Ian Rankin: Doors Open

‘You and your flaky friend Cruikshank? Don’t go thinking I’ve forgotten about him, by the way.’

Mike nodded, then wished he hadn’t. When Glenn had thumped him, he’d done a sterling job.

‘Me and Allan,’ he said, swallowing back the nausea. ‘Gissing already had his eye on Westie for the role of forger. He was wary of you becoming involved, though – it raised the stakes, I suppose. But he soon changed his mind. At the time, I thought it had been too easy to persuade him, but now I can see his thinking – out of all of us, you were the perfect fall guy, someone the police would love to nail. But then you went and asked for a painting… Well, as far as he was concerned you were one of the great unwashed. He couldn’t let you have a precious original – that would have been sacrilege. At the same time, he doubted you’d ever spot a fake, so he made Westie here prepare an extra copy without the rest of us knowing.’

Westie was nodding. He picked up the story. ‘The professor came to see me. He told me he needed an extra copy of the Utterson, and no one was to know about it. I asked him why and he told me I was better off staying ignorant. That “ignorant” rankled – I knew it was the way he’d always thought of me.’

‘So you added one of your little secret flourishes to the finished article?’ Mike guessed.

Westie nodded some more. ‘We made the switch while you and Allan were back in the warehouse doing the final check. The professor hid the real Utterson inside the back of one of the paintings he’d chosen for himself – it was a nice snug fit.’ And then, for Calloway’s benefit: ‘Honest, Mr Calloway, if I’d known it was meant for you, I’d never have agreed.’

Mike watched the gangster pat Westie’s cheek again. He was thinking of all the other clues, clues he should have spotted: the plans Gissing had drawn up, with so much thought and detail having gone into them, and the professor’s own comment when Mike had said that the plan itself seemed perfect – most plans do, when you first think of them… Yes, Gissing had had the heist in mind for some considerable time, but not just so as to steal some paintings – he’d been doing that for years without anybody noticing. Sneaking the occasional small masterpiece out with him when he visited the warehouse on one of his many ‘research’ trips. But then he must have learned of the upcoming inventory – a full and thorough inventory – the first one in years. He’d realised then that the missing paintings would not be overlooked. So he had brought forward his retirement without telling anyone outside the college. His house had been placed on the market. And then he’d gone fishing for companion plotters. When he’d first laid out the plan, he’d made sure to tempt Mike with the Monboddo and Allan with the prized Coultons – appealing to their avarice… When the inventory’s discrepancies were noted, the police investigation would zero in on these dupes – after all, hadn’t they just pulled off a heist? Stood to reason they’d be the ones with the missing paintings, leaving Gissing himself tucked away somewhere out of sight. Somewhere abroad was Mike’s guess. It wouldn’t be anywhere the professor had discussed; would be some secret place that he held dear. He’d mentioned Spain, then changed his mind and said the west coast of Scotland – one of his very few slip-ups, and Mike should have realised at the time what it meant.

‘I’m getting bored with this,’ Hate complained into the silence. ‘Time to do some killing.’

‘Gissing’s the one you want,’ Mike stressed, eyes boring into Calloway’s. ‘When you’re finished with me, promise you’ll not forget that.’

‘I’ll remember,’ the gangster allowed. ‘But as of this moment, I’m inclined to agree with Mr Hate here – there’s been far too much talking.’

‘About time,’ Hate stated, punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. Mike turned his head towards Laura. He was almost close enough to kiss her goodbye.

‘Sorry I got you into this.’

‘You should be.’ There was plenty of iron left in her voice. ‘So the least you can do now is save the day.’

His eyes stayed locked on hers, and eventually he gave a slow nod, pain pounding through his brain. The nodding appeared confident and the eye contact was good. His senses seemed heightened, just as in the immediate aftermath of the heist itself, and he was with the woman he loved. This is living, he thought. Shame about the rest of it… Save the day, Laura had demanded. Who was he to argue?

In fact, the only thing he lacked was a plan.

Any sort of plan.

Johnno and Glenn stood guard on the pavement outside the snooker hall. Johnno was smoking, looking twitchy.

‘What’s up?’ Glenn asked,

‘Why are we stuck out here?’

‘Might work better for us – we can’t be called as witnesses.’

‘You think Chib’s going to top every single one of them?’ Johnno’s eyes had widened, but only a little.

‘Seems likely.’

‘And what the hell’s Hate doing here? I still owe him for what he did to my arm.’

‘Some wars you just have to walk away from, Johnno.’

Johnno stared at him. ‘Walk away?’

Glenn shrugged. ‘Whatever the mess in there ends up being, guess whose job it’ll be to mop things up after?’

‘Ours,’ Johnno agreed, flicking the remains of his cigarette on to the roadway. ‘What’s it all about, anyway? Have you figured it out yet?’

‘I’ve got an inkling – but like I say, best not to know.’

Johnno cupped the front of his trousers. ‘I’m bursting. Reckon I can…?’ He nodded towards the door of the snooker hall. There was a toilet in there, but he’d have to walk past everyone to reach it. Glenn shook his head slowly.

‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d try over there.’ He gestured towards the pend on the other side of the street.

‘Fair enough.’

Glenn watched Johnno cross the road, watched as he headed down the lane and disappeared behind a row of communal bins. He’d already retrieved his phone from his pocket. Once Johnno was out of sight, he flipped it open and started punching numbers.

Mike wasn’t at all ready to die, and if he was going to live, so was Laura. It was his fault she was here. She’d only come looking for him because she’d been worried, which meant she cared about him. Least he could do in return was save her life, or (more likely, admittedly) perish in the attempt.

The air in the snooker hall felt electric. Hate had taken a step forward, and Chib Calloway didn’t look like doing anything other than aiding and abetting. Alice had just stopped cursing the pair of them out, having received a slap for her efforts. Westie had bitten his lip, saying nothing, so she’d vented her spleen on him for another half-minute or so. At the far end of the row, Jimmy Allison looked beaten by life and accepting of his fate. It seemed to Mike that he’d lost some dignity and control of his bodily functions to go with the blood on his shirt front.

‘I’ve been in this goddamned country too long,’ Hate was saying. ‘All I want to do is go home – whether I get my client’s money or not.’ He’d turned towards Calloway, a sudden sneer making his face even uglier. ‘I know Edvard will be keen to hear about the fake you were going to try to fool him with.’

‘I’ve told you a dozen times, I didn’t know it was a fake!’ Calloway growled. But then his own face lost some of its tension as he realised what Hate had just said.

‘You haven’t told him?’ he asked with ominous calm.

‘Just get me the money and he need never know.’

‘But I’m already in negotiations,’ Calloway was saying. Mike saw that the gangster was looking towards Westie. Yes… because the Hell’s Angels back in Scandinavia did a lot of international trading, and fine art made for useful collateral. On Calloway’s instructions, Westie was going to make more fakes with which to dupe Hate’s employers… and those same employers didn’t know as yet that they’d been tricked with the Utterson…