Authors: Ian Rankin

Doors Open (12 page)

BOOK: Doors Open

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‘And at least one of you will need to be collecting the actual paintings.’

Mike nodded slowly, then began shaking his head instead. ‘We’ll never manage.’

‘Cold feet, young Michael?’

‘Just want to make sure we’re covering all the angles.’

Gissing seemed to accept this. ‘Maybe it’s Allan whose feet are getting chilled . . .’

Allan hadn’t been able to make the meeting. Mike had called it at short notice, and Allan had apologised by text: there were things at work he couldn’t get out of. Mike tapped the plan a final couple of times and then walked over to one of the chairs, sitting down on it heavily, running both hands through his hair while he looked around the room. The office was emptier than before - some of the boxes of books had gone. Pictures were missing from the walls.

‘Allan’s fine. He wants you to make a copy of the plan so he can study it at home.’

‘I’ll arrange it, but meantime, put my mind at rest . . .’

‘What?’

‘Something’s worrying you.’

‘It just seemed so straightforward, back at the start,’ Mike admitted with a sigh.

‘Most plans do, when you first think of them,’ Gissing offered.

‘Bottom line, Robert - we’ve been through this a dozen times . . .’ A dozen late-night phone calls; Mike pacing his living room, deep in thought. ‘You
know
it comes down to the same thing - we need more hands.’

Gissing folded his arms and rested his backside against the edge of his desk. He was keeping his voice down, aware of his secretary outside the locked door. He’d warned Mike - not too many more meetings, or she’d start to have suspicions of her own. ‘Remember,’ he said now, ‘the old adage about too many cooks?’

Mike just shrugged. ‘The only other alternative is, this stays on the drawing board - a nice dream, just as Westie said, never to be realised.’

‘I was under the impression, Michael, that that’s pretty much been your attitude throughout: a little challenge to keep the grey cells active. Or has the pull of Lady Monboddo finally become too strong to resist?’

‘I’m every bit as serious about this as you are, Professor.’

‘That’s good to hear, because, with your help or without it, I intend going ahead with the plan.’

Mike ignored this. His thoughts were elsewhere. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘The switch - we can’t do it in the warehouse itself. We’ll be in there maybe twenty minutes . . . no way we can walk away apparently empty-handed.’

‘Not even if we’ve raised the alarm ourselves?’

Mike shook his head determinedly. Gissing’s plan had been, swap the real paintings for Westie’s copies. Once that was done, hit an alarm and make a run for it, pretending the thieves had been spooked into leaving before they could take anything.

‘When the CID arrive, first thing they’re going to wonder is: what were we up to in those twenty minutes? How come we didn’t just grab something and run when we tripped the alarm?’

‘Then maybe we should take something . . .’

Mike shook his head again. ‘Better yet, we take
everything
- the originals and the copies. We only get frightened afterwards and abandon the van, with one lot of paintings in the back. Everyone will be so relieved to get the stuff back, they’ll not be thinking about anything else.’

Gissing’s eyes grew unfocused and Mike knew he was running it through his mind. Then he smiled.

‘You really have been doing some thinking, Michael. And maybe you’ve struck on something.’

‘But it does throw up another problem - we need a van we can jettison, meaning it can’t be traced back to us. Any good at a spot of hot-wiring, Professor?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Me neither, and I doubt either Allan or Westie has the necessary skills. So now we can add a van to the shopping list, alongside some weaponry and a few spare bodies.’ Mike got up from his seat, so he was facing Gissing at eye level as he went on. ‘What we really need is someone who knows about heists . . . someone Allan mentioned right at the start of this project. The raid on First Caly, remember?’

Gissing’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘We’d be mad to let him near this!’ he gasped.

Mike had moved a step closer. ‘Think about it, Robert: Calloway has the know-how and the manpower. He can find us that van
and
the necessary firearms.’

‘I believe the gangland terminology is “shooters”.’

Mike gave a conciliatory smile. ‘I mean, if there’s anyone else who springs to mind . . . anyone equally qualified . . . Because if we bring in any more amateurs like us, how do we know we can trust them?’

‘Are you telling me you think Chib Calloway is a man to be trusted?’

‘He’s got more to lose than any of us. With a record like his, the law would come down on him like Carl Andre’s bricks.’

‘A fitting enough analogy,’ Gissing conceded, folding his arms. ‘But why would friend Calloway be willing to offer us any form of assistance?’

Mike shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t, but at least I can sound him out on it. Maybe I’ll persuade him it’s good for art. Calloway’s getting the bug, and I know from experience what that can do to a man.’

Gissing had walked back around to his own side of the desk. ‘I’m not sure, Michael,’ he said, slumping into his chair. ‘I’m just not convinced that he won’t try to push us aside.’

‘Well, we can always call it off,’ Mike offered. ‘At this stage, there’s no damage done - except to my bank balance if Westie demands some sort of compensation.’

Gissing smiled at this. ‘Maybe you’re right, my boy. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that Calloway would bring certain . . .
qualities
to the project.’ His eyes met Mike’s. ‘How exactly would you pitch it to him?’

‘I think Calloway’s a man who understands the value of a wad of notes,’ was all Mike could think of to say.

‘Then you have my blessing to talk to him.’

Which left Mike to wonder at his own powers of persuasion. Except that, really, the professor hadn’t needed much persuading at all.

‘Good for art?’ Chib Calloway echoed, laughing out loud. ‘I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ve been needing a bit of light relief all day, so bless you for that. That’s cheered me up no end . . .’

They were seated in Chib’s BMW. The two had exchanged phone numbers after their drink together at the Shining Star, and Mike had called Chib as soon as he’d left Gissing’s office. The meet had been arranged for two. Chib had picked Mike up from outside the Last Drop pub in the Grassmarket, Johnno and Glenn in the back, eyes open for anyone following.

‘Safer this way,’ Chib had explained from the driver’s seat, before introducing Mike to the two henchmen. Mike had met them that day in the Shining Star, but Chib had been too busy with questions about art auctions to be bothered with names. Mike nodded a greeting and then asked if there was some trouble. ‘No trouble,’ he’d been assured. All the same, Chib had taken right turns and lefts and more rights, doubling back on himself so that at one point they ended up passing the Last Drop again.

‘Know why it’s called that?’ Chib had asked.

‘Isn’t it where they used to hang criminals?’ Mike had answered.

‘Meaning people like yours truly. The town would turn out in force to watch, make a sort of party of the whole thing. Wasn’t just thieves and muggers, either - they hanged you if you were a Covenanter or a witch. They’d slaughter anyone in those days.’

‘Things have moved on.’

‘Bet you’d still get a crowd for an execution, though . . .’

Eventually, a voice from the back seat had declared that they were ‘clear’, which was when Chib had pulled the car to a stop and ordered his men out. They’d put up a bit of resistance until their boss handed over a twenty-pound note for a cab and told them to meet him ‘at the snooker hall’.

‘Sure about this?’ Johnno had said with a glare. He kept rubbing his wrist, as if he’d sprained it. Probably, Mike reckoned, after belting someone.

‘I’m sure,’ Chib had said.

‘But what if the Viking . . . ?’

Chib had ignored this and raced off, leaving Johnno and Glenn on the pavement. Mike hadn’t felt able to ask who or what ‘the Viking’ might be. Instead, Chib had turned to him with a question of his own. ‘So what’s on your mind, Mike?’

And Mike had told him, starting at the beginning, almost as if it was some story he’d heard somewhere.
There’s this collection of artworks in the city and not many people know about it . . . and there’s a way, apparently, to get hold of some of these paintings without anyone twigging
. . .

To the man’s credit, it hadn’t taken Chib long to work things out.

By that time, they were sitting in a car park halfway round Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park. Mike seldom ventured up here: it was a place for dog-walkers and tourists. You rounded a bend and were met by incredible windswept panoramas of the city. But at other moments you felt surrounded by wilderness, the humped shape of Arthur’s Seat itself fooling you into imagining you were miles from civilisation. Yet Edinburgh surrounded you, the chimneypots, church spires and housing schemes just out of view.

‘Good for art,’ Chib said again, shaking his head. But then he sniffed and rubbed a finger across his nostrils and asked Mike to reprise the story. Only this time Chib had questions, concerns and ideas of his own. The ideas were too elaborate, but Mike listened patiently, his heart racing. He’d experienced a frisson from the moment he’d stepped into the car - actually, even before that. Waiting outside the pub as office workers and visitors hurried past, he’d wondered what they would say if he blurted out the identity of the man he was waiting for and the reason for their meeting.

I’m putting together a team . . .

I’m leading a gang . . .

The heist of the century . . .

And then the car had pulled up. He’d felt uneasy with those two gorillas hulking in the back, couldn’t help thinking of all the other people who, down the years, had taken a ride with Chib Calloway and his men, many of them fearful or plain petrified, some never seen again. But what Mike had felt chiefly was exhilaration. There was something feral about Chib. Mike’s first week in high school, the weakest newcomers had been selected and given a half-hearted kicking by the older boys. But Chib had been there, too, already accepted by his elders, his reputation preceding him. It hadn’t bothered Mike - better to be picked on than ignored completely. But afterwards, that was just what Chib had done - ignored him. And a couple of years later he was gone from the school, expelled after a headbutt on his chemistry teacher, leaving behind only the legend. There had still been bullies and gangs, but nothing like Chib. By fourth year, Mike had been the one laying into the new kids . . .

Afterwards, Mike had studied at college, found himself a flat on the edge of the New Town. And, a few brawls apart, he’d succeeded in leaving his upbringing far behind - parents dead, his only sister living in Canada. It interested him that Chib wasn’t merely about anger and the need to be the alpha male. There was intelligence in those piercing eyes, and a hunger for something - knowledge, perhaps. Maybe the gangster was beginning to realise just how narrow his world had become.

And just maybe, Mike conceded, the same thing was happening to
him
.

He watched as, without saying anything more, Chib got out of the car and walked to the edge of the car park, from where he could stare out across a nearby pond. Mike decided to follow, getting a cigarette lit as he exited the car. His hands were trembling, but only just. There was a small island in the middle of the pond, a swan nesting while its mate swam in protective circles. A woman had brought her toddler along so they could toss chunks of bread to a nearby cacophony of ducks, coots and moorhens. But it was the swans that interested Chib. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets as he watched them. Mike wished he knew what the man was thinking. Maybe he wanted the same sense of poise and certainty, the same equilibrium. Mike made the offer of a cigarette from his packet, but Chib shook his head. It was another minute or so before he spoke.

‘You lied to me, Mike, back in that gallery. Said you were in computers. I suppose it’s sort of true, but you didn’t want me to know all of it. Mr Success Story. Mr Millions in the Bank. A tenner to a kid in an internet café and I had more gen on you than I knew what to do with.’ He glanced towards Mike. ‘Scared I’d come calling on you one cold dark night, hand stretched out for a sub?’

Mike gave a shrug. ‘I didn’t want to look like I was showing off.’

‘We Scots are bad that way,’ Chib eventually acknowledged. ‘You ever been back to the school? Have they not invited you to hand out the prizes, inspire the kids with a few words of wisdom?’

‘No.’

‘Your old college gave you an honorary degree, though - was it the cash they were after?’

‘One day, I suppose,’ Mike conceded.

‘Kid says you’re not signed up to any of those sites that put you in touch with old pals.’

BOOK: Doors Open

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