Ian Rankin - Doors Open

‘Nothing,’ Allan stated. The two policemen had disappeared around the far side of the house.

‘Okay, then, nice and slow…’

Allan turned on ignition and headlights both and they cruised past the house, Mike staring hard from the back seat. The torch was casting huge shadows against the house next door and the garage Gissing had never used since outgrowing his sports car.

‘Drive on a bit further and turn around,’ Mike commanded.

‘Yes, bwana.’ Allan signalled into a side street, executed a three-point turn, and started back the way they’d just come. The officers were out front again, trying the doorbell, peering through the letterbox. Mike could hear the crackle of a two-way radio.

‘Nobody’s home,’ Allan said.

‘Or else they’re keeping very quiet,’ Mike added. Not that he believed this for a second. They parked again, opposite side of the road this time and facing away from Gissing’s house. It was only a couple of minutes before the patrol car moved off. A few seconds later Allan’s phone sounded.

‘That’ll be the police switchboard,’ he reasoned, ‘wondering why we’re making hoax calls.’

‘A good reason not to answer.’

‘I wasn’t planning to. I can always report the phone as stolen…’

‘If you like, but I doubt you’ll fool Ransome.’

‘True.’

The phone stopped ringing eventually. They sat for another five minutes, just to be sure, and then Mike patted his friend’s shoulder.

‘Do we park outside?’ Allan asked.

‘Let’s walk. The air will do us good.’

They got out and, still keeping their wits about them, padded quietly towards the house. No lights had come on in any of the neighbouring properties. None of the cars nearby was a BMW.

‘Maybe Calloway’s already snatched him,’ Allan hissed.

‘Maybe,’ Mike said, not really believing it.

‘Cops could come back at any moment.’

‘Yes.’

Mike pushed open the wooden gate and headed down the garden path towards the living room’s large bay window. He pressed his face to the glass, but the shutters were closed on the inside. There was another window to the left of the front door – Gissing’s dining room, where Allan had pocketed the artist’s napkin – but the shutters were closed there, too.

‘Fingerprints,’ Allan whispered in warning, and Mike realized he’d been resting his hands against the glass. He shrugged and headed to the side of the house, taking the path past the garage.

‘I don’t get it,’ Allan said, following close behind. ‘Place looks deserted – has he gone into hiding? If he misses the degree show, people will start to get suspicious…’

The rear garden was silent, the moon appearing suddenly from behind a bank of cloud, giving Mike more than enough light. The conservatory was empty – they’d sipped their port and coffee there after dinner, seated on squeaky wicker furniture. But now there was nothing. The space was completely empty. No shutters either at the kitchen window, allowing Mike to peer inside. Again, the room had been stripped.

‘He’s done a runner!’ Allan gasped.

‘Only possible explanation,’ Mike agreed. He had taken a couple of steps back on to the lawn. It needed cutting, his shoes sinking into it, but one of his heels caught the edge of something more resistant. It was a cardboard sign, attached to a wooden stake. He hoisted it up, so that Allan could see for himself the words FOR SALE, across which another piece of card had been attached. There was just the single word printed there.

SOLD.

‘All the way down the damned Limpopo,’ Mike muttered, tossing the placard back on to the ground.

Dawn was breaking as Allan dropped Mike off outside the apartment block.

‘You absolutely sure about this?’ Allan asked from the driver’s seat. Mike just nodded.

‘Go to the cops or don’t go to the cops… your call, Allan.’

‘You don’t want me to come with you?’ Allan was craning his neck in the direction of the penthouse. ‘In case they’re still there?’

Mike shook his head. ‘But I appreciate the offer.’ Mike hoped he sounded confident. Inside, he was exhausted. ‘Remember – whatever you do, don’t go back home, not until this is finished one way or the other.’

‘So how come you’re going home?’

‘Because I’m the one with the answers.’ Mike reached down into the car so he could shake his friend’s hand. At the same time, he pressed something into it: the card with Ransome’s number. Then he closed the car door and tapped twice on the roof, watching Allan drive off. Chib Calloway’s BMW was gone. That didn’t mean he hadn’t left his goons upstairs, but Mike headed there anyway, taking the lift rather than the stairs. It was only a few hours since he’d been bounding down these same steps, in mortal fear of his life, leaving three men in his flat. One thing he really didn’t want to find was the cooling corpse of Jimmy Allison…

When the lift doors slid open at his floor, he hesitated for a moment. His front door stood gaping, just as he’d left it. Stepping out of the lift and into his hallway, he could see that revenge had been exacted. The paintings that had lined the walls were now strewn across the floor, stomped and gouged beyond repair, as if clawed at by a wild animal. He could well imagine the thwarted gangster, teeth bared, shredding them and jumping on them and feeling so much better afterwards.

‘Wonder what I’ll tell the insurers,’ Mike speculated aloud.

Glass crunched underfoot as he made his way to the living area. No welcoming party, but no sign of a body either. Mike released the breath he’d been holding. Dribbles of blood on the chair where Allison had been sitting, and a small pool of blood soaking into the carpet in Mike’s bedroom – evidence that the curator had been punished further for his attempted escape. He wondered at the man’s fate, but only for a moment. He knew that really he should be thinking about his own destiny, and how far he could influence it. But fatigue washed over him again and he flung himself on to the sofa. There was a patch of water over by the fireplace and the faintest aroma of urine. Calloway again, or perhaps Hate. The smashed TV was probably Hate’s work, too. Allan’s Coultons had gone, but Mike picked up the remains of the Monboddo portrait. Beatrice smiled back at him with what remained of her face. He tried smoothing the tatters of canvas back into place, but chunks of paint flaked off in the process. She looked like a car-crash victim, her face a jigsaw of scars.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, placing her beside him.

Aside from the TV and the artworks, not much damage had been done. He got up and went into the kitchen, running himself water from the tap. The TV would have made quite a bit of noise, which might have alerted both men to the fact that there were neighbours who could be wakened. He took the filled glass into his computer room, drinking as he went. Stuff had been thrown on to the floor, but it was nothing a bit of tidying couldn’t fix. The keyboard was awash with whisky – the contents of a bottle he’d left on top of the filing cabinet. Okay, so both would need replacing. The cabinet itself, which contained all his bank statements and investment details, remained locked. There was a mangled kitchen knife in the waste-paper bin, which told him someone had tried forcing an entry. The key was in his bedside drawer, meaning no one had bothered to look too hard for it. Desk drawers stood open, contents disturbed or emptied on to the floor. It could all be fixed.

The inventory had given him a little bit of strength. He reckoned if he’d been in charge of ransacking someone’s home, he’d have been more thorough, altogether more professional. This was petty and spiteful and nothing else. Calloway was forgetting the first rule of business – any business.