… it takes time… time to arrange that sort of money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Plus, as soon as I say “cash”, alarm bells are going to ring.’

‘Money-laundering,’ Hate agreed. ‘The banks have to inform the authorities.’

‘And you’re suddenly the Bank of fucking Scotland?’ Chib roared at him.

‘Look,’ Mike said, having regained most of his breath. ‘Those four paintings are worth a lot more than the money you’re asking. Why not just take three of them? Maybe leave me one…’ He nodded towards Mr Allison. ‘We’ve got the very man here who can judge them authentic.’

Chib stared at him. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve, Mike.’ Then, over his shoulder towards Hate: ‘What do you think? Want to take your pick?’

Hate’s response was to walk over to the coffee table, lift the Cadell beach scene, and stick his fist straight through it. Calmly, the huge man then lifted the Monboddo – the glorious portrait of Beatrice – and did exactly the same thing.

‘Get the picture?’ he said.

‘I think so,’ Mike answered with a fresh groan. As Chib released his hair, he started to get to his feet, checking that his knees would lock and hold him upright. The painting… Hate had dropped it back on to the table. Was it beyond repair? No way of telling. And there sat Allan’s two ugly offerings, pristine and untroubled. ‘So what now?’ he asked to nobody in particular.

‘We wait here till morning,’ Chib replied. ‘Then a little trip to the bank, followed by a friendly visit to our art-forger-cum-dead-man.’