Doors Open

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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.

  ‘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.’

&n
bsp; ‘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.

  ‘Heartburn,’ he explained, accepting the drink.

  ‘Did Alasdair say how Mr Allison was doing?’ Mike enquired.

  Gissing chomped down on both tablets. ‘He’s out of hospital but there’s concussion and bruising.’ He glared at Mike. ‘I think maybe your friend went a wee bit far.’

  ‘Just far enough to stop his services being called for,’ Mike answered. ‘When you’re finished at Marine Drive, get a cab to bring you here and either Allan or me will run you home.’ His own mobile was sounding. Not a call as such: a text message from Chib Calloway.

  HERD MY BOIZ DID GUD! NEED COLLATERAL ASAP. R U NEAR A TV?

  Mike decided to ignore it. Collateral: the very word Chib had used when taking that phone call. Good honest collateral . . . The news had shifted to the aftermath of some flooding in England. The journalist at the scene said something about the locals fearing they’d ‘got in too deep’. Gissing was popping a third tablet, hands unsteady, while Allan rubbed at the pulse in his eyelid and hopped from one foot to the other like a hyperactive kid.

  In too deep? Nobody knew the half of it . . .

  19

  DI Ransome was seated at his desk in the empty CID suite when he heard the news. The radio had been providing him with background music and blather. It was some local station, mixing golden oldies with traffic and weather. Ransome had been in the office for a solid two hours, clearing an inch from his in-tray. He was due to appear in court three times over the next two weeks, and needed to bone up on his evidence. The amount of time cops - uniform and CID - wasted in the city’s sheriff and high courts was a scandal, and often, at the last minute, some plea deal was done, meaning they didn’t have to go into the witness box anyway. One officer he knew had earned himself an Open University degree, doing most of his studying and essay-writing while seated outside various courtrooms waiting to say his piece.

  Ransome was spending an idle minute wondering what subject he would study, given the chance, when the radio DJ announced a ‘break-in at an industrial site in Granton’. Ransome had started to tune out until he heard the words ‘valuable artworks’. What the hell were those doing in a warehouse in Granton of all places? Holdings belonging to several city-based museums . . . staff and visitors threatened with guns . . . not known as yet which items are missing . . .

  Artworks and guns.

  Guns and artworks.

  Ransome phoned Laura at the auction house, but there was no answer. Same story with her mobile. Cursing under his breath, he headed out to the car park. It took him only twenty minutes to reach Marine Drive. It was one of the things he liked about the city: nowhere was more than half an hour from anywhere else. Felt more like a village sometimes, which was why his mind was already turning. A warehouse heist, artworks stolen . . . and Edinburgh’s premier gangster having so recently started showing an interest in paintings. He remembered Calloway that day in the National Gallery, drinking tea with his old school pal Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie the computer wizard, the art collector. They made an odd couple and no mistake . . .

  The white Transit had been cordoned off with blue-and-white-striped crime-scene tape. Uniformed officers were diverting what traffic there was away from the immediate vicinity. A forensics team was busy at work, dusting surfaces, taking photos. A detective inspector called Hendricks seemed to be calling the shots, causing Ransome to wince a little as he got out of his car. He considered Hendricks a serious rival in the promotion stakes - same sort of age; good track record; personable and presenting himself well to public and top brass alike. He’d been in the same intake as Ransome at Tulliallan Police College, more years ago now than Ransome cared to calculate. There had been a special challenge for all new recruits - raising money for charity. Despite Ransome’s best endeavours, Hendricks had won by a country mile, hosting a sportsmen’s dinner in Stirling and attracting a couple of high-profile footballers to the event as speakers. Only later did Ransome discover that Hendricks’ uncle was chairman of a Premier League club. Strings had obviously been pulled . . .

  There was never any animosity between the two men - Ransome knew better than to get on his rival’s wrong side. In public, there were displays of professional courtesy and even occasional collaboration. Besides, with Ransome stationed at West End and Hendricks across town at Gayfield Square, they met only infrequently. Ransome wondered now whether Hendricks had been on call or had barged his way on to the inquiry. He was dressed in a sharp suit with a new-looking shirt and tie. Maybe he’d been doing the same as Ransome - working unpaid hours behind his desk in the hope of snaring something interesting.

  A TV crew was already in situ, along with radio and print journalists. Dog-walkers had come up from the beach to spectate. The media were in a sort of scrum, comparing notes. One of them recognised Ransome and came bounding over, asking if there was anything he could add to the story. Ransome just shook his head. High-profile case . . . and it just had to fall into Hendricks’ lap.

  ‘Ransome? What are you doing here?’ Hendricks was trying to make the query sound matey. He’d slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and was coming towards Ransome with a spring in his step. Neat hair, trimmed moustache, but the slip-on shoes looked cheap. Ransome consoled himself with that.

  ‘I’m nosy, Gavin. You know me. How are things at Gayfield Square?’

  ‘A damn sight quieter since you-know-who retired. Look, good to see you and all that, but I’d better . . .’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. Busy man, lots to do.

  Important man.

  Ransome nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t mind me, Gavin.’

  ‘Just don’t get in the way, okay?’ Adding a little laugh at the end, as though he meant it as a joke when in fact he was being deadly serious. Which left Ransome bristling and trying to think of a comeback as Hendricks moved away again. He took a couple of steps closer to the action. The van doors were wide open, and one of the paintings lay on the ground. It had come loose from its wrapping, and Ransome could make out an ornate gold-coloured frame. He kept staring at it as one of the scene-of-crime officers took a few more snaps.

  ‘I hear tell,’ the SOCO commented, ‘it’s by someone called Utterson.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘It’s signed in the bottom corner. One of the reporters says it’s worth a couple of hundred grand. My house didn’t cost half that.’

  From what little Ransome could see, it was a bleak country landscape, maybe thirty inches by twenty. He’d seen better stuff on the walls of his local pub. ‘Who’s that Hendricks is talking to?’ he asked.

  The SOCO looked over towards where Hendricks was in close conversation with a short, bald, worried-looking man. He shrugged and shook his head, so Ransome wandered back towards the reporter who’d recognised him and asked the same question.

  ‘You’re not in the loop, then?’ the reporter teased. Ransome just stared him out. ‘He’s head of the National Galleries,’ the man eventually admitted. ‘And the guy just turning up . . .’ Ransome followed the direction of the pointed finger. A black cab had drawn up, its passenger emerging. ‘He runs the city’s museums. And that’s one you owe me, Inspector.’

  Ransome ignored this, focusing instead on the new arrival. He was taller and a bit calmer or more resolute than the galleries boss, whose hand he shook before giv
ing a consoling pat on the shoulder. Ransome edged forward until he was within eavesdropping range.

  ‘We think they must have been making the transfer,’ Hendricks was explaining for the benefit of the newcomer. ‘A member of the public phoned it in - he probably disturbed them, they lost their bottle and fled the scene in a hurry.’

  ‘Luckily for you, Alasdair,’ the museums boss told his colleague with another apparently sympathetic pat. Alasdair seemed to resent this and shuffled half a yard further away from his tormentor.

  ‘We can’t be sure yet if everything’s been recovered,’ Alasdair said, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

  ‘Witnesses say there were only about three or four of them doing the actual taking,’ Hendricks offered. ‘The others were holding the hostages. Whole thing was over in ten or fifteen minutes. They can’t have got away with much . . .’