Doors Open (32 page)

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Authors: Ian Rankin

BOOK: Doors Open
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Laura’s voice turned imploring. ‘If there’s
anything
you know, Mike, anything you can tell the police . . .’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got to speak to them. Or you could always call Ransome - I’ll act as go-between, if you like. I’m sure if the paintings could somehow be chanced upon, you know, if they were left abandoned somewhere . . .’
‘Nice of you to assume this has got anything to do with me.’ Mike realised he was being studied by a woman at another table. She was probably wondering why he was stabbing his cooling ciabatta with a knife. He managed a smile and put the knife down.
‘Has Ransome spoken to you yet?’
‘I told you, Laura, he’s not even working the case - it’s Chib Calloway he’s after, and his paranoia has extended as far as Allan and the professor and me.’
‘Why Allan?’
‘What?’
‘Why put Allan at the top of that list?’
Mike rubbed at his temples, trying to dull the pain. There was a pharmacy next door to the café, and he decided he needed some aspirin. A couple of hundred should do it . . .
‘No reason,’ he eventually said, knowing the preceding silence had already given the lie to this.
‘If Calloway has the paintings, maybe you could talk to him,’ Laura was suggesting now.
‘Did he look to you like the sort of man you can reason with?’
‘Are you trying to tell me he
does
have them?’
‘Christ, no - I don’t know anything about these missing paintings! What I’m saying is, I don’t want to be the one making that accusation to Chib Calloway’s face.’
‘Mike . . . just how involved are you?’
‘Unattached at the moment, as it happens.’ The sound she made was a sigh of frustration. ‘I’m fine, Laura. This is all going to peter out, trust me.’
‘Can I do that, though, Mike? Can I really trust you?’
It was an excellent question, Mike thought. He was wondering who
he
could trust, now that the game had changed.
Did anyone have the new rulebook to hand?’
 
Alice was late back from the cinema. She’d been hosting another of her quiz nights in the bar. Themed this time, the subject being ‘American New Wave’. Didn’t seem to matter - the same team of four always won. Which probably explained why the turnout had started to drop. It was a problem, and she didn’t have an answer to it as yet. As she climbed the steps to the flat’s front door, she tried to remember if there was any food waiting for her. Hell with it, they could always phone out. She reckoned Mike would come across with the extra money - not all of it, obviously; there’d be some negotiating. But enough to keep her and her dreams on track. She was surprised she hadn’t heard from him - maybe it was time for another text, issuing a deadline. As she started to turn her key in the lock, the door was flung open from within. Westie was bug-eyed, brandy on his breath. His clothes looked ready for the bin.
‘What the hell have you done?’ he shouted, hauling her inside by the arm and slamming shut the door.
‘No idea,’ she bristled. ‘Care to give me a clue?’
‘You stupid, stupid bitch.’ He’d turned away from her, stalking into the living room, his hands held to his head as though to prevent it from splitting open. She’d seen him in some manic states before, but never like this.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘all I did was ask for a bit more money - no harm in trying. I take it Mike’s been on to you . . .’
‘Mike? Mike?’ Saliva was flying from the corners of his mouth. ‘If only . . .’ He turned to confront her. ‘Remember I told you there was a sleeping partner? I’d to paint an extra fake for him? Turns out it’s Chib Calloway.’
Alice looked at him blankly. ‘Who’s Chib Calloway?’
‘He’s Edinburgh’s equivalent of the mafia. Not the sort of guy you want on your back.’
‘So Mike’s gone running to him?’
‘
He’s
the sleeping partner! The one who loaned us the guns, the van, the extra pairs of hands . . . Calloway came to see me today at the art college. He had two messages for me. One, we don’t get any extra cash. Two, he wants me to do more paintings.’
‘What for?’
‘Does it matter? Thing is, your hare-brained scheme has gone tits up, and
I’m
the one in the shit. How could you be so stupid?’
Alice’s face had hardened. ‘I was thinking of
us
, Westie - thinking of
you
. They weren’t treating you right.’
‘At least they were letting me live, which is more than’ll happen if I don’t come good for Chib Calloway. I can’t believe you’d do this to me!’
‘Do what?’
‘Try blackmailing Mike.’
She leaned forward so that her face was an inch from his. ‘Get a grip, Westie. You could just say no to this guy - what’s he going to do? If he tries anything, we go straight to the nearest cop shop.’
Westie stared at her for a moment, then slumped on to the sofa, elbows on knees, hands still wrapped around his head. ‘You don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t get it.’
‘Oh, here we go.’ Alice rolled her eyes. ‘The tortured artist bit - like I haven’t seen it before a hundred times.’
‘Just leave, will you?’
‘Leave?’ Her voice was rising again. ‘It’s my bloody flat, in case you’ve forgotten!’ He didn’t move, didn’t speak. ‘I’ll leave, all right,’ she stated into the silence. ‘Just you try and stop me!’
Westie heard her grab her things and go. When he finally looked up, the room was blurred with tears.
 
Ransome and his CHIS were in a pub on Rose Street, standing either end of the bar and communicating by mobile phone. CHIS stood for Covert Human Intelligence Source, this being the police’s new favoured terminology. But Ransome knew precisely what Glenn really was - he was his grass, his nark, his snout, his snitch.
His mole in Chib Calloway’s organisation.
‘It’ll be you running the show soon,’ he was reminding the hoodlum, even though Ransome had no intention of allowing Glenn to step into Calloway’s shoes. Only thing he’d be stepping into was the same prison cell as his boss . . . and wouldn’t that make for fun and games, once Chib knew the part his one-time lieutenant had played in his downfall? ‘Chib’s men all trust you,’ Ransome continued. ‘So all we need to do now is nail him for that art heist - more than a dozen paintings missing at the latest count. Must be tucked away somewhere.’
‘I thought the thieves left them in the van . . .’
‘Keep up, Glenn - inventory on the warehouse keeps throwing up pictures that are no longer there.’
‘So they
did
get away with some?’
‘Looks like - nothing in your boss’s house or the boot of his car?’
‘I’ve not had the boot open in a while . . . I could take a peek.’
‘And while you’re at it, make some excuse to get inside his home, too - have a rake around. Where else could he be stashing them?’
‘You sure it’s him in the first place?’
‘Come on, Glenn . . . he must have let something slip.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then he didn’t want you in on it. Maybe you’re on the way to the subs’ bench, Glenn - you and Johnno. Maybe Chib’s building himself a new team . . .’ Ransome lifted the whisky glass to his nose, smelling seaweed and peat smoke and maybe a hint of hot road tar. The produce of a coastal distillery, somewhere far to the north and west of Edinburgh. Just the one drink, though - he had Sandra’s Vietnamese duck to look forward to. He forced himself to stare straight ahead at the row of optics, rather than try for eye contact with Glenn. There were plenty of drinkers between them. ‘What is it you’re drinking, Glenn?’ he asked.
‘Smirnoff Ice. Cheers, Mr Ransome.’
‘I wasn’t offering to buy you one. If I go telling the barman to send a drink to the other end of the bar, it’ll look like a pick-up.’
‘Then why did you ask?’
‘Just curious, same as I’m curious about the whereabouts of these pictures.’
‘Funny thing,’ Glenn said, ‘but remember I told you we’d been to Henderland Heights?’
‘Mike Mackenzie’s flat, yes.’
‘Well, on the way back, Chib got a call. Someone called Edward, but pronounced funny. And Chib said something to him about “collateral” and how it wasn’t even posted as missing.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Dunno. He realised Johnno and me were being nosy and made sure we were out of earshot for the rest.’
‘He’s got to have it stashed somewhere, whatever it is . . .’
‘There’s the clubs and pubs - they’ve all got cellars and store-rooms. Plus the snooker and pool halls . . . dozens of places.’
‘You could ask around, see if Chib’s made any visits without you knowing.’
‘If he gets wind of it . . .’
‘Make sure he doesn’t. Are you absolutely sure Mike Mackenzie’s a recent addition to Chib’s social scene?’
‘I’m sure. But, Mr Ransome, maybe that means Mackenzie’s hiding the paintings for Chib.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. Tough to get a search warrant, though . . .’ Ransome gave a loud sigh. ‘Look, Glenn, it’s all very simple really. If we can get your boss for the warehouse, there’s no fallout. No one’s going to know you played any role in it at all. Makes your accession all the easier.’
‘My what?’
Ransome closed his eyes for a second. ‘You taking Chib’s place as the city’s number one,’ he explained.
‘Right.’
The pub’s double doors flew open as a stag party burst in. Easy enough to spot the bridegroom-to-be, reduced to his underpants, shoes and T-shirt, the latter defaced by graffiti and egg yolk. Ransome angled his phone away from the fresh wave of noise.
‘Keep your eyes and your ears open, Glenn. Next day or so is going to be crucial. Believe me, Chib’s empire is ready to fall. Make or break time for you, my friend. You ready to ascend your boss’s throne?’
‘Ready for what?’ Glenn had pressed a finger to his ear, holding the phone more closely to the other. ‘I didn’t catch that, Mr Ransome. Too much noise. Hello? Mr Ransome?’ Glenn took a few steps back, the better to see the far end of the bar. But the detective had already headed out into the night.
28
It was eight o’clock on Wednesday morning before Mike got through to Chib. They arranged to meet at ten at the disused snooker hall. Mike had been cagey on the phone, keeping it short, intent on saving his fury for the meeting itself. But then he reminded himself who - and what - Chib was, and revised his strategy accordingly.
Chib was standing behind one of the unlit tables when Mike pushed open the door. The gangster’s face was in shadow as he rolled a series of reds against the opposite cushion, studying their trajectories and momentum.
‘What’s on your mind, Michael?’ Chib asked, his voice refrigerator cold.
‘I think you know.’
‘Let’s pretend I don’t.’
Mike slid his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘The warehouse is missing a few paintings, Chib. A dozen or more, as it turns out - which kind of blows our brilliant plan to smithereens. They may not have noticed the switch, but they know a robbery’s happened because they’re suddenly short twelve masterpieces!’
One snooker ball hit another and sent it spinning on its axis. ‘I saw it on the news,’ Chib intoned. ‘One reason I was off limits last night. If we’d met then, I might’ve been a bit hotheaded. Still can’t say I’m too thrilled about it, though . . .’
‘If you’d thought about it for one second . . . one single, solitary
second
. . . you’d have realised they were bound to do a full stock check.’ Mike paused. ‘Or did your four bright young things just get greedy and grab the oils for themselves?’
‘Sorry, Mike, I’m a bit confused . . .’ Calloway leaned down with his elbows on the rim of the table. His face was visible now, eyes peering up at Mike. ‘Didn’t you use those same four guys to cover the guards and the gatehouse? Leaving you and
your
friends to empty the vaults?’
Mike burst into an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve had all night to come up with a story and that’s the best you can do?’
‘I’m tempted to say the same thing.’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting
we
lifted those paintings? Are we supposed to have tucked them under our jumpers?’
‘How would I know? I wasn’t there - but then neither were my boys. They were keeping an eye on the hostages while you went about your business. When are they supposed to have pulled off this miracle? Did they make themselves invisible so they could get past you in the vaults without anyone noticing?’
Mike thumped a fist down hard against the green baize. A cloud of dust flew from it. ‘Why the hell would we go to the bother of
stealing
paintings? We’d taken all the trouble of switching them so nobody would ever be the wiser!’

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