Doors Open (31 page)
Authors: Ian Rankin
‘But
how
does he know?’
how
does he know?’
‘There’s a chance he saw us at the auction, and maybe at the Shining Star afterwards.’
‘So he knows we’re interested in art and drinking . . .’
‘You can bet I’ll be on his list, too. But you’ve barely met Chib, Allan - and that’s all you need to tell him.’
‘Okay,’ Allan agreed. ‘Thanks, Mike.’
‘Call me straight after.’
‘Sure,’ Allan put the receiver down, then picked it up again and spoke to his secretary, asked her to head down to reception in a couple of minutes and sign in a Mr Ransome. He didn’t bother saying who Ransome was. Then again, she’d know by day’s end - the receptionists and secretaries were as thick as thieves. Allan spent the time trying to compose himself. He pulled some paperwork from his drawer and spread it across the desk. Switched on the TV to the stock market screen. By the time the knock came, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, calculator to hand, jacket draped over the back of his executive chair.
‘Come in,’ he called.
Ransome was younger than he’d expected, and dapper with it. He’d known HNWs with less style.
‘Nice place to work,’ was the detective’s opening gambit. Allan had stood up long enough to shake hands across the desk. He gestured for Ransome to sit down. ‘Lot of expensive-looking art on the walls,’ Ransome continued. ‘Down in the lobby . . . all along the corridors . . .’
‘First Caledonian has its own curator,’ Allan informed him. ‘Our portfolio is worth in excess of twenty million.’
Ransome gave a whistle. ‘Do they ever let the staff borrow something for a couple of nights?’
‘Not at my lowly level of management.’ Allan attempted a self-deprecating smile. ‘What’s this all about, Inspector? I admit I’m intrigued.’
‘You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Cruikshank. The hoops I’ve had to go through . . .’ The detective shook his head slowly. ‘All I had was your name, you see. That and the name of your bank . . . Ever had any trouble with money-laundering?’
‘Certainly not - the regulations make sure of that.’
‘A banker would be a useful contact, though, wouldn’t he? If you
did
want to launder money.’
did
want to launder money.’
‘Quite the opposite. As I say, we’re obliged by law to report unusual levels of activity to the authorities.’
Ransome didn’t seem particularly interested in any of Allan’s answers. Nevertheless, the questions kept coming. ‘I understand you work with High Net Worth individuals, Mr Cruikshank?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is Michael Mackenzie a client?’
‘That comes under the heading of privileged information, Inspector. Has something happened to Mike?’
‘You do know him, then?’
‘We’ve been friends for over a year.’
‘And Charles Calloway?’ Ransome broke off. ‘Sorry . . . you probably know him better as “Chib”.’
‘I really don’t know him at all - we ran into him in a wine bar one day, but that’s about it.’
‘This would be the Shining Star wine bar? Just along the road from here?’
‘That’s right.’ Allan had been expecting a flipped-open notebook and pen, maybe a hulking junior colleague standing against the door like a silent sentry. But Ransome just sat here with his fingertips pressed together, one leg crossed over the other.
‘When you say “ran into him” . . . ?’
‘I mean just that. He saw us looking at him, came to the table and gave a couple of scowls and snarls.’
‘He’s good at that, is Calloway.’
‘A professional, I’d say.’
‘And this was just yourself and Mr Mackenzie . . . ?’
‘Another friend was there - Professor Robert Gissing.’
Ransome raised an eyebrow. ‘I seem to know that name. Wasn’t he the one called in to run an eye over those paintings from the Granton heist?’
‘That’s him. He’s head of the College of Art.’
Ransome gave a thoughtful nod. ‘So you didn’t speak to Chib at the auction?’
‘Which auction?’
‘The one a couple of weeks back . . . and again - funny coincidence - just along the road from here.’
‘I’d no idea Mr Calloway had an interest in auctions.’ Allan leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Ransome just smiled and was thoughtful again. ‘I’d really like to know what this is all about, Inspector,’
‘You say that Calloway came over to your table and a few words were exchanged . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘So what was your friend Mackenzie doing joining Calloway at the bar, chatting and sharing a drink?’
‘Must have been after I left,’ Allan improvised.
‘Loyalty’s an admirable quality, Mr Cruikshank, when it’s not misplaced. What do you think those two would have had to talk about?’
‘I don’t know . . . schooldays maybe.’
‘Schooldays?’
Allan licked his parched lips. ‘They were at the same school for a short time.’
The way the detective nodded to himself told Allan that this wasn’t news to him. ‘Might start to explain why they’ve been spending so much time together recently,’ Ransome speculated. ‘I happened to see them at the National Gallery,
and
at that auction,
and
at the Shining Star. And I know they’ve been taking little drives together - sure you weren’t there with them, Mr Cruikshank?’
and
at that auction,
and
at the Shining Star. And I know they’ve been taking little drives together - sure you weren’t there with them, Mr Cruikshank?’
‘I can assure you I wasn’t.’
Ransome leaned forward. ‘Well what about this, then - Calloway has been to Mr Mackenzie’s home at Henderland Heights. What does that suggest to you, Mr Cruikshank?’
‘It doesn’t suggest anything to me.’
‘Your friend Mackenzie collects art, doesn’t he? Someone at the auction house told me as much. Then he takes a known criminal on a tour of our national collection, after which they attend an auction together, checking out the going rate for various artists. Doesn’t that begin to suggest
anything
to you, Mr Cruikshank?’
anything
to you, Mr Cruikshank?’
‘Nothing.’ Allan entwined his hands more tightly around his head, willing himself not to leap up from his chair and grab the cop by the throat. But then that might look suspicious, mightn’t it? Instead, he apologised for not offering Ransome a coffee or tea.
‘Your secretary already did that, sir. I said I wouldn’t be staying. But you look like you could do with a cold drink, if I might suggest.’ Ransome made a gesture and Allan realised that his armpits were showing and his shirt was damp with sweat. He lowered his hands into his lap. The dectective sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, lifting out a small cassette-player. ‘While I remember,’ he said. ‘Would you take a quick listen to this?’ He held the machine out in front of him at arm’s length and pressed a button. Allan listened to Westie’s call to the emergency services.
Strangest bloody thing . . . white van . . . dumping bodies . . .
As the call ended, Ransome hit the stop button. ‘Does that voice ring a bell, Mr Cruikshank?’
Allan shook his head slowly and determinedly.
‘Our forensic team’s hanging on to the original recording,’ the detective said, studying the tape-player before slipping it back into his pocket. ‘Amazing what they can do these days. An engine turning over in the background . . . they can isolate the sound and match it to a specific brand of car. Isn’t that incredible, sir?’
‘Incredible,’ Allan echoed, thinking of his Audi. Had its engine been running? He couldn’t remember now.
‘There’d be immunity, you know,’ the detective was saying as he rose to his feet. ‘I mean, I’m just thinking aloud here, but anyone who helped us put Chib Calloway behind bars would be a hero, pure and simple. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to be a hero, Mr Cruikshank?’
‘I’ve told you, I barely know the man.’
‘But you’re good friends with Michael Mackenzie - and
Mackenzie
knows him.’
Mackenzie
knows him.’
‘So talk to Mike.’
Ransome nodded slowly. ‘Thought I’d try you first - you strike me as the rational sort, the sort who’d see sense.’ Ransome was halfway to the door, but he paused again. ‘It wouldn’t just be immunity, Mr Cruikshank - it would be anonymity, too. We’re hot on that these days for people who help take the likes of Calloway off the streets.’ He took a final look around the room. ‘You had a break-in here, didn’t you? At First Caly, I mean . . . few years back now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Rumour at the time was, Calloway was responsible.’
‘Then he’s not very clever - we don’t tend to keep bullion on the premises.’
‘Still got away with a pretty penny, though.’ Ransom sniffed and rubbed a finger along the underside of his nose. ‘Another rumour at the time . . . he had help.’
‘Help?’
‘Someone on the inside.’
‘Just what exactly are you getting at?’ Allan’s voice had hardened.
‘Nothing, Mr Cruikshank. Just that he’s got previous that way - contacts, people he can scare or bribe into helping him. Good of you to take the time to see me. Funny, though .. when I asked your secretary, she said you didn’t have any meetings this morning.’ He gave a little bow and a smile, then tapped his watch. ‘Told you I only needed five minutes . . .’
And with that he was gone.
Yes, thought Allan, five minutes to shred a man’s nerves and send his whole life crashing to smithereens around him. He needed some fresh air, needed to walk off some of the adrenalin, but he couldn’t leave now - Ransome might be loitering. He had to call Mike, tell him everything. Mike was the one the detective was interested in. Mike could lead him straight to Calloway. There wasn’t even any evidence in Allan’s home - what did he have to fear?
He found himself pacing the room, then realised there was something on Ransome’s chair, something that hadn’t been there before. The detective’s business card, with a mobile phone number scrawled along the bottom. When his own mobile rang, he answered it without thinking.
‘Whoever you are,’ the voice said, ‘I don’t take kindly to practical jokes.’
It was the man who’d answered the first time Allan had tried Mike. The wrong number. Allan muttered an apology, ended the call, and turned his phone off altogether. Mike could wait. Everything could wait.
Until he was good and ready to deal with it.
27
Mike Mackenzie was staring at his mobile, willing it to ring. He was seated in a Stockbridge café, having been for a walk along the Water of Leith. It had always been his preferred route when he had things to think about, problems to solve. But this time it had worked miraculously. He’d been wondering what to do about the threat from Westie’s girlfriend. One call to his bank would see the transfer of an additional twenty K into the student’s account, but Mike hadn’t been quite ready to make that decision. Maybe Gissing could warn Westie off, or at least talk some sense into him, but the professor was answering neither messages nor texts. Mike’s latest communication to him had warned that Ransome was closing in and would probably be knocking on both their doors. So far, there had been no reply.
But then, just as Mike was pushing open the door to the café, a text had arrived.
Sorry about Alice. Don’t do anything. W
.
.
Which was fine, just so long as Westie had the measure of his girlfriend. But at least Mike could file that particular problem in the pile marked ‘pending’. The call from Allan had put him right off his goat cheese and rocket ciabatta. Why didn’t he ring now? Could Ransome really have taken him to the station for further questioning? Pockets emptied, belt, tie and shoelaces removed - was that how they did it?
Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call
. . .
. . .
Had Allan cracked and told the detective everything? When the phone did ring, it caught Mike by surprise, so that he spluttered some of the coffee back into its cup. But when he looked at the display, it was Laura rather than Allan.
‘Laura,’ he said, answering. ‘Look, sorry I walked out on you. It was bloody rude of me, and I’ve been meaning to call and apologise . . .’
‘Never mind that,’ she was saying. ‘There’s a full inventory underway at the warehouse.’
‘A thankless task, I’d imagine.’ He was trying for levity.
‘Just bloody listen, will you? The rumour is, they’re finding gaps.’
‘Gaps?’
‘In the collection - the missing paintings.’
Mike’s brow furrowed. ‘But the paintings were in the van . . .’
‘Not
those
paintings! The others . . . the ones still missing. The ones the gang got away with.’
those
paintings! The others . . . the ones still missing. The ones the gang got away with.’
‘Got away with?’ he echoed, his head spinning. ‘How many are we talking about?’
‘Half a dozen so far, and they’re not halfway through the stock check. A Fergusson sketchbook’s gone, too. Plus another book with signed plates by Picasso.’
‘Jesus.’
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