Authors: Ian Rankin
Doors Open (21 page)
Back at the van, Mike saw that Gissing was breathing hard. He still had his wits about him, however, and reminded them to make sure the labels were showing when they reswaddled their copies.
‘They’ve got to look just the same as they were . . .’
‘We know,’ Westie complained, adding: ‘I still say we could be doing this elsewhere.’
Mike had heard the argument before, but had sided with Allan first time round: no alarm would be raised until they were off the premises.
That
was when time really started to be against them. Best to make the switch now, meaning a cleaner and faster getaway later, when the cops were on to them.
That
was when time really started to be against them. Best to make the switch now, meaning a cleaner and faster getaway later, when the cops were on to them.
‘Three down,’ Allan intoned, watching Westie and Gissing at work. Mike checked his watch again. Twelve minutes since they’d first walked into the warehouse. It was going like clockwork. No . . . better than that - it was going like digital. He found himself forcing a smile, and gave Allan a pat on the back.
‘Bit early for that,’ Gissing snarled, wiping perspiration from his eyes. ‘Back inside, the pair of you, and do the final check.’
Final check: vault doors left wide open and keys in locks. There
would
be trace evidence - Westie had said as much; knew it from all the cop shows he watched with Alice. A stray hair, maybe, or fibres from their clothing, faint prints from their shoes. But the less they left the better. Standing together in the middle of the warehouse, Mike and Allan shared a nod. Then Allan made for the van again while Mike opened the door to the guardroom. A gun was aimed straight at him, lowered once its owner recognised him. Mike held up three fingers, meaning three minutes. The ‘hostages’ were crouched on the floor, hands on their heads and eyes screwed shut. The CCTV screens were blank.
would
be trace evidence - Westie had said as much; knew it from all the cop shows he watched with Alice. A stray hair, maybe, or fibres from their clothing, faint prints from their shoes. But the less they left the better. Standing together in the middle of the warehouse, Mike and Allan shared a nod. Then Allan made for the van again while Mike opened the door to the guardroom. A gun was aimed straight at him, lowered once its owner recognised him. Mike held up three fingers, meaning three minutes. The ‘hostages’ were crouched on the floor, hands on their heads and eyes screwed shut. The CCTV screens were blank.
Back at the van, Allan was in the passenger seat, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Westie was wrapping another painting. Gissing was holding a hand to his chest, but nodded to let Mike know he was all right really.
‘Just a bit breathless.’
‘Sit back,’ Mike told him. ‘I’ll drive.’ He got into the driving seat and checked the key was in the ignition.
‘How are we?’ he asked Allan.
‘It would be nice to leave right now.’
Mike heard a noise and peered into the rearview mirror: three figures emerging, jumping in the back. The van doors creaked shut and Mike gunned the engine. Something was handed to him from the back - a key.
‘Locked them all in the guardhouse,’ he was told.
‘That’s great,’ Mike said, dropping the key into the van’s ashtray. ‘But unless you took away their mobile phones, it’s not going to slow things down.’
The van juddered towards the gatehouse. ‘Not too fast,’ Gissing warned. He was right: last thing they wanted right now was to announce themselves to passing traffic or a cruising patrol car. Mike paused long enough at the gatehouse to pick up the final member. The kid had brought the peaked cap with him, causing his friends to laugh.
‘That stays in the van,’ Mike warned them.
Allan was making a show of studying him. ‘Mr Professional,’ he purred.
‘Get going!’ one of the crew yelled from the back. In the wing mirror, Mike could see the guard emerging from his lair. He stepped on the accelerator.
‘Should’ve thumped him,’ somebody was saying.
‘Couldn’t do it,’ came the reply. ‘Guy’s a Hearts fan. Calendar, fanzine, the works.’
‘He got the number plate,’ Allan commented.
‘Much good it’ll do him.’ Mike turned towards Westie. ‘
That’s
why we did it this way round.’
That’s
why we did it this way round.’
Westie just sniffed, saying nothing. They drove in silence after that, listening for sirens.
‘Should’ve brought a CB,’ one of the kids eventually piped up. ‘Could’ve tuned it to the pigs’ frequency.’
Mike and Allan shared a look - something else they hadn’t thought of. Mike’s senses seemed heightened to an incredible degree. The sound of the rutted tarmac under the van’s wheels was amplified; his nose was picking up the aroma of hops from a distant brewery. There was a tingling in his blood and a tang of adrenalin in his mouth.
This
, he thought,
is how it feels to be alive
. It was as if his nervous system had been fitted with a supercharger.
, he thought,
is how it feels to be alive
. It was as if his nervous system had been fitted with a supercharger.
Allan’s Audi was where they’d left it. There were no other vehicles to be seen except an antiquated Rover, its sills eaten by rust. The rain had grown heavier, dissuading the dog-walkers. The unframed paintings were transferred to the Audi’s capacious boot. One of Chib’s lads went to close the van doors, but Mike told him to leave them open.
‘We were in a hurry, remember?’ he explained.
The Rover was for the four teenagers. Its ignition key was tucked in beneath one of the front wheels. Mike held out a hand for shaking, but the four young men just stared at it. Then one of them asked for the guns. These were handed over - Mike’s with great reluctance - and placed in the Rover’s boot. Before they drove off, he checked that the peaked cap had been left, as ordered, in the van.
Allan gave a half-hearted wave. ‘Lovely bunch of lads,’ he commented, watching the car roar off. Gissing was already in the Audi, and Westie with him.
‘Let’s go,’ Gissing said.
‘Hang on,’ Mike said, heading back to the van. He lifted out one of the bundles and dropped it on the roadway. Back in the Audi, Gissing asked for an explanation.
‘The robbers panicked and fled,’ Mike obliged. ‘Just as they were starting the transfer. Adds a touch of drama, don’t you think?’
Westie was punching numbers into a mobile phone. He’d asked to be the one to make the call. The phone was a gift from Calloway. It had been in the box with the guns. Chib had promised it was untraceable and warned it only had about two minutes’ credit on it. Westie took a deep breath and gave an exaggerated wink to all around him. Then he started speaking.
‘Is that the police?’ His voice had reverted to its working-class Fife roots. ‘Listen, I’ve just seen the strangest bloody thing down by Marine Drive . . . some guys at the back of a white van, looked like they were dumping bodies or something. I think I spooked them, but I got the number plate . . .’
He reeled it off, ended the call and gave a little bow from the waist.
‘Dumping bodies?’ Mike echoed.
‘You’re not the only one who can improvise.’ Westie wound down his window and flung the mobile into a roadside ditch.
‘Hey, guys,’ Allan said. ‘Can we take these bloody things off now?’ He meant the latex gloves.
Mike nodded his agreement. They were safe. They were on their way. They’d done it.
They’d done it!
18
Seven unframed paintings sat arranged on the two sofas and two easy chairs in Mike’s living room. The three men stood gazing at them, champagne flutes in their hands. They had got rid of their disguises and had used Mike’s bathroom to freshen up, sluicing off sweat and dust and the smell from the gloves. Allan was still scratching his scalp intermittently, fearing ‘beasties’ might have relocated there from the hairpiece. The Maserati had not been vandalised during its short stay in Gracemount, but fingerprints on the windows showed where kids had been peering in at its interior. They’d dropped Westie at his flat, reminding him yet again to keep his chosen painting hidden. He’d asked Mike about the rest of his money.
‘It’ll be in your account today or tomorrow,’ Mike had assured him.
Westie had actually seemed reluctant to get out of the car, smiling and telling everyone how well it had gone.
‘Strikes me I should have held out for two,’ he’d grumbled.
‘Don’t go getting gold fever, young man,’ Gissing had growled.
Westie had raised his hands as if in surrender. ‘I was making a joke . . . trying for a bit of light relief. The looks on your faces, you’d think we were standing graveside.’
‘Get some sleep,’ Mike had told him. ‘And spend a quiet Sunday with Alice - no splurging, remember.’
‘No splurging,’ Westie had echoed, eventually opening his door and getting out, his painting tucked beneath his arm.
‘I like your two better,’ Allan was now telling Gissing as the two of them studied the mini-exhibition.
‘Tough,’ the professor answered with a thin smile.
‘What about Calloway’s Utterson?’ Allan asked.
‘I’ll see it gets to its new owner,’ Mike stated.
‘But can we trust him?’ Allan countered. He pressed a finger to one of his eyelids, trying to still the pulse that had started there. ‘Robert talked about gold fever . . . isn’t Calloway the most likely to start wanting what we’ve got?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Mike tried reassuring his friend. ‘You can leave him to me.’
‘He knows the painting has to be kept secret?’ Allan persisted.
‘He knows,’ Mike said, adding an edge to his voice. He reached down to the coffee table and picked up the TV remote, switched on the plasma screen and started flicking through the channels, looking for news.
‘May be a bit early,’ Allan said, rubbing at his reddened eyes. Although he loathed them, he was wearing disposable contact lenses - part of his disguise. Mike ignored him. Really, he wanted them all gone, so he could concentrate on the portrait of Monboddo’s wife. He’d only held it for a few moments. Gissing was making a circuit of the room. He’d hardly looked at his own picks, and was instead studying some of Mike’s saleroom purchases.
‘I’ve just had a thought,’ Allan said. ‘What if somebody got there first? To Marine Drive, I mean . . . What if they walked off with an armful of Westie’s beautiful forgeries?’
‘Then the cops’ll pick them up and think they’ve got their thief,’ Mike answered.
‘True,’ Allan seemed to agree. His flute was empty but Mike had decided one bottle of champagne was enough - there was the journey home to consider, at least as far as Allan was concerned. The professor would need a lift, too, at some point - no way Mike was calling him a taxi, not when the passenger would be carrying an expensive-looking painting under his arm . . .
The words BREAKING NEWS had begun scrolling along the foot of the screen. Above the newsreader’s shoulder there was an old photo of Edinburgh Castle. This changed into a map of the city, zeroing in on the Granton area.
‘Here we go,’ Mike muttered to himself. ‘Now the fun and games really begin.’ He started to turn up the volume, but a mobile phone was ringing. It was Gissing’s, so Mike switched the TV to mute instead. When Gissing offered him a smile, Mike nodded back. They knew who it would be . . . at least, they knew who they
hoped
it would be. Gissing placed a finger to his lips in warning, then answered the call.
hoped
it would be. Gissing placed a finger to his lips in warning, then answered the call.
‘Professor Robert Gissing,’ he intoned by way of introduction. Then, after a few seconds: ‘Yes, I’m watching it now on my TV at home . . . absolutely shocking. Did they take anything?’ A slightly longer pause, during which he made eye contact only with the window and the darkening view beyond it. ‘I see . . . But how can I help? Jimmy Allison’s your man for . . .’ Gissing’s flow was interrupted. He made a show of raising an eyebrow as he listened. ‘How awful! Nobody’s safe on the streets these days, Alasdair.’
Confirmation, as far as Mike was concerned, that Gissing was in conversation with the head of the National Galleries of Scotland, Alasdair Noone.
‘Yes, of course,’ Gissing was saying now. ‘Soon as I can, Alasdair. No, I’ll make my own way there . . . Half an hour?’
Mike did a swift calculation - yes, from the professor’s home to Marine Drive was just about feasible in thirty minutes.
‘Oh, did you?’ Gissing glanced in Mike’s direction. ‘Well, I’ve been having some problems with it. Or maybe I had the TV up too loud. Sorry about that. Yes, yes, I’m on my way, Alasdair. Bye.’
Gissing ended the call and his eyes met Mike’s again.
‘He tried your landline,’ Mike guessed. ‘You didn’t answer, so he called your mobile. But then you went and told him you were at home . . .’
‘He won’t make anything of it,’ Gissing assured him.
‘But the police might,’ Allan commented. ‘Tiny details, inconsistencies . . .’
‘He’s got enough on his plate,’ Gissing persisted. ‘I’d lay a hundred pounds it’s already forgotten.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way.’
‘Give it a few minutes,’ Mike warned him. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes by taxi to Marine Drive from here.’
‘Good point,’ the professor conceded.
‘And you need to relax a little.’
‘Maybe a small whisky . . .’
‘Don’t want them smelling hooch on their expert’s breath - I’ll fetch you some water.’ Mike walked into the kitchen, Allan following close on his heels.
‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Allan asked, placing his empty flute on the spotless worktop. Mike didn’t think it was the last time he would hear this question from his friend.
‘So far, there hasn’t been a hitch. That’s down to good planning. The rest is all about holding our nerve.’ Mike offered a wink and poured the water into a tall glass, which he carried back into the living room. Gissing was popping two square tablets from their foil packaging.
Other books
Girl Undercover 4 & 5: Ariel & Financial Devil by Julia Derek
The Missing One (Lost Series Book 2) by Liz Lovelock
Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman
The Limehouse Text by Will Thomas
Collusion by Stuart Neville
The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich
House of Payne: Rude by Stacy Gail
Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle by Jerry Langton
Sweet Texas Kiss (Sweet Texas Secrets) by Monica Tillery
Unsound: A Horizons Book by Summers, Ashley