Doors Open

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Nothing.’ Allan entwined his hands more tightly around his head, willing himself not to leap up from his chair and grab the cop by the throat. But then that might look suspicious, mightn’t it? Instead, he apologised for not offering Ransome a coffee or tea.

  ‘Your secretary already did that, sir. I said I wouldn’t be staying. But you look like you could do with a cold drink, if I might suggest.’ Ransome made a gesture and Allan realised that his armpits were showing and his shirt was damp with sweat. He lowered his hands into his lap. The dectective sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, lifting out a small cassette-player. ‘While I remember,’ he said. ‘Would you take a quick listen to this?’ He held the machine out in front of him at arm’s length and pressed a button. Allan listened to Westie’s call to the emergency services.

  Strangest bloody thing . . . white van . . . dumping bodies . . .

  As the call ended, Ransome hit the stop button. ‘Does that voice ring a bell, Mr Cruikshank?’

  Allan shook his head slowly and determinedly.

  ‘Our forensic team’s hanging on to the original recording,’ the detective said, studying the tape-player before slipping it back into his pocket. ‘Amazing what they can do these days. An engine turning over in the background . . . they can isolate the sound and match it to a specific brand of car. Isn’t that incredible, sir?’

  ‘Incredible,’ Allan echoed, thinking of his Audi. Had its engine been running? He couldn’t remember now.

  ‘There’d be immunity, you know,’ the detective was saying as he rose to his feet. ‘I mean, I’m just thinking aloud here, but anyone who helped us put Chib Calloway behind bars would be a hero, pure and simple. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to be a hero, Mr Cruikshank?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I barely know the man.’

  ‘But you’re good friends with Michael Mackenzie - and Mackenzie knows him.’

  ‘So talk to Mike.’

  Ransome nodded slowly. ‘Thought I’d try you first - you strike me as the rational sort, the sort who’d see sense.’ Ransome was halfway to the door, but he paused again. ‘It wouldn’t just be immunity, Mr Cruikshank - it would be anonymity, too. We’re hot on that these days for people who help take the likes of Calloway off the streets.’ He took a final look around the room. ‘You had a break-in here, didn’t you? At First Caly, I mean . . . few years back now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rumour at the time was, Calloway was responsible.’

  ‘Then he’s not very clever - we don’t tend to keep bullion on the premises.’

  ‘Still got away with a pretty penny, though.’ Ransom sniffed and rubbed a finger along the underside of his nose. ‘Another rumour at the time . . . he had help.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Someone on the inside.’

  ‘Just what exactly are you getting at?’ Allan’s voice had hardened.

  ‘Nothing, Mr Cruikshank. Just that he’s got previous that way - contacts, people he can scare or bribe into helping him. Good of you to take the time to see me. Funny, though .. when I asked your secretary, she said you didn’t have any meetings this morning.’ He gave a little bow and a smile, then tapped his watch. ‘Told you I only needed five minutes . . .’

  And with that he was gone.

  Yes, thought Allan, five minutes to shred a man’s nerves and send his whole life crashing to smithereens around him. He needed some fresh air, needed to walk off some of the adrenalin, but he couldn’t leave now - Ransome might be loitering. He had to call Mike, tell him everything. Mike was the one the detective was interested in. Mike could lead him straight to Calloway. There wasn’t even any evidence in Allan’s home - what did he have to fear?

  He found himself pacing the room, then realised there was something on Ransome’s chair, something that hadn’t been there before. The detective’s business card, with a mobile phone number scrawled along the bottom. When his own mobile rang, he answered it without thinking.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ the voice said, ‘I don’t take kindly to practical jokes.’

  It was the man who’d answered the first time Allan had tried Mike. The wrong number. Allan muttered an apology, ended the call, and turned his phone off altogether. Mike could wait. Everything could wait.

  Until he was good and ready to deal with it.

  27

  Mike Mackenzie was staring at his mobile, willing it to ring. He was seated in a Stockbridge café, having been for a walk along the Water of Leith. It had always been his preferred route when he had things to think about, problems to solve. But this time it had worked miraculously. He’d been wondering what to do about the threat from Westie’s girlfriend. One call to his bank would see the transfer of an additional twenty K into the student’s account, but Mike hadn’t been quite ready to make that decision. Maybe Gissing could warn Westie off, or at least talk some sense into him, but the professor was answering neither messages nor texts. Mike’s latest communication to him had warned that Ransome was closing in and would probably be knocking on both their doors. So far, there had been no reply.

  But then, just as Mike was pushing open the door to the café, a text had arrived.

  Sorry about Alice. Don’t do anything. W.

  Which was fine, just so long as Westie had the measure of his girlfriend. But at least Mike could file that particular problem in the pile marked ‘pending’. The call from Allan had put him right off his goat cheese and rocket ciabatta. Why didn’t he ring now? Could Ransome really have taken him to the station for further questioning? Pockets emptied, belt, tie and shoelaces removed - was that how they did it?

  Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call . . .

  Had Allan cracked and told the detective everything? When the phone did ring, it caught Mike by surprise, so that he spluttered some of the coffee back into its cup. But when he looked at the display, it was Laura rather than Allan.

  ‘Laura,’ he said, answering. ‘Look, sorry I walked out on you. It was bloody rude of me, and I’ve been meaning to call and apologise . . .’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she was saying. ‘There’s a full inventory underway at the warehouse.’

  ‘A thankless task, I’d imagine.’ He was trying for levity.

  ‘Just bloody listen, will you? The rumour is, they’re finding gaps.’

  ‘Gaps?’

  ‘In the collection - the missing paintings.’

  Mike’s brow furrowed. ‘But the paintings were in the van . . .’

  ‘Not those paintings! The others . . . the ones still missing. The ones the gang got away with.’

  ‘Got away with?’ he echoed, his head spinning. ‘How many are we talking about?’

  ‘Half a dozen so far, and they’re not halfway through the stock check. A Fergusson sketchbook’s gone, too. Plus another book with signed plates by Picasso.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  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.’

&n
bsp; ‘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.’