Authors: Ian Rankin

Doors Open (17 page)

BOOK: Doors Open

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In charge.

In control.

Senses heightened.

Mike switched off his flashers and let the Maserati rumble down the hill into the heart of the New Town.

They met at Mike’s flat in Murrayfield. Gissing spent the first few minutes studying the works of art that lined the walls, while Allan wanted to see Mike’s den, asking questions about the spec of his computer and commenting on the display of awards.

Mike knew what they were doing: deferring the inevitable. He busied himself making coffee, Miles Davis providing the soundtrack. The flat was fitted with a centralised music system, meaning anything on his iPod could be piped into any or all of the rooms. The speakers were in the ceilings, but a couple of them had stopped functioning. Same went for the display panel on the living room wall. That was the problem with a ‘smart home’: the smarter it got, the more could go wrong. One of the recessed lights in the kitchen needed replacing, too, but it was a halogen thing and fiddly to install. Mike would sometimes joke that when the last bulb fizzled out, he’d have to find somewhere else to live.

He took the tray into the living room and placed it on the dining table next to the cardboard box.

‘Everything’s ready,’ he said.

His guests accepted their drinks with silent nods, trying not to show any interest in the box or its contents. Gissing had brought a list with him: fake names of the seven individuals booked on to tomorrow’s tour.

‘How long ago did you book the tour?’ Mike asked.

‘It tends to fill up pretty quick,’ Gissing commented.

‘How long?’ Mike persisted.

The professor shrugged. ‘Three . . . four weeks back.’

‘Before we started planning this?’

Gissing acknowledged as much with a twitch of his mouth. ‘I told you, Mike, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I did the same thing last year: reserved a block of names for the tour.’

‘You bottled out?’ Allan guessed.

‘Didn’t know who might be willing to help.’ The professor slurped some coffee. ‘I hardly knew you back then, Allan . . .’

‘And you’d yet to meet me,’ Mike added.

Gissing nodded slowly. ‘It’s one thing to have an idea, another to carry it to fruition.’ He toasted Mike with the coffee mug.

‘We’re not there yet,’ Mike warned. ‘How did you make the bookings? ’

‘By phone.’

‘But without using your own name?’

‘Fake names throughout. They asked for contact details, as I knew they would, so I used the phone numbers of some Indian and Chinese restaurants. They won’t need to phone unless the tour is being cancelled.’

‘And it’s not going to be cancelled this year?’

Gissing shook his head. ‘I had my secretary call them yesterday to see if there was any chance of adding a student to one of the tours. She was informed that all the tours are full, meaning they’re going ahead.’

Mike thought for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to sound reassured. He then opened the box and lifted out the first of the guns. He placed it on the surface of the table, and another followed it, followed by a third and a fourth. ‘Take your pick. Whatever’s left goes to Chib’s men.’

‘And the sawn-off ?’ Allan had spotted it, still resting in the box, barrel pointed upwards.

‘That’s for them, too.’

Gissing was weighing up one of the starting pistols. ‘Believe it or not, I used to shoot as a lad. My school had cadet training. Sometimes we were allowed live ammo.’

‘Not tomorrow,’ Mike said.

‘Heavier than it looks,’ Allan commented, picking up another of the guns. He studied it. ‘I thought you were supposed to file off the serial number.’

‘They’re untraceable,’ Mike assured him.

‘According to your friend Chib,’ Allan countered. He was taking aim at the window, one eye squeezed shut. ‘Thing is, if we go in there waving these around, the guards might get spooked, start lashing out . . .’

‘Chib’s men are there to lash back.’

‘But say one of them rushes me,’ Allan persisted. ‘Do I pull the trigger and shout “Bang!”?’

‘Just improvise,’ Gissing growled.

‘The starting pistols fire blanks,’ Mike explained. ‘The noise should be enough to freeze anyone in their tracks.’

Gissing picked up the revolver. ‘This one’s genuine, isn’t it?’

‘Ex-Falklands or Gulf War,’ Mike confirmed. ‘You know a bit, don’t you?’

‘Actually, I think that’s my knowledge of these things pretty well exhausted. How about you, Michael? Any preference?’

Mike reached around into the waistband of his denims. He was wearing a loose shirt, and the Browning emerged in one fluid movement.

‘Jesus, Mike,’ Allan said, ‘you make that look almost
too
practised. ’

Mike smiled. ‘I had it on me last night in that pub.’

‘Did you now?’ Gissing said. ‘I’d no idea.’

‘I bet service would have improved if you’d whipped it out,’ Allan added.

‘Once you’re happy with your choice,’ Mike went on, nodding towards the guns, ‘I want you to keep it with you, try to get comfortable handling it.’

‘Not that I should have any reason to use mine,’ Gissing stated.

‘Not if you’re outside in the van, no ... but we don’t know what the situation’s going to be like in the compound. Just needs one extra guard to be patrolling the perimeter and we’ve got a problem.
That’s
why you’ll be carrying it.’ He pointed towards Gissing’s gun.

‘Understood,’ the professor said with a nod.

‘That was my idea, by the way,’ Allan added. ‘Compound’s a huge area, which makes it vulnerable.’

‘Good to see you’re pulling your weight,’ Gissing responded. ‘When you cried off last night, I admit I started having doubts . . .’

‘That reminds me,’ Mike interrupted, ‘how did your dinner go?’

‘Fine,’ Allan replied, just a little too quickly, his eyes everywhere but on his friend.

Gissing and Mike shared a look. The professor was passing his chosen gun from hand to hand. He tried fitting it into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket but it threatened to fall out. ‘Maybe I’ll wear something with bigger pockets tomorrow.’

‘Whatever you wear, it’s got to be disposable,’ Mike reminded him. ‘No favourite shirts or coats. Whole lot’s going to have to be got rid of.’

‘Right,’ Allan said. He’d pushed his own gun into the front of his trousers. ‘Going to do my groin an injury if I try sitting down,’ he complained. He shifted the gun round to the small of his back. ‘That works,’ he decided.

‘Then we’re all set, aren’t we?’ Mike waited for his two friends to nod their agreement. There was a slight niggle at the back of his mind. Seven false names for the tour . . . booked weeks ago by Gissing. So the old man had known they would need back-up. He said as much to Gissing.

‘That’s not what I was thinking,’ the professor corrected him. ‘My rationale was, the more “ghosts” I could load on to the tour, the fewer actual participants I’d have to deal with on the day. There happened to be seven spaces left, so I gave seven names. End of story.’

Mike turned his attention to Allan - his ‘details guy’. Allan gave a twitch of the mouth, then cleared his throat.

‘The one thing I still don’t like,’ he said, ‘is Westie’s girlfriend.’

‘Agreed,’ Gissing growled. ‘I might have a word with our young friend about that particular little stunt.’

‘Not until he’s finished his work,’ Mike advised. ‘We need him focused.’

‘We
all
need to be focused,’ Allan added.

‘Which may mean missing the occasional dinner party,’ Gissing chided.

‘You want me to change my routine?’

‘Allan’s got a point,’ Mike interrupted. ‘On the surface, it has to be business as usual.’ At which moment, Allan’s mobile sounded. It was a text message, and he started to check it. Mike felt like swiping the phone from his friend’s grasp, but doubted it would do much for team spirit.

Gissing, noting Mike’s conflict of feelings, gave a lopsided smile and mouthed the words ‘business as usual’, before pointing the revolver at the phone and pretending to shoot it to smithereens.

Mike had suggested they take his Quattroporte, but Allan had pointed out that it was the sort of car that got noticed, so they travelled in his Audi instead, Gissing in the front passenger seat, Mike in the back but leaning forward so that his face was level with the front seats. Gissing had proposed sitting in the back until Allan reminded him that he’d be driving tomorrow. Better if he got used to the view from the front.

‘You really
have
thought of everything,’ Gissing said.

‘Probably not,’ Mike warned him. ‘Hence this morning’s recce.’

There was no fast route to anywhere. Chunks of the city centre were being turned into tramlines, meaning roadworks, tailbacks, and temporary traffic lights. Classic FM on the radio - ostensibly to calm the nerves. Gissing asked if this was the same route they’d be taking tomorrow.

‘Depends on whether you want to rendezvous at mine,’ Mike said, ‘or make your own way to the pick-up point.’

‘And where’s that?’ Allan asked.

‘Gracemount - we’re headed there now. I don’t know exactly where the van’s going to be - Chib’s going to text that to me first thing in the morning.’

‘So we don’t get to try the van out beforehand?’ Gissing sounded sceptical. ‘Isn’t that risky?’

‘That’s exactly what
I
said,’ Allan chipped in.

‘Chib assures me it’ll do the job,’ Mike stressed.

‘He’s an expert, is he?’

Mike stared at the professor. ‘So far, I’d have to say yes, he is - certainly compared to us.’

‘Then I’ll have to take your word for it.’

Mike reached into his pocket and brought out a couple of sheets of paper, folded in four. ‘I printed this from the internet - best route from the Gracemount area to Westie’s flat, and from there to Granton.’ He handed them over to the professor. ‘Saturday, so there’ll be no rush hour to speak of, but I’ve factored out Leith Walk.’

‘Because of the tram works.’ Allan was nodding appreciatively.

‘I didn’t even know where Gracemount
was
,’ Gissing muttered, staring at the map and accompanying instructions.

‘That’s why we’re headed there now,’ Mike explained. He’d already decided that Gracemount Drive, just beyond the school, would be their starting point for today’s adventure. When they arrived, Allan asked Gissing if he wanted to swap places, but received a grizzled shake of the head.

‘Easier for me to learn the route if I’m a passenger.’

‘Which begs the question,’ Allan commented, ‘you need to be in the van while we’re in the warehouse, but do you need to do any of the actual driving?’

‘You think I’m not capable?’ Gissing had turned to fix Allan with a glare. ‘I used to drive an MG sports car in my younger years.’

‘What happened to it?’ Mike asked with a smile.

‘I didn’t think it . . .
seemly
for a man in his sixties. One of the other staff members bought himself a Porsche at fifty-five, and that’s when I decided the MG had to go.’

‘Because the Porsche trumped your car?’ Allan guessed.

‘Not at all,’ Gissing barked. ‘But I could see for the first time how bloody ridiculous a man of advancing years looks in a sports car.’

‘My Quattroporte’s a sports car,’ Mike reminded him.

‘And you’re just the right age for it,’ Gissing stated.

‘I think,’ Allan informed Mike, ‘the professor wants to drive the van.’

‘Then he has my blessing,’ Mike conceded.

Gissing just gave a loud sniff and went back to his studying.

From the school, they headed back into town towards Westie’s flat - they’d be picking up him and his paintings tomorrow - sat for a minute outside his tenement block, and then, when a warden started taking an interest, signalled back into traffic and made for The Mound and the New Town.

‘What are you going to do when you retire?’ Allan asked the professor.

‘Sell up and ship out,’ Gissing replied. ‘With the money I get from the house, I can buy a cottage somewhere on the west coast, fill it with books and art, and enjoy the scenery.’

‘Won’t you miss Edinburgh?’

‘I’ll be too busy enjoying walks along the beach.’

‘Got somewhere in mind?’ Mike asked.

‘I’ll put the homestead on the market first, see how much cash it’ll give me to play with.’

‘They’re going to miss you at the college,’ Allan said. Gissing’s silence did not dispute the fact.

BOOK: Doors Open

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