Ian Rankin - Doors Open

The officers fell on him. The pistol was reholstered only after the handcuffs had been securely fastened.

‘We were told there are firearms,’ one of the faces behind a visor stated.

‘I’ve not seen any,’ Mike told him.

‘Get me out of this bloody chair!’ Alice yelped.

Mike was looking towards the doorway. Glenn, the missing henchman, was standing there. So was Detective Inspector Ransome. Ransome was whistling a little tune, hands in trouser pockets, as he stepped inside. He stared down at Calloway, then crouched down in front of him and checked his neck for a pulse. Satisfied, rubbing a little of Calloway’s blood between thumb and forefinger, he stood up again and headed for the row of chairs.

‘Anybody hurt?’ he asked. For some reason, the question made Laura laugh.

‘Use your eyes, Ransome,’ she said. ‘The guy at the end is barely breathing!’

Ransome ordered two officers to get the curator into an ambulance, then stopped to pick up Hate’s knife, checking it for blood. When he saw it hadn’t been used, he sliced through the tape with it, so that Laura’s hands were free. Despite Alice’s pleas, Mike was next. Ransome handed the knife to laura and asked her to do the honours. She looked towards Hate and then at the knife, but Ransome tutted.

‘Enough drama for one day,’ he chided her. ‘Leave Mr Bodrum to us.’

‘He might be Bodrum to you,’ Mike commented, ‘but he’ll always be Hate to me.’

As Laura began cutting Alice and Westie free – the latter complaining that he’d broken his arm when he fell – Ransome helped Mike rid himself of the ties around his ankles, then had to help him to his feet.

‘Better?’ the detective asked.

Mike nodded his agreement. He felt light-headed and his headache was intensifying. ‘How did you find us?’ he managed to ask.

‘Glenn Burns. But to be honest, we were already on your trail…’ The detective turned his head towards the doorway, Mike following suit. Allan was standing there, looking slightly sheepish. When Mike smiled and nodded, he came inside, taking in as much as he could.

‘Christ, Mike,’ he said, wrapping his arms around him. Mike whispered into his ear.

‘How much have you told him?’

When the embrace was finished, the look in Allan’s eyes was clear.

Everything.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Don’t be,’ Mike answered.

‘I hope it was all worth it,’ Ransome mused.

‘Ports and airports,’ Mike said, grabbing the detective by the arm. ‘You’ve got to stop Robert Gissing leaving the country.’

‘Might be a bit late for that, Mr Mackenzie. Besides, it’s not your little Ladykillers gang that concerns me – a DI called Hendricks will be wanting to speak to you about all that.’ Ransome nodded in Calloway’s direction. ‘There’s the prize I was after… so I suppose really I should be thanking you for delivering it.’ With a smile, he moved off, just as the paramedics arrived. Hate was on his feet and, flanked by policemen, about to be escorted outside.

‘Looks like you won’t be going home just yet,’ Mike called out to him.

‘I’m not the only one,’ the giant spat back.

‘There’s something in that,’ Laura conceded.

‘You will testify against Calloway?’ Ransome asked.

Mike was being led towards a waiting police van, Allan next to him. Handcuffs had not been thought necessary. The DI called Hendricks had turned up, looking grumpy. Mike had watched Ransome explain the situation to him, which had done little to lighten his colleague’s mood but had given an extra spring to Ransome’s own step afterwards.

Mike shrugged now. It was a good question, after all. ‘Should really be the other way round,’ he told Ransome. ‘After all, I’m the one who dragged him into it.’

‘But you will testify.’ It sounded like a statement of fact rather than any kind of question. ‘If you do, it’ll go easier for you.’

‘Meaning what?’

Ransome shrugged. ‘Six years instead of eight. You’d be out of jail inside three. I’m sure you can afford the best lawyers in the land, Mr Mackenzie, and it shouldn’t be too hard for them to paint a picture of you in court as a naïve playboy who got in with the wrong crowd. Maybe a friendly psychoanalyst can plead diminished responsibility.’

‘Meaning I’m not in my right mind?’

‘Not at the time, no.’

‘How about me?’ Allan asked. ‘Where do I figure in this?’

‘Same goes, but with the added factor that you did the right thing and turned yourself in, and in the process helped save five people from being tortured and killed.’

‘Seven, actually,’ Mike corrected the detective. ‘Hate wasn’t about to leave Chib and Johnno alive.’

‘See?’ Ransome told Allan. ‘You’re practically a hero.’

An ambulance was parked next to the police van, and Jimmy Allison was being stretchered into it, an oxygen mask tied to his face. Another stretcher would be needed for Johnno. One man required a blood transfusion and some stitches, plus a potential lifetime of psychological counselling.

The other needed a new spine.

Mike wondered again at the sheer nerve of Robert Gissing: stealing paintings for years, never detected but about to be undone by something as straightforward as an inventory. Gissing, railing against the storing from view of so many important and beautiful works, making the same argument to practically everyone he met… in order to seek out a few gullible souls who might be duped into doing something about it. Then seeing to it that Allison was attacked so that he himself would be on hand to verify a series of fakes.

It was sublime, but so much could have gone wrong. Nevertheless, it was the only roll of the dice left to Gissing. And against all the odds, it had worked. And now Mike would go to jail and Allan would go to jail and Westie would go to jail. Allan looked devastated, but Westie didn’t seem too bothered. Mike had heard him inside the snooker hall, explaining to Alice that prisoners got to do art classes and everything.

‘Might well make the Westie brand even more valuable when I come out. Notoriety is something you can’t just buy off the shelf…’

Maybe he had a point at that, but it hadn’t stopped Alice from giving him a solid punch to his damaged arm, so that he’d howled and doubled over while she turned and walked away.

She would be taken in for questioning. They would all be questioned, especially Hate, who even now was struggling against his restraints and his captors both. He was like a force of nature, and Mike was thankful the giant was being afforded a van of his very own.

‘If we all go to jail,’ Mike asked Ransome, ‘will we be in the same wing as Calloway and Hate?’

‘I doubt it. We’ll find you the softest option possible.’

‘Even so, Calloway’s bound to have friends on the inside.’

Ransome gave a little chuckle. ‘I think you’re overestimating him, Mr Mackenzie. Chib’s got more enemies than friends behind bars. You’ll be fine, trust me.’

There was a shout from nearby. It was Glenn Burns. He was being led in handcuffs to a waiting patrol car.

‘You fucking well owe me, Ransome! You owe me everything!’

Ransome ignored the outburst and concentrated on Mike instead. The van doors stood wide open. They led to an inner cage with two bench seats.

‘So Gissing’s got all the missing paintings?’ Ransome asked.

Mike nodded. ‘Calloway’s got a couple of the ones we swapped, if he hasn’t already trashed them.’

Ransome nodded. ‘Mr Cruikshank here told me all about them. And Westwater and his girlfriend have another?’

‘A DeRasse.’

‘And what exactly are you left with, Mr Mackenzie?’