Doors Open (6 page)

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Authors: Ian Rankin

BOOK: Doors Open
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‘Call again, Mr Mackenzie,’ Bonnar had said, opening the door for him. ‘It’s been too long.’
So: no shirts and no jewellery. One o’clock had found him on Princes Street, not quite hungry enough for lunch and within a stone’s throw of the National Gallery. His mind felt clogged; hard to say why he’d been drawn to the place. There were some nice pieces - he’d be the first to acknowledge as much - but it was all a bit stuffy and reverential. ‘Art is good for you,’ the collection seemed to be saying. ‘Here, have some.’
The past few days, he’d been mulling over Professor Gissing’s argument about art as collateral. He wondered what percentage of the world’s art was actually kept in bank vaults and the like. Like unread books and unplayed music, did it matter that art went unseen? In a generation’s time, it would still be there, awaiting rediscovery. And was he himself any better? He’d visited regional galleries and viewed their collections, knowing he had better examples of some of the artists hanging on his walls at home. Wasn’t each home and living room a private gallery of sorts?
Help some of those poor imprisoned paintings to escape
.
Not from public galleries, of course, but from wall safes and bank vaults and the unvisited rooms and corridors of all those corporate buyers. First Caledonian Bank, for example, had a portfolio running into the tens of millions - most of the usual suspects (they even boasted an early Bacon), plus the cream of new talent, snapped up at all those annual degree shows around the UK by the bank’s portfolio curator. Other companies in Edinburgh owned their own hauls and were sitting tight on them, the way a miser would sit on a mattress filled with cash.
Mike was wondering: maybe if
he
made a gesture. Opened a gallery and placed his own collection there . . . could he persuade others to join him? Talk to First Caly and all the other big players. Make a thing of it. Maybe that was why he’d felt drawn to the National Gallery - the perfect place to do a little more thinking on the subject. The last person he’d expected to see was Chib Calloway. And now, turning around, here was Calloway stalking towards him, smile fixed but eyes hard and unblinking.
‘You keeping tabs on me?’ the gangster growled.
‘Wouldn’t have taken you for a patron of the arts,’ was all Mike could think of by way of an answer.
‘Free country, isn’t it?’ Calloway bristled.
Mike flinched. ‘Sorry, that came out all wrong. My name’s Mike Mackenzie, by the way.’ The two men shook hands.
‘Charlie Calloway.’
‘But most people call you Chib, right?’
‘You know who I am, then?’ Calloway considered for a moment and then nodded slowly. ‘I remember now - your pals couldn’t look at me, but you held eye contact throughout.’
‘And you pretended to shoot me as you drove away.’
Calloway offered a grudging smile. ‘Least it wasn’t the real thing, eh?’
‘So what brings you here today, Mr Calloway?’
‘I was just remembering that book of paintings, the one you lot were poring over in the bar. I take it you know about art, Mike?’
‘I’m learning.’
‘So . . . this one we’re standing beside . . .’ Calloway took a step back. ‘Guy on a horse, so far as I can see. Not a bad likeness.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘How much would it fetch?’
‘Unlikely it would ever come to auction.’ Mike gave a shrug. ‘Couple of million?’ he guessed.
‘Hell’s teeth.’ Calloway moved along to the next painting. ‘And this one here?’
‘Well, that’s a Rembrandt . . . tens of millions.’
‘
Tens!
’
Mike looked around. A couple of the liveried custodians were beginning to take an interest. He gave them his most winning smile and started to move away in the opposite direction, Calloway catching him up only after a few more seconds of staring at the Rembrandt self-portrait.
‘It’s not really about the money, though, is it?’ Mike heard himself say, even though he knew only a part of him really believed that.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘What would you rather look at - a work of art, or a framed selection of banknotes?’
Calloway had retrieved one of his hands from its pocket, and he was now rubbing the underside of his chin. ‘I’ll tell you what, Mike - ten million in cash wouldn’t be on the wall long enough to find out.’
They shared a laugh and Calloway ran his free hand across the top of his head. Mike began to wonder about the other hand - the one in the pocket. Was it holding a gun? A knife? Had Calloway come in here with something other than browsing in mind?
‘So what
is
it all about then,’ the gangster was asking, ‘if not the money?’
‘Money plays a big part,’ Mike was forced to admit. He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there’s a café downstairs . . . do you fancy a quick coffee?’
‘I’ve had a stomachful,’ Calloway said with a shake of the head. ‘Might manage a cup of tea, though.’
‘My treat, Mr Calloway.’
‘Call me Chib.’
So they headed down the winding staircase, Calloway enquiring about prices, Mike explaining that he’d only been interested in art for a year or two and wasn’t exactly an expert. One thing he didn’t want Calloway to know was that he had a collection of his own, a collection some would doubtless term ‘extensive’. But as they queued at the service counter, Calloway asked him what he did for a living.
‘Software design,’ Mike said, deciding that he would elaborate as little as possible.
‘Cut-throat business, is it?’
‘It’s high pressure, if that’s what you mean.’
Calloway gave a twitch of the mouth, then got into a discussion with the girl behind the counter about which of the many teas on offer - Lapsang, green, gunpowder or orange pekoe - tasted most like actual tea. After which, they took their table, with its views on to Princes Street Gardens and the Scott Monument.
‘Ever been to the top of the Monument?’ Mike asked.
‘Mum took me up there when I was a kid. Scared me stupid. That’s probably why, a few years back, I dragged Donny Devlin up there and threatened to sling him off - owed me money, you see.’ Calloway had his nose in the teapot. ‘Smells a bit weird, this.’ But he poured some all the same, while Mike stirred his own cappuccino, wondering how to respond to such a warped confession. The gangster didn’t seem to realise that he’d said anything at all out of the ordinary. The memory of his mother had segued seamlessly into a momentary depiction of horror. Mike couldn’t tell if Calloway had set out to shock him; maybe it wasn’t even true - the Scott Monument was a stupidly public place for such a scene. Allan Cruikshank had hinted that Calloway had engineered the First Caly heist. Difficult now to envisage him as a criminal mastermind . . .
‘Anyone ever tried breaking into this place?’ Calloway asked at last, studying his surroundings.
‘Not that I know of.’
Calloway wrinkled his nose. ‘Paintings are too bloody big anyway - where would you stash them?’
‘A warehouse, maybe?’ Mike suggested. ‘Art gets stolen all the time - a couple of men in workmen’s uniforms walked out of the Burrell collection with a tapestry a few years back.’
‘Really?’ This seemed to tickle the gangster. Mike cleared his throat.
‘We were at the same school, you and me - same year, actually.’
‘Is that a fact? Can’t say I remember you.’
‘I was never on your radar, but I recall that you more or less ran the place, even told the teachers what they could and couldn’t do.’
Calloway shook his head, but seemed flattered nonetheless. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Mind you, I was a tearaway back then.’ He eyes lost focus, and Mike knew he was thinking back to those days. ‘A solitary O-Grade, I ended up with - metalwork or something.’
‘One project, we made screwdrivers,’ Mike reminded him. ‘You put yours to good use . . .’
‘Persuading the nippers to hand over their cash,’ Chib agreed. ‘You’ve got a good memory. So how did you get into computers?’
‘I stayed on for Highers, then college after that.’
‘Our paths diverged,’ Chib said, nodding to himself. Then he stretched his arms out. ‘Yet here we are, meeting up after all these years, proper grown-ups and no damage done.’
‘Speaking of damage . . . what happened to Donny Devlin?’
Chip’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing at all . . . just curious.’
Chib pondered for a moment before replying. ‘He got out of the city. Paid me back first, mind. D’you keep up with anyone from the old days?’
‘Nobody,’ Mike admitted. ‘Took a look at Friends Reunited once, but there wasn’t anyone I particularly missed.’
‘Sounds like you were a loner.’
‘I spent a lot of time in the library.’
‘Might explain why I don’t remember you - I only went there the one time, took out
The Godfather
.’
‘Was that for recreational purposes or for training?’
Chib’s face darkened again, but only for a second. Then he burst out laughing, acknowledging the joke.
And so the conversation continued - fluidly; light-heartedly - neither man aware of the figure who twice passed by the window.
The figure of Detective Inspector Ransome.
5
Mike was standing at the very back of the saleroom, just inside the doorway. Laura Stanton had taken her place at the lectern and was checking that her microphone was working. She was flanked by plasma screens on which images of the lots would be shown, while the genuine articles were placed on an easel or pointed to (if they happened to be hanging on one of the walls) by a team of well-rehearsed staff. Mike could tell that Laura was nervous. This was, after all, only her second sale, and so far her performance had been judged ‘solid’ at best. No real treasures had been unearthed, no records smashed. As Allan Cruikshank had observed, the art market could go that way for months or even years at a stretch. This was Edinburgh, after all - not London or New York. The focus was on Scottish works.
‘You’re not going to be offered a Freud or a Bacon,’ Allan had said. Mike could see him now, seated two rows from the back, not in the market to buy anything, just keen for a final glance at each painting before it vanished into private hands or some corporate portfolio. From where Mike stood, he could take in the whole room. There was whispered anticipation. Catalogues were browsed one last time. Staff from the auction house were seated at their telephones, ready to hook up with distant bidders. It intrigued Mike: who were those people on the other end of the line? Were they Hong Kong-based financiers? Manhattan Celts with a penchant for Highland scenes of kilted shepherds? Rock stars or movie actors? He imagined them being given manicures or massages as they yelled their bids into the receiver, or pushing weights in their home gym, or seated aboard private jets. Somehow he always imagined them as being more glamorous than anyone who actually took the trouble to attend an auction. He’d asked Laura once for some gen on the telephone bidders but she’d just tapped the side of her nose, letting him know there were secrets she couldn’t share.
He knew probably half the people on view: dealers for the most part, who would then try to sell the paintings on. Plus the curious, dressed drably as though they’d only stumbled indoors for want of anything better to do with their time. Maybe some of them had a couple of paintings tucked away at home, a legacy from some long-dead aunt, and now wondered how much the artist was fetching. There were two or three people like Mike himself - genuine collectors who could afford pretty well anything that might come up. There were also a few faces new to him. And seated right at the front - in Newcomers’ Row - but with no paddle (and therefore only satisfying his curiosity), Chib Calloway. Mike had spotted him the moment he’d walked into the room, but had managed (so far) to go unnoticed. He realised that the two men leaning against the wall to Calloway’s left were the same ones from a week ago in the Shining Star. When Mike had bumped into Calloway in the National Gallery, the gangster hadn’t seemed to need his henchmen. Mike wondered what had changed. Maybe it was because he wanted to be noticed, wanted the people around him to know he was the sort of man who could boast protection. A very public show of his importance.
The gavel came down to signal that the auction was underway. The first five lots came and went in a blur, fetching the bottom end of estimate. A figure filled the doorway and Mike gave a nod of greeting. With retirement looming, Robert Gissing seemed to have more time on his hands for previews and auctions. He was giving the room an all-encompassing, beetle-browed glower. While Allan might regret the whisking away of so many paintings, Gissing had been known to rise to a state of apoplexy in salerooms, storming out, his voice booming down the corridor:
Works of genuine genius! Sold into servitude and wrenched from the gaze of the deserving!
Mike hoped he wasn’t going to cause a scene today - Laura had quite enough on her plate as it was. He noted that Gissing, too, had failed to collect a bidding paddle, and began to wonder just how many people in the room were interested in actually buying something. The next two lots failed to reach their reserve, adding to Mike’s fears. He knew that some of the dealers would get together beforehand to express their individual interests, making pacts to ensure they didn’t get into bidding wars. This tended to keep prices down unless there were collectors in the room or on the ends of those telephones.

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