by Ian Rankin
‘Is that you, Hate?’
‘Calloway?’
‘The one and only. I can’t help thinking we got off to a bad start, and I want to make it up to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, while I’m putting the funds together for your employers, how about a peace offering? Something you could place under the heading of collateral. Thing is, it’s going to take a few more days to organise - maybe as long as a week - so I need you to persuade your employers that it’ll be worth waiting for.’
‘You’re playing games with me.’
‘Believe me, I’m not. I’m talking about something the mafia does all time.’
‘You wish to put the head of a racehorse in my bed? Is that why you are working so hard to locate my place of residence?’
Shit, this guy is good . . .
‘I think I can do better than that, Hate - a whole lot better.’
‘I’m listening, Mr Calloway . . .’
By the time Chib’s dinner guest reached the table, the offer had been made, the phone switched off for the rest of the evening. Chib stood up to kiss her perfumed cheek.
‘You,’ he said, ‘look especially stunning tonight.’
‘And you look . . .’ She considered for a moment. ‘Smug’s the word that comes to mind. Like a cat that’s just got the cream.’
‘And who’s to say I haven’t?’ Chib teased, sitting down again and grabbing at his napkin before one of the waiting staff could unfurl it and start laying it across his groin.
He hated that. Really hated it.
The phone was ringing as Mike emerged from the shower. By the time he’d towelled himself dry - noting in the bathroom mirror that he needed to refresh his gym membership - the ringing had stopped. No message left, but he recognised the number. Robert Gissing, calling from home. Mike slid his feet into flip-flops and his body into a towelling robe, then pushed the buttons on his phone, exiting the bathroom and making for the balcony.
‘What’s up, Robert?’ he asked when the call was answered.
‘I was just curious - is friend Calloway on board?’
‘I think so.’
‘And how much exactly is that going to cost us?’
‘He wants a painting.’ Mike held his breath, knowing what was coming.
‘But the man’s a bloody infidel! Wouldn’t know good art if it bit him on the arse!’
‘Nevertheless . . .’ Mike listened as Gissing’s breathing grew less ragged. ‘I suppose it all depends on whether there’s enough time for Westie to come up with another fake.’
‘Well, I’ll leave that negotiation in your capable hands, Michael.’ Gissing still sounded irritated. ‘You seem to have the measure of students and criminals both.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’ Mike gave a little laugh, but was pleased all the same.
‘And besides,’ the professor was saying, ‘I’ve been thinking that Calloway may prove more useful to us than we first thought . . .’
‘How so?’ The night air was chilled; Mike retreated back inside, sliding shut the door.
‘There’s a curator at the National Gallery,’ Gissing was beginning to explain. ‘And Charles Calloway may be the very chap to deal with him . . .’
‘Deal with him?’ Mike’s eyes narrowed; he wondered if he’d misheard.
‘Deal with him,’ Professor Gissing confirmed.
12
It occurred to Allan Cruikshank that the reason he made a good banker was that he was intrinsically boring. He had barely taken a risk in his life. This meant he was cautious and prudent, and therefore good at not losing his clients’ money. But banking had also made him cynical. It was a truism that those who already had money would find it easy to increase their wealth, and they never seemed very grateful for Allan’s work on their (often unmerited) behalf. Some of the High Net Worth individuals on his books owned three or four homes, yachts, racehorses, private islands and innumerable works of art. Yet they seemed to appreciate very little, being too busy amassing yet more. He found them dull and blinkered, and wondered if they thought of him the same way. Then there were his fellow account executives at First Caledonian Bank, some of whom hardly registered his existence. The chief executive had met him a dozen times, yet never seemed to remember him from one occasion to the next. With a drink in one hand and a canapé in the other, he would regale Allan time and again with the same anecdote, while Allan smiled and tried not to scream out, You’ve told me that before, you fuckwit! He had perfected the art of looking interested, and could gasp in surprise at any and every predictable punchline.
I want something he can’t have, Allan would think to himself. I want something none of my feckless clients could ever own.
I want those two Coultons.
But he didn’t want to go to jail.
These past few nights, he had been waking in a sweat, adrenaline shuddering through him. He would sit in his dressing gown at the dining table, poring over the plan. How many years would he serve for his part in the scheme? How would his kids react to a father banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Would it all be worthwhile for just a couple of desirable paintings - paintings he could never show to anyone, never boast about to clients, colleagues, boss? Then again, his ex-wife, Margot, had chided him for years that he was dull. His conversation was dull, his cooking was dull, his dress sense was dull.
And his lovemaking, too.
When she’d moved out, he’d realised he loved her. But by then she had found herself a new man, a younger model who wore black lambswool polo necks and a smug, seemingly permanent half-smile. This hadn’t stopped Allan calling her every few days for a catch-up, suggesting lunch at various trendy bistros. She seemed already to have been wined and dined in each of them.
Well, there was one thing Allan could do that Mr Lambswool couldn’t: pull off the perfect crime. Which was why, despite the sweats and the bad dreams, he was determined to go ahead with the heist. Hell, his kids might actually like him a little better, even supposing he went to jail - notoriety beat anonymity in most teenagers’ eyes.
‘You’re sure?’ Mike asked him for the umpteenth time as they climbed the stairs to Westie’s third-floor flat.
‘Positive,’ Allan replied, hoping he sounded convincing. Mike had stressed that his job was to study the fine detail, but every time he made a suggestion or spotted a potential problem, it seemed Mike had been there before him. With Chib Calloway on board, bringing muscle and firepower, Mike had explained that Allan could jump ship if he was anything but one hundred per cent behind the project.
‘You won’t be losing face or anything,’ he’d said.
‘Mike,’ Allan had replied, ‘are you sure it’s not you that wants me out?’
To which Mike had shaken his head, maintaining eye contact but saying nothing.
They had reached Westie’s landing and stood for a moment outside the door, catching their breath. Then Mike gave a slow nod before pressing the bell. Westie, however, looked more nervous than either of his visitors, something Mike was quick to point out as the student led them inside.
‘Your fault,’ Westie snapped back. ‘Know how much sleep I’ve had this past week? I’m running on caffeine, cigarettes and the odd Bloody Mary.’
‘Tabasco or Worcester sauce?’ Mike asked. Westie just glared at him. They were in the living room by now. It smelt of fresh paint, varnish, wood. Westie was using old wood where possible for the stretchers - no need for frames, they’d be swapping them on the day. Where old wood hadn’t been available, he was staining new pine with several coats of instant coffee.
‘Works a treat,’ he explained, as Mike picked up one of the frames and sniffed it.
‘Fairtrade, I hope,’ he commented. Westie ignored him. He actually seemed prouder of the stretchers than of the copied paintings themselves, but as Allan studied them, he could see that they were marvellous, and this was the very word he uttered, Mike making a noise of agreement while Westie preened. Gissing h
ad provided reproductions of the paintings, and these were pinned to the walls of the makeshift studio. They’d been torn from books and catalogues. There were also close-up photographs showing sections of individual paintings - courtesy of the College of Art’s own library. Printed information sheets - some sourced from internet sites - detailed each artist’s working methods and, where possible, the exact colours and producers of the paint used. There were tubes of oils everywhere, some squeezed dry. Squares of plywood and cardboard had been used as palettes. Brushes sat in jars of turps. Others had been discarded, stiffened beyond repair. Westie was dressed in a crusty T-shirt and a pair of baggy knee-length shorts. It was hard to tell what colour either item of clothing had been at the start of its career.
‘Told you I could do it,’ he was saying. But as he made to light a fresh cigarette from the butt of an old one, he gave a hacking cough and pushed the greasy hair back from his eyes.
‘You need a lie-down,’ Allan told him.
‘Try stopping me,’ Westie snorted.
‘Plenty of time for that once the job’s done,’ Mike cautioned. ‘How many are ready?’
‘See for yourself.’ Westie stretched out an arm towards the relevant canvases. ‘Five down, two to go.’
‘Three,’ Mike corrected him.
Westie glowered. ‘We said seven - two apiece for you lot and one for me.’
‘Another partner has come on board.’
‘Can’t start changing the goalposts now.’
‘Yes, we can. Our new partner is insistent.’
The two of them began to argue, Westie pushing for more cash. But Mike stood his ground as Allan watched in silent appraisal. His friend had changed, had grown into the role he was now playing - deal-maker, tough guy, criminal. Maybe he’d been spending too much time with Chib Calloway, but Allan thought it went further: quite simply, Mike was enjoying himself for the first time in an age. The electricity that coursed through Allan’s body was coursing through Mike’s, too, but to very different effect.
Mike was ready for anything.
A tall man, he’d always affected a slightly round-shoulded posture, as though embarrassed by his size. But now he was more comfortable in his skin, shoulders back, spine stiffened. He made eye contact more readily and spoke slowly but with growing authority. This was what he must have been like in business, Allan thought. This was how he got to the top. Which meant that selling the company had brought Mike wheelbarrows of cash, but only at the cost of his vigour. The problem was, Allan liked this new Mike just that little bit less. In the past, they had gossiped like fishwives, telling jokes and sharing anecdotes. Now it seemed the heist was their only currency. And what about afterwards? Was it likely to galvanise their friendship or drive a wedge into it? Allan was almost afraid to ask. So he watched and listened and wondered about Chib Calloway. He’d argued against the gangster’s involvement, until giving in to the combined will of Mike and the professor. Still, he knew it was a mistake. As a move, it was anything but cautious.
The men Calloway provided would be his. He could make them do whatever he liked. But would they do whatever Mike or Allan or Gissing told them to do? And what was to stop Calloway ripping them all off afterwards? They could hardly run to the authorities to complain. Mike had nodded throughout, then had argued his own corner. Did Allan want to go find some guns? Steal a van? Talk a few hooligans into helping them out? Doors Open Day was less than a week away. Calloway was the only realistic option they had.
We could buy a van second-hand . . . fake names and paying cash . . . and do we really need weapons . . . ?
Defeated by a show of hands, two against one. So much for his role as the ‘details guy’.
The five completed forgeries sat on their individual easels. Paint glistened on several. Allan didn’t doubt they’d be tacky to the touch - oil took a while to dry. Days, he seemed to remember. And would they retain that newly painted smell? Mike had come here today because he wanted to make sure Westie hadn’t been tempted to add any flourishes - no drinks cans or aeroplanes tucked away in a corner of the canvas. When he started peering at each painting in turn, Allan did the same.
‘These look good, Westie,’ Mike said at last. The student accepted the reiterated praise with a bow, and Allan knew then that he would complete the necessary eighth canvas - Mike was in charge, and the bow acknowledged this. Allan watched as Mike pulled five folded sheets of paper from his pocket. Gissing had cherry-picked them. They were valuable but obscure and should prove relatively easy to copy.
‘Your choice,’ Mike allowed, handing the pictures to Westie. ‘Whichever one’s going to be easiest and quickest.’
‘He’s not fussy then, our new “partner”.’ Westie started sifting the short-list. ‘He’ll take whatever we give him, yeah?’
‘You’re a fast learner, Westie - now choose.’
Westie held up one of the pictures. ‘This one.’
Nodding, Mike turned towards Allan. ‘What do you think?’
The question caught Allan unawares. ‘Think?’ he echoed.
‘About these.’ Mike jabbed a hand towards the easels.
‘They look fine. Be even better once they’re framed. But are they really going to fool an expert?’
‘Depends on the expert,’ Mike answered. He was studying Monboddo’s portrait of his wife. It wasn’t quite finished yet - the background needed to be filled in - but from a distance of only a few feet Allan was hard pressed to tell it apart from the original. He remembered the exhibition and Mike’s reluctance to move on from the painting to the dozens of others in the show. Allan had made two circuits of the room before Mike could be tempted away. It looked like the same thing might be happening today, but then Allan caught movement out of the corner of his eye - someone was standing in the doorway.
‘What the . . . ?’
‘Smile for the birdie.’ It was the voice of a young woman. She was holding a video camera up in front of her, training it directly at them. Westie gave a little wave.
‘Who’s this?’ Mike was asking.
It was the woman herself who answered. ‘“This” is Alice.’ She was still holding the camera in front of her at head height as she walked slowly into the room. ‘And one of you is Mike, the other Allan. Thing is, though, you know Westie’s full name, where he lives . . . and he knows almost nothing about you.’
Mike’s attention was on Westie. ‘Is there anything you’ve not told your girlfriend here?’
‘Why would he keep a secret from me?’ She was lowering the camera as she approached Mike. She wore a short black skirt and thick black leggings. Her T-shirt had a photo of Al Pacino on it from the movie Scarface. ‘Are you Mike or Allan?’
‘This is Mike,’ Westie said. He had the good grace to look embarrassed by the stunt Alice was pulling. All the same, Allan got the feeling he’d known about it in advance. No surprise in his face; no questioning in his voice.
Alice had transferred the camera to her left hand so she could reach out with the right, but Mike was not in the mood for social niceties. She quickly realised this and tried Allan instead.
‘Allan - right?’ she asked.
‘Right,’ Allan said, shaking the proffered hand. No point making an unnecessary enemy, something he tried to communicate to Mike with a look. Mike, however, was concentrating on Alice. She was making a show of perusing the paintings, giving the artist a peck on the cheek as she passed him. ‘So, so talented,’ she murmured. She stroked the cheek she’d just kissed and then turned towards Mike again.
‘Is that thing still on?’ he asked.
‘But pointed floorwards,’ she felt it necessary to say.
‘Still picking up our voices, though,’ Mike shot back. Alice studied him for a couple of seconds, then smiled and switched the camera off. She waved it in front of her face.
‘Call it insurance - our way of making sure we’re all in this together. If Westie gets dumped on at any point, from any height, this ends up at the local CID.
You have to appreciate that I’m just looking out for his best interests . . .’
Allan was wagging a finger at her. ‘I know you,’ he stated quietly. ‘I’ve seen you at the Filmhouse.’