Authors: Ian Rankin
Doors Open (13 page)
‘Like I told you, that’s because I don’t have any old pals.’
‘No, me neither . . .’ Chib leaned forward to spit on to the surface of the pond. ‘Doubt most of the folk I was at school with would give me the time of day. They organised some anniversary do last year for kids in our year - did you get an invite to that?’
‘I think so.’
‘You should’ve gone. Rented a Roller for the night and a couple of nice-looking escorts . . . rubbed all their noses in it.’
‘You could’ve done that, too,’ Mike offered, causing Chib to smile.
‘Don’t go thinking it didn’t cross my mind, but in the end . . . Well, fuck it.’ He made a little writhing motion, as though a cold wind were blowing. Then he turned his body so he was face to face with Mike. The hands stayed in their pockets. Mike was reminded of their meeting at the gallery and his fear that the gangster carried a gun or a knife. He doubted it now. But Calloway had worries in his life - maybe to do with ‘the Viking’. And Mike had given him something to take his mind off them - a fresh challenge. ‘You’ll need to be tooled up, Mike, you do realise that? You’re going to have to put the fear of God into everybody, make them think you’ll do whatever it takes.’
‘But the gun doesn’t need to be real, right?’
Chib shook his head. ‘Just needs to
look
real - if that’s what you want.’
look
real - if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s all we’ll need.’
‘Better be sure of that - just takes one of the guards to be ex-military . . . you poke an airgun in his face and he’s going to know it.’
‘Replicas, then.’
‘Even better is the real thing with the firing pin out.’
‘You’re the expert, Chib.’
‘Damned right I am.’ He was silent for a few more moments. ‘Four additional crew, I reckon. One apiece for the gatehouse and guardroom and two to keep the visitors quiet. That leaves the three of you clear to do the actual finding and fetching.’
‘Quicker we’re in and out, the better for all concerned.’
‘Still can’t see it, though, Mike - you and the old professor guy and that poofy-looking pal of yours? More I think about it, more I’m convinced it’s a wind-up.’
‘You don’t think it’ll work?’
‘Actually, it sounds all right. It’s the planners rather than the plan I’m thinking of . . .’
‘Needn’t concern you, Chib. If it falls apart, it’s
our
problem - you’ll still get your fee, and so will the four crew. Have you got anyone in mind?’
our
problem - you’ll still get your fee, and so will the four crew. Have you got anyone in mind?’
‘You want them young,’ Chib stated. ‘Means they’re hungry, on top of which there’s all that testosterone . . . makes them even scarier.’
‘How much will they want?’
But Chib shook his head. ‘Guns and bodies aren’t a problem. Crew don’t even need to be told who they’re working for - a word from me’ll be enough. All they’ll see is a warehouse, won’t know what’s being taken.’
‘They will if they’re in the back of the van. Speaking of which . . .’
‘Getting a van’s easy enough - maybe with faked number plates. Something plain, something like a Transit. Nobody looks twice at blacked-out windows in the back of one of those . . .’
‘Fair enough. So, really, we’re back to your fee . . .’
‘How does a hundred and fifty thou sound?’
Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘Bit on the high side, actually,’ he was able to say eventually. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’
Chib barked out a laugh and slid a hand from his pocket so he could slap Mike on the arm with it. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered. ‘I’d be willing to take a painting off your hands, so long as it was worth that sort of money.’
‘What?’
‘Auctions don’t make much sense to me, Mike. You’re planning on lifting seven paintings . . . seems to me one extra won’t make much difference.’
‘You’d never be able to sell it . . . not on the open market.’
‘I’m not planning on selling it.’
‘If one forgery’s identified,’ Mike persisted, ‘the others won’t be far behind.’
Chib’s face hardened. ‘That’s my price, Mike. Unless you want to stump up the cash equivalent.’
Mike thought hard. ‘Our forger’s pushed as it is,’ was all he could manage.
‘Then we push him harder.’ Chib had leaned in towards Mike. Although the gangster was a good couple of inches shorter than him, Mike felt he was being towered over. The city he knew was no longer visible and the temperature had dropped. The bird-feeders had disappeared. No cars passed, no other humans within hailing distance. ‘Have we got a deal?’ Chib was intoning. ‘Or do I start to get narked again that you lied to me back in that gallery?’
One of the ducks had vanished beneath the surface of the pond. Mike was beginning to understand how it felt . . .
The oversized envelope had been left at reception by a courier. Allan opened it in his office, relieved afterwards that he hadn’t delegated the task to his secretary - a scale photocopy of Gissing’s drawing of the compound.
‘You silly bugger, Robert,’ Allan muttered. No forewarning; no sense of danger. And now a receipt on file at the courier company - urgent delivery of documents from Professor R. Gissing, Edinburgh College of Art, to Mr A. Cruikshank, HNW Relationship Manager, First Caledonian Bank. Allan shook his head slowly. The beginnings of a paper trail now existed where none had been necessary. Despite which, he was glad to have the plans. He would lock them in his briefcase and take them home with him at day’s end. He would close his curtains and make sure his front door was bolted. And only then would he spread them out on the table, pouring himself a glass of Rioja and commencing to study them.
Determined to prove himself.
Determined to pay his way.
He might even push the glass to one side, keeping a clear head for later, when a night-time drive down to Granton’s industrial estates and warehouses might be in order.
11
Chib was having dinner that evening with a woman who ran an escort agency. A couple of years back, he had offered to help her with the business, an offer she’d turned down out of hand. All the same, Chib had grown to like her. She was tougher than most of the men he knew, tougher certainly than Glenn and Johnno, the latter still nursing his wrist along with his wounded pride. The morning visit from the Viking seemed a lifetime ago. Chib was supposed to be talking to him tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He had the slip of paper in his pocket, but what was he supposed to say?
Chib and this woman, it wasn’t serious between them. Just dinner now and then, maybe a film or a show. They swapped news and gossip, rumours and anecdotes. Sometimes, he even let her pick up the tab. His wife had died a few years back from lung cancer. It was a terrible way to go - his own mum had been the same. He used to say to Liz, long before they were married, that he didn’t want kids, didn’t want them going through what he’d had to go through with his mum. His dad hadn’t been much use either, hitting the bottle and falling asleep in his clothes every night.
Cheery bugger, aren’t you?
had been Liz’s response the first time he’d told her. It’d made him angry that she made light of it, but he hadn’t done anything about it - that was how much he’d loved her.
Cheery bugger, aren’t you?
had been Liz’s response the first time he’d told her. It’d made him angry that she made light of it, but he hadn’t done anything about it - that was how much he’d loved her.
Tonight’s venue was a newish restaurant in one of Leith’s gentrified sections. Chib remembered Leith when it had been all about the docks and the hard men, drinking dens with knocking shops upstairs and tattoo parlours along the street with wraps of speed under the counter for those in the know. There was still that side to it, but a lot of the dockside had been spruced up, style bars opening, bonded warehouses turned into flats. Chib often wondered what happened to the old-timers when these makeovers took place. All across the city, neighbourhoods were changing. Where Chib lived, there hadn’t been any houses at all until ten or twelve years back. Now it had its own railway station. Sometimes it was hard to keep up.
He’d been chewing over Mike’s crazy scheme the remainder of the afternoon, to the extent that he’d lost three frames of snooker in a row, Johnno teasing him that there must be a woman behind it. There was a smell in the snooker hall; Chib wasn’t sure he’d registered it before. It was nasty and vinegary and it caught in his nostrils. Old men’s sweat and desperation; bad diet and wasted time. Nothing like that here - the chef had his first Michelin star, so Chib had been told. Seafood was cooking, and the staff were busy dicing vegetables in the kitchen - there was a window between them and the tables, so you could follow every move. Chib liked that. Back as a child, the owner of his local chip shop used to hawk into the fryer to test how hot the fat was. The thought of it now made Chib’s stomach turn.
He was early for his assignation, and had driven there himself in the Bentley. He didn’t like bringing Johnno and Glenn, even when they stayed with the car or ate at a distant table. They always made jokes next day about whether his ‘lady friend’ snored and how did she like her eggs at breakfast . . . When he’d told them they weren’t needed, they’d been quick to warn him again about the Viking. Questions had been asked in town, feelers were out, but no one had reported any sightings of him. Could turn up at any moment . . .
‘Sure you don’t want us around, boss?’
‘Positive.’
Seated at his corner table - with an uninterrupted view of the entrance area - Chib noticed that he’d been studying the art on the walls. Not even reproductions of anything worthwhile, just splotches bought as a job lot to cover the pale yellow plasterwork. He’d been reading up on the subject ever since visiting the auction house. A bookshop in town had suggested various ‘primary texts’ - the very words the assistant had used. ‘Primary’ to Chib meant junior school, so he’d started to argue that he wasn’t thick, thank you very much, until the assistant had explained what she meant, her voice shaking. After which, they’d gotten along fine. Now ‘primary’ got him thinking back to high school . . . funny he didn’t remember Mike. Recognised the type, though: still wanted the hard kids to notice him, even twenty-odd years on. The scheme wasn’t really that daft - he’d encountered plenty worse, and a good number of those had come off. If anything went wrong this time round, well, Chib wouldn’t be there to take any of the rap. The kids he talked into helping, they’d know better than to blab - better to spend a bit of time behind bars than have to face a grassed-up Chib Calloway. Mike and his pals might well want to cooperate with the filth, but that wouldn’t get them very far - Chib would stay at one remove. And nobody would ever be able to lay their hands on the painting . . .
The valuable painting . . . Christ, yes! Of course!
He reached into his pocket and took out one of his mobile phones, along with the slip of paper. Punched in the numbers and waited. He saw his friend walk in, and offered her a wave. She was being fussed over as usual by the maître d’, her coat removed. Now and then, a wealthy visitor to one of the city’s better restaurants might be tempted to pick the brain of the maître d’. They’d want to know where they could find a girl for the night, just someone to spend a bit of time with . . . And the maître d’ would know just the place - very nice girls; all very discreet. After which he’d pocket a tip from the customer, and another next day, this time from Chib’s friend. She was pressing her hand to the maître d’ right now, and Chib didn’t doubt that there was a twenty or maybe even a fifty there . . . His call was picked up and he moistened his lips with his tongue.
‘Is that you, Hate?’
‘Calloway?’
‘The one and only. I can’t help thinking we got off to a bad start, and I want to make it up to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, while I’m putting the funds together for your employers, how about a peace offering? Something you could place under the heading of collateral. Thing is, it’s going to take a few more days to organise - maybe as long as a week - so I need you to persuade your employers that it’ll be worth waiting for.’
‘You’re playing games with me.’
‘Believe me, I’m not. I’m talking about something the mafia does all time.’
‘You wish to put the head of a racehorse in my bed? Is that why you are working so hard to locate my place of residence?’
Shit, this guy is good . . .
‘I think I can do better than that, Hate - a whole lot better.’
‘I’m listening, Mr Calloway . . .’
By the time Chib’s dinner guest reached the table, the offer had been made, the phone switched off for the rest of the evening. Chib stood up to kiss her perfumed cheek.
‘You,’ he said, ‘look especially stunning tonight.’
‘And you look . . .’ She considered for a moment. ‘Smug’s the word that comes to mind. Like a cat that’s just got the cream.’
‘And who’s to say I haven’t?’ Chib teased, sitting down again and grabbing at his napkin before one of the waiting staff could unfurl it and start laying it across his groin.
He hated that. Really hated it.
The phone was ringing as Mike emerged from the shower. By the time he’d towelled himself dry - noting in the bathroom mirror that he needed to refresh his gym membership - the ringing had stopped. No message left, but he recognised the number. Robert Gissing, calling from home. Mike slid his feet into flip-flops and his body into a towelling robe, then pushed the buttons on his phone, exiting the bathroom and making for the balcony.
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