by Ian Rankin
‘Do you know anyone called Ransome?’ she asked suddenly, bringing Mike back to the present.
‘Should I?’
‘I knew him at college - he tried much the same thing with me once at a party. Followed me to the loo . . .’ Noting the pained look on Mike’s face, she broke off the reminiscence. ‘I hadn’t laid eyes on him in a while,’ she said instead, ‘but then the day of the auction, he came to see me afterwards. He said he was interested in a local villain called Chib Calloway who’d been sitting in the front row with two of his henchmen close by.’
‘I was at the back, cosying up to the dealers.’
‘You didn’t see this man Calloway?’ She watched as he shook his head. ‘But you know who he is?’
‘I know the name,’ Mike conceded, straining his neck to see if the waiter was on his way. ‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’
‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Ransome thought maybe you’d brought Calloway to the auction.’
‘Me?’ Mike raised both eyebrows. ‘Why would he think that?’
‘He didn’t say, but he managed to describe you.’ She paused, her stare intensifying. ‘And Allan and the professor, too. He wanted your names, and I didn’t see how I could refuse . . .’
‘Where’s my water got to?’ Mike muttered, craning his neck again. His mind was racing. Ransome must have been watching Chib that day. He’d seen Mike leaving the auction house with Gissing and Allan . . . probably followed Chib and his men there and was watching outside . . . He’d have seen Mike, Allan and Gissing heading for the Shining Star - with Chib and his men following close after . . . Had Ransome actually been in the bar and seen Mike talking with Chib? No, the place had been dead - Chib, sensitive to surveillance, would have noticed him, surely. So what had led him to connect Mike and the others to Chib? The answer seemed simple enough - he’d been at the National Gallery, and had spotted Mike and Chib in the café. More crucially, however, Ransome now had all their names . . .
‘And then,’ Laura continued, ‘after the robbery, Ransome called me. Twice, actually. It was Saturday night, so it had to be important to him, even though he made the questions sound casual . . .’
‘Was he after another snog?’
Laura gave a sad little smile and dropped her gaze to the contents of her cup. ‘That’s the wrong question, Mike. You should be asking me, who’s this Ransome chap? What’s he got to do with anything? But you already know, don’t you?’
‘I really haven’t a clue what you’re getting at . . .’
‘He works for Lothian and Borders Police, Mike, and he was asking about the professor.’ She sat back, as if finished talking but ready and willing to hear anything Mike might have to say.
‘No clue at all,’ he stressed.
Laura sighed and folded her arms, concentrating so hard on the cappuccino now that she might have been inviting it to levitate.
‘I mean . . .’ he blustered on. ‘Well, I’m not sure what I mean.’ The water was arriving on a silver salver, ice and lime in the tall, slender glass. The waiter began to pour, then asked if they needed anything else.
Yes, Mike felt like telling him, an escape hatch. But he just shook his head in time with Laura. They watched the young man leave. Laura unfolded her arms and rested her fingertips against the rim of the table. Such long fingers, the nails immaculate.
‘I knew Ransome pretty well, back in college days,’ she stated quietly. ‘He was a determined sod, even then. That night at the party, I had to knee him between the legs. I’m not sure that’ll work, as far as you’re concerned . . .’ She screwed shut her eyes and Mike feared she was about to start crying. He reached across the table and covered her hands with his own.
‘It’s really all right, Laura. He’s probably after some dirt on this guy Calloway. He sees us at the same auction and starts imagining all sorts of conspiracies. Nothing to worry about - Ransome’s not even part of the team looking at the heist . . .’ Realising that he was thinking aloud, he broke off, but not quickly enough. Laura’s eyes had reopened.
‘The botched heist, you mean.’
‘Sure . . . yes, of course.’
‘How could you possibly know?’
He knew what she was about to say and bit down on his bottom lip.
‘How could you know Ransome’s not part of the team?’ she duly obliged.
Mike fixed her with a look. He knew there were things he should be saying, reassurances he should be giving. Her eyes gleamed and intelligence shone from her face. So much more alive than Lady Monboddo. Mike knew that whatever he said, she’d see through it. There would be more questions on her part, more lies on his, all of it spiralling downwards. Things he couldn’t tell her, explanations and excuses he couldn’t give. Instead of which he slid out of the bench, reaching into his pocket for money to place beside his tumbler. Her head was bent over the table, staring hard at its surface. He leaned over to kiss her hair, pausing with his face there, breathing in her subtle perfume. Then he straightened up and walked towards the door.
‘Mike?’ she called to him. ‘Whatever it is, maybe I can help.’
He nodded slowly, hoping she would catch the gesture, even though he had his back to her now. The waiter was standing by the door. He held it open for Mike and said he hoped he’d have a nice day.
‘Thank you,’ Mike replied, heading out on to George Street. ‘I’m not at all sure that I will . . .’
Glenn Burns had been working for Chib Calloway these past four and a half years, and was certain of only two things: his boss was in trouble, and overall, in the scheme of things as it were, and with everything taken into account, he could do a far better job. Chib, no offence, had terrible people skills, lacked vision, and seemed to bounce from crisis to crisis. Glenn knew this because he’d been studying business textbooks in his spare time. One lesson he’d taken to heart was Always Sleep With The Enemy. Not that he’d actually climbed into bed with DI Ransome, but he’d whispered sweet nothings into the copper’s ear, hoping Chib’s decline and fall would prove both swift and bloodless. So far it hadn’t panned out, yet here he was, meeting Ransome again, and this time the man had photos to show him.
‘Yeah, I know them,’ Glenn admitted. ‘I mean, I don’t really know them, but Chib put the frighteners on them one time in a bar.’
‘The Shining Star?’
‘That’s the one. Then he insisted on going to that boring sodding auction and they were there, too. We went back to the Shining Star again and there they all were, seated in the selfsame booth as before. This one . . .’ Glenn tapped one of the photos. It was a cutting from a magazine. ‘He’s the one who went to school with Chib - or so Chib says.’
‘It’s true; I’ve checked.’
‘Anyway, that day at the Shining Star, once the other two have left, the school pal comes over and has a chat with Chib.’
‘What about?’ Ransome was gazing at something on the other side of his windshield. They were parked atop Calton Hill, just to the east of Princes Street. Great views of Edinburgh, if you could be bothered to look. So far all Glenn had done was climb out of his own car and into the detective’s. It smelt of leather. Nothing in the ashtray till Glenn deposited a wad of gum there, nicely souring the look on Ransome’s face.
‘They were gassing about the auction - who was going up and down in value, who wasn’t selling at all. I zoned out, to be honest - boring as all-get-out. Chib wanted to know about bidding and paying and did they take cash and this guy was telling him . . . Name’s Mike, right?’
‘Mike Mackenzie,’ Ransome confirmed. He might not have liked the gum in his ashtray, but when Glenn unwrapped a fresh stick and offered him one, he was quick enough to take it, chewing it like it was chateaubriand flavour. ‘The other two are called Gissing and Cruikshank,’ he continued. ‘One works at the art college, the other at First Caledonian Bank. But it’s Mike your boss seems to know best, right?’
‘Right. They met again another time - we p
icked Mike up in the Grassmarket, just outside the Last Drop pub. But Chib kicked me and Johnno out of the car, so Christ knows where they went or what they talked about . . . Who is he anyway, this Mike?’
‘Just some sod who got lucky and made a fortune from computers . . . lives in some swanky penthouse in Murrayfield.’
‘That’s a coincidence . . .’ Glenn furrowed his brow.
‘What is?’
‘We were out there first thing this morning. Some fancy address called Henderland Heights. Chib wouldn’t say why . . .’ Glenn broke off talking, stunned into silence by something he thought he would never see.
Detective Inspector Ransome trying to grin and whistle at the same time.
Ransome knew what he should do. He should take what he knew - his suspicions, evidence and conclusions - to the Chief. But then the Chief would say, ‘Why didn’t you tell Hendricks any of this? He’s the officer in charge of the case.’ And it would all filter back to Hendricks anyway. His collar. His glory. Wouldn’t matter that the donkey work had been done by Ransome.
He needed more.
Needed the proof that would lead to arrests for armed robbery. Mackenzie and the others, they’d conspired in some way to help Calloway pull off the heist - there was precious little doubt in Ransome’s mind that Chib was behind it. He’d been scouring the city for muscle to help him - Glenn had been clear on that. Or maybe it was this character Hate, leading a team of Hell’s Angels: the very people who’d have access to sawn-offs and the like. But it couldn’t have happened without inside info, which was where the ‘Three Musketeers’ came in. Rank amateurs, probably, cajoled or threatened until they were in way over their heads. It would be easy to break them - easier by far than confronting Chib himself. And when they broke, he would have the gangster where he wanted him.
And Hendricks, too, come to that. Hendricks had given him an earful on the phone. Somehow he’d got to hear that Ransome had visited the warehouse. Stay the fuck away, those had been Hendricks’ instructions. Ransome had come back with a few choice words of his own before ending the call and refusing to answer when Hendricks rang back. Sod him. Sod the lot of them. A bit more hard evidence was needed, that or a confession. Evidence would be difficult without search warrants, and his various hunches and titbits of surveillance were never going to secure any of those. Not even his covert source could connect Calloway to the heist in any way other than tangentially.
He really needed more.
Hard evidence or a confession . . .
And suddenly, Ransome knew exactly what to do. And who to do it to.
25
Tuesday morning, just gone eleven, Westie was working on his degree show. He was stuck in the basement of the College of Art, which meant no windows, no natural light. Westie’s solution was a series of striplights, standing at angles against the walls so that any paintings hung nearby would throw jagged shadows across sections of the room. The problem was, it was hard to see the paintings themselves. Added to which, the floor had become treacherous, snaking coils of electrical flex leading from the lights to an overloaded junction box. He’d been told by the janitor that there were Health and Safety issues and by one of his tutors that the ‘art of display’ was part and parcel of the exhibition. In other words, if Westie couldn’t provide proper lighting and an environment that wasn’t a potential deathtrap, he might be marked down.
Not that Westie needed to worry, of course. He was whistling a happy tune - ‘So What?’ by Miles Davis - as he worked, safe in the knowledge that his extra-curricular activities on behalf of Professor Gissing and his friends had already secured him a high pass . . . maybe even a distinction.
‘Doesn’t mean you can slack,’ Gissing had warned him. ‘Your show has to exhibit a basic level of competence, otherwise the mark’s going to look overly suspicious.’
Westie reckoned he could do ‘competence’. And he was proud of his seven chosen canvases, pastiches of Runciman, Nasmyth, Raeburn (twice), Wilkie, Hornel and Peploe. The Peploe was a particular favourite: a still life featuring potted plant, fruit bowl, and, at the very edge of the canvas, ketchup bottle. Gissing, a fan of Peploe, hated it, which was why it was going to be Westie’s centrepiece. He wanted to hear the professor praise it to the other assessors, albeit through gritted teeth.
The fresh injection of cash into Westie’s bank account had meant he could go to town on his frames - no trawling the junk shops and skips. He had bought from an architectural reclamation specialist in Leith. The frames were gilded, ornate, original, and immaculate. He’d spent some more of the money on a couple of meals out and was thinking of renting a proper studio so that Alice could have her living room back.
‘That’s going to eat into my film studies funding,’ she had complained. ‘Unless we do something about it.’
It had taken a lot of talking to persuade her not to go asking Mike for any more cash. But then she’d started saying they should sell the DeRasse and pocket what they could.
‘No point us having it if it’s got to be kept hidden - I’d be as happy with one of your copies anyway.’
He’d asked who they should sell it to and she’d just shrugged her shoulders. ‘Got to be someone out there who’d want it, no questions asked. I’ll bet we could get fifty thou easy . . .’
Never easy, Westie thought to himself now. She had worked hard to talk him out of including the DeRasse in his exhibition. He realised that thinking about all of this had interfered with his whistling. Back to the top, Miles . . . Every time he replayed the heist itself, he ended up laughing. Bloody Lavender Hill Mob and no mistake. Gissing clutching his chest like he was about to peg it - that would have been interesting. Allan with a waterfall of sweat running down his face from under that ridiculous wig. Mike had done okay, though - he’d been cool throughout, definitely cut out for it. That was another reason Westie didn’t want to start hassling for a bigger cut: Mike had something about him. The four hoodies had been Mike’s doing. You got the feeling with Mike that, despite the haircut and the hand-crafted boots, he definitely knew people. People you didn’t want to know.
Could probably handle himself, too, while Westie was a fully paid-up pacifist - give peace a chance and all that . . .
‘This is some awful dump, by the way,’ a voice growled from the doorway. Westie studied the man who was lumbering into the room. Shaved head, leather coat, gold rings and neck chain. ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, son - nobody’s going to find you down here unless you leave a trail of breadcrumbs.’
‘Can I help you?’ Westie asked as the stranger chuckled at his own joke.
‘Course you can, Westie. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ The man was holding out a pudgy hand. Westie could have sworn there was scar tissue on the knuckles. ‘I’m Chib Calloway. Reckoned it was high time we had an actual face-to-face.’
‘Chib Calloway?’
The man nodded. ‘Judging by the way your jaw’s grazing the floor, I’m guessing the name means something to you. That’s good - saves lengthy explanations.’
‘I know who you are,’ Westie admitted.
‘Then you know why I’m here?’
Westie felt his knees trying to buckle. ‘N-no . . . I’ve no idea w-why you’re here.’
‘Has nobody bothered to tell you, Mr Westwater? Dearie me . . .’
‘Tell me what exactly?’
Calloway chuckled again and patted him on the shoulder. Westie’s knees almost went again under the pressure. ‘The extra guys on your team last Saturday, did you think they maybe appeared in a puff of smoke? The shooters and the van . . . who the hell did you think organised it all?’
‘You?’ Westie just managed to choke the question out.
‘Me,’ Chib Calloway confirmed. ‘I’m pretty impressed, actually . . . reckoned someone would have blabbed. Good that my name’s kept out of the spotlight. And yet I find myself having to come here . . .’ The gangster started tutting as he began a tour of the studio and its contents. Westie wan
ted to ask what was going on, but the greater part of him really didn’t want to know. Only a couple of the paintings had actually been hung, the other five resting against one of the whitewashed walls. Calloway had crouched down to flick through them, saying nothing. Eventually, he stood up again, brushing imaginary dust from his palms. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he apologised, ‘except for the noble art, of course. Know what that is, Westie?’
‘Boxing?’ Westie offered.
‘That’s it exactly - boxing.’ The gangster was walking away from Westie, heading towards the doorway. ‘Closely followed by hammering, battering, kicking, gouging, slashing, hacking and stabbing.’ He turned and gave a smile. ‘Not quite so noble by the time it gets to that stage, of course.’
‘L-look, Mr Calloway, I just did what I was told. N-nobody said you were part of the . . . I mean, you’ve got n-nothing to worry about, not from me.’