Doors Open

by Ian Rankin

  ‘This is Mr Allison,’ Hate said, emerging from the kitchen. He was eating a banana from the fruit bowl.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course you do. You worked him over first time round, didn’t you?’

  Chib stabbed a finger in Hate’s direction. ‘Nobody,’ he said quietly, ‘does this to me. Nobody comes into my house, making all sorts of mess …’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve made a mess,’ Hate replied calmly. He then dropped the banana skin on the floor and ground it into the carpet - Liz’s carpet - with the heel of a black cowboy boot.

  ‘You’re tangling with the wrong man,’ Chib warned him, breathing hard, stoking himself up. Hate ignored him, concentrating instead on Jimmy Allison. The man flinched as Hate’s hands reached towards him, but all Hate did was peel the length of silver tape from his mouth.

  ‘You know the rules, Mr Allison,’ Hate reminded him. Then he turned his attention to Chib, while resting the palm of his hand against the crown of Allison’s head.

  ‘Mr Allison here, as I’m sure you’re aware, is a curator at the National Gallery of Scotland. His expertise is in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Scottish art. He has a soft spot for McTaggart, so he tells me, and also Samuel Bough.’ Hate bent down a little so his face was level with the curator’s. ‘Is my pronunciation adequate, Mr Allison?’

  With eyes screwed shut in fear, Allison nodded his agreement that it was.

  ‘It is perhaps an irony,’ Hate continued, straightening up again, ‘that Mr Allison should suffer such similar mishaps in so short a space of time. The perils of the World Wide Web, I’m afraid. His name materialized as someone in the area who might be able to tell me a little more about the painter Samuel Utterson. Our conversation - when we finally got round to it - was illuminating. So much so, that I decided Mr Allison should inspect Dusk on Rannoch Moor.’

  Chib closed his own eyes for a moment. He knew what that meant - it meant the curator now knew too much. No way Hate was going to let the poor old bastard walk away from this. He started thinking of possible burial sites, and watched as Hate bent down beside Allison again, removing his hand from the man’s head and running it down his face until it held him by the chin.

  ‘Now,’ Hate was crooning to his hostage, ‘why don’t you go ahead and share your conclusions with Mr Calloway here? Tell him what you told me, Mr Allison.’

  Allison swallowed hard, as if trying to summon some saliva into his parched mouth. And when his lips parted, in the seconds before he started to speak, Chib realized pretty much exactly what the terrified man was going to say …

  31

  Mike had been dreaming about trouble at sea. For some reason, he had dismissed his crew and set sail alone on a long voyage, only to find himself unable to steer the craft. There were too many buttons and switches and levers. The maps made little sense, though he had marked his destination - Sydney - with a large X. Before long, he had found himself in the middle of a storm and taking on water. The spray stung his face, and he realized he was soaked to the skin. He awoke to find that his face really was wet. Someone was standing over him, holding an empty glass. He sat bolt upright and wiped at his eyes with one hand as he reached with the other for the light switch. When the bedside lamp came on, he saw that it was Chib Calloway holding the glass. Behind him stood two more men, one of whom seemed to be at the mercy of the other.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Mike spluttered, blinking. ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘My friend Hate seems to have a way with locks,’ Chib explained. ‘Don’t go thinking you’re the only one it’s happened to. Now get yourself dressed.’

  Still disorientated, his mind a jumble of questions, Mike swung his legs from under the duvet but didn’t rise to his feet.

  ‘A little bit of privacy?’ he requested, but Chib shook his head slowly, then startled Mike further by dropping to all fours. Tutting, Chib reached beneath the bed and slid out the four paintings.

  ‘Still haven’t learned, have you? I half expected to find them behind the sofa. Christ, we could have been in and out of here with them while you were fast asleep.’ Chib rose to his feet again and tossed Mike’s trousers to him. ‘No time for modesty, Michael,’ he warned him.

  With a sigh, Mike got into his denims, then reached for the T-SHIRT draped over the back of his chair. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked, pulling it over his head.

  ‘Know who this is?’ Chib asked. Mike didn’t think he meant Hate, though he’d recognized him almost immediately. As for the man Hate was holding upright, the man with the pulverized face and blood-soaked shirt, well, Mike had been trying not to look at him at all. He sat back down on the bed and slipped his feet into his shoes.

  ‘Not a clue,’ he said, lifting his watch from the bedside table.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Hate said, meaning the watch. ‘Cartier - the Santos 100.’ Even Chib turned to stare at him. ‘I’ve got one at home,’ Hate explained. Then, to Mike: ‘I looked you up on the web, Mr Mackenzie. You’re a wealthy man. That’s lucky … means we can work something out, perhaps.’

  ‘First things first, eh?’ Chib reminded him. Then, turning to Mike: ‘I was asking if you knew Hate’s friend there … His name’s Jimmy Allison - ring any bells?’

  Mike’s eyes widened. ‘The specialist?’

  ‘And now the recipient of two beatings, which I think you’ll agree is a mite unfair.’ Chib paused for effect. ‘Especially when nobody’s laid a hand on you. Now get into that fucking living room. We’re going to have words, you and me.’ He scooped up all four paintings and marched towards the door. Hate waited for Mike to follow, then brought up the rear with Mr Allison. Mike was still avoiding eye contact. The mugging might have been Gissing’s idea, but he’d gone along with it. In fact, he’d told the professor it was ‘genius’. Hard now to justify his elation - consequences had been missing almost entirely from the plot. And what the hell was Hate doing with Allison anyway? Mike didn’t doubt that the answers were waiting for him in the living room, but feared what else might be there.

  Hate dumped the curator on one of the chairs. The man’s hands were tied behind him, his mouth covered with tape. Mike thought about pouring himself a drink, but wasn’t sure his hand would be steady enough. Besides which, the parched-looking Allison might see it as yet another small torture.

  ‘See this?’ Chib was saying. He’d placed the paintings on the coffee table and was pointing towards the sofa. There was another picture displayed there.

  ‘It’s your Utterson,’ Mike told him. ‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor.’

  ‘That’s right. And what did I do with it?’

  ‘You gave it to Hate.’ Mike had no idea where the conversation was going.

  ‘And what did Hate do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, have a think about it, shit-for-brains!’

  But Hate had noticed the home cinema system. ‘Pioneer,’ he commented. ‘Good make.’

  ‘Jesus, will you shut up?’ Chib yelled at him.

  Mike wondered which was preferable: that the soundproofing stop his neighbours downstairs hearing any of this, or that they decide to call the police to say that something bad was happening in the penthouse. Chib had turned towards him again.

  ‘Come to any conclusions yet?’

  Mike rubbed at his eyes again and slicked back his hair. ‘At a guess, Hate decided he would verify the painting - despite my warnings. He went to Mr Allison here, who is an authority on the artist, and somehow Mr Allison had an accident and you came to me for help instead of heading for A and E.’ Mike held Chib’s stare for a full twenty seconds. With a growl, the gangster fetched the Utterson from the sofa and held it four inches from Mike’s face.

  ‘I’m not exactly the expert here,’ he snarled, ‘so maybe you’ll know better. When exactly was this painted?’

  ‘Early twentieth century …’

  ‘Is that so? Well, maybe you’re right. Take a closer look. In particular, t
ell me what’s going on in the bottom left-hand corner.’

  Mike didn’t know what to expect. The artist’s signature, most probably. He saw heather and long blades of grass and a bit more heather.

  ‘Right at the very corner,’ Chib suggested. And then Mike did see it, and he screwed shut his eyes. ‘Well?’ the gangster prompted him.

  ‘Looks like there’s something lying in the grass, half-hidden,’ Mike muttered.

  ‘And what does it look like to you, Mike?’

  ‘A condom … a used condom.’

  ‘And can you enlighten us all - why exactly would a painter of Samuel Utterson’s reputation have felt the need to add that particular touch?’

  Mike opened his eyes again. ‘It’s Westie,’ he stated. ‘It’s a sort of calling card of his. He copies famous paintings, then adds an anachronism, like an airliner or a mobile phone …’

  ‘Or a condom,’ Chib added. Mike nodded his agreement. ‘See, Mike, what I can’t understand here, what I’m really failing to get my head around, is why you would do this to me. You really thought I was so stupid I wouldn’t notice?’

  ‘In actual fact,’ Hate interrupted, ‘you did not notice.’

  ‘This is me talking here!’ Chib yelled at him again.

  ‘I don’t know anything about this,’ Mike said. ‘Really I don’t.’

  Chib burst out laughing. ‘You can do better than that, Mike!’

  ‘I promise you I can’t, because it happens to be the truth.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just go and ask Westie then, see what he has to say about it during his last few minutes of life. But before we do that, there’s the small matter of my fee. What I’d like from you, Mr Michael Mackenzie, software millionaire, is one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds - payable in cash. That way, Hate here can return home, job done. The amount of grief you and your lot have caused me, I should be asking for more, but let’s open proceedings at one seventy-five …’

  ‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.

  ‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once …’

  ‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too …

  Chib had hunkered down in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his face up so they were eye to eye.

  ‘Am I in the mood for jokes?’ the gangster spat. There were flecks of white either side of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t keep cash around the house,’ Mike said between gasps. ‘Never know when someone might come waltzing in. And even … even making a request to my bank … it takes time … time to arrange that sort of money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Plus, as soon as I say “cash”, alarm bells are going to ring.’

  ‘Money-laundering,’ Hate agreed. ‘The banks have to inform the authorities.’

  ‘And you’re suddenly the Bank of fucking Scotland?’ Chib roared at him.

  ‘Look,’ Mike said, having regained most of his breath. ‘Those four paintings are worth a lot more than the money you’re asking. Why not just take three of them? Maybe leave me one …’ He nodded towards Mr Allison. ‘We’ve got the very man here who can judge them authentic.’

  Chib stared at him. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve, Mike.’ Then, over his shoulder towards Hate: ‘What do you think? Want to take your pick?’

  Hate’s response was to walk over to the coffee table, lift the Cadell beach scene, and stick his fist straight through it. Calmly, the huge man then lifted the Monboddo - the glorious portrait of Beatrice - and did exactly the same thing.

  ‘Get the picture?’ he said.

  ‘I think so,’ Mike answered with a fresh groan. As Chib released his hair, he started to get to his feet, checking that his knees would lock and hold him upright. The painting … Hate had dropped it back on to the table. Was it beyond repair? No way of telling. And there sat Allan’s two ugly offerings, pristine and untroubled. ‘So what now?’ he asked to nobody in particular.

  ‘We wait here till morning,’ Chib replied. ‘Then a little trip to the bank, followed by a friendly visit to our art-forger-cum-dead-man.’

  Mike had picked up the portrait of Beatrice. ‘They can’t all be fakes,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘All that matters is, mine was,’ Chib stated. ‘Big mistake.’

  ‘But not my mistake, Chib.’

  The gangster shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, you’re the one with the money.’

  ‘Which the bank won’t just hand over!’

  ‘Ever heard of transfers, Mike? I’ve got accounts all over the place, in any number of names. The dough goes into one of those, I close the account pronto, and Hate here gets his share.’

  Hate didn’t look thrilled by this scenario. Mike guessed the man had already been kept waiting longer than he liked.

  ‘Why do you think Westie did it?’ Mike asked Chib.

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’ Chib was studying Allan’s two paintings, one in either hand. His own worthless Utterson lay abandoned on the floor, where anyone was welcome to step on it. Chib held one of the Coultons in front of Mr Allison. ‘What do you think, Jimmy - are these the real thing for a change?’ Without waiting for a reaction, he turned towards Mike. ‘Maybe I’ll take them with me, unless you’ve got any objection?’

  ‘They’re Allan’s, not mine.’

  ‘Then you can sort it out with Allan.’

  Mike’s eyes were on the curator. He needed a diversion, and poor Mr Allison was just about his only bet. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if Allison had much hearing left. ‘I mean, I’m sorry for what’s about to happen to you …’ The man was staring back at him now as best he could: nothing wrong with his ears. ‘They need me,’ Mike continued to explain, ‘at least for another day or so. I’ve got money, you see, and they want it. But you, Mr Allison … they’re just about done with you. And Hate doesn’t seem to me the type who likes loose ends. You might promise on the heads of your grandkids that you won’t go running to the cops, but Hate’s not about to take a risk like that.’

  ‘Shut it!’ the Scandinavian warned.

  ‘Just thought he ought to know.’ Mike turned his attention to Chib. ‘I really don’t know what Westie was playing at. Gissing checked all eight paintings …’ He broke off, starting to get the glimmer of a notion.

  ‘What?’ Chib prompted.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Want me to set Hate on you? You’ve seen what he can do.’

  To reinforce the point. Hate himself had taken a few steps forward. It was as much of a chance as Jimmy Allison was going to get. He was up on his feet and running. The first thing he did was shove at the door nearest him, which flew open. As he tried closing it after him, Hate make a lunge into the gap. Chib was starting to laugh, realizing that the curator had stumbled into Mike’s bedroom - no other exits. Mike, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. He shoulder-charged the off-balance gangster and did some running of his own - down the hall towards the front door. He flung it open and bounded down the stairs, taking them three at a time. As he ran from the building, he was grateful to note that Chib hadn’t thought to bring his minders with him. The BMW, however, was locked tight, so Mike flew past it, making for the boundary wall. He scrambled over it, landing in a neighbour’s garden. With only moonlight to guide him, he crossed the lawn and heaved himself over into yet another garden. A couple of cats on a windowsill glowered at him, but at least there were no dogs, meaning no barking. One more wall and he was back on the roadway. It was an alley locals used as a short cut, too narrow for vehicles to get down. He took it and kept moving. He patted his trouser pockets, double-checking that he had his wallet
. That meant credit cards and cash, but no phone. And no keys to the flat, always supposing he would ever dare to go back. He tried not to think about the havoc Hate and Chib might be wreaking - or how they might then vent their spleen on the hapless Mr Allison …

  Mike’s own options were limited. He could find a hiding place and wait there till morning, growing chilled in the process, or he could aim for a main road, where a taxi might just find him. After ten or fifteen minutes he paused to catch his breath, crouched low behind a hedge. The houses here were Victorian: three and four storeys high and semi-detached. Some were used as small hotels. For one mad second he considered a late-night check-in. But he was still too close to home.

  ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he told himself, regaining a little of his breath. Damage report: his knuckles were grazed and his shins and knees bruised. There was a stabbing pain in his chest and his lungs were aflame. He knew he should head straight to Westie’s flat and warn him what was coming. Would Chib know the student’s address? If so, it would be his first stop, too.