Doors Open

24

Chib Calloway had fairly stalked towards his car. Johnno had flicked away his cigarette, Glenn holding open the rear door for their boss.

‘Unless you want to drive…?’

But Chib had been content in the back, looking over his shoulder as the car pulled away. No sign of anyone at the top-floor windows.

‘Good meeting?’

‘Never you mind,’ Chib had growled, chewing on a thumbnail while he considered potential courses of action. Of course, in a sense it wasn’t for him to decide. The demand had been made to Mike – twenty grand or one of the paintings. The girl called Alice, she had to be Westie’s girlfriend. Chib knew about Westie, but no one had thought to mention that there was a bird in on it as well.

And now the pair of them were getting greedy. Chib found himself tutting, while at the same time admiring their bare-faced cheek. What were they going to do – run to the cops? Not likely, with the two of them being every bit as complicit as anyone else. They were testing Mike’s nerve, that was all, same as Chib himself had just been doing. Problem wasn’t really Mike, though – it was that wet pal of his, Allan Cruikshank. Losing his bottle. Mike’s lie about the new girlfriend might have worked if he’d had time to refine it. Over the course of his professional life, Chib reckoned he’d probably heard about twenty thousand lies, the majority of them honed to near perfection. Mike’s attempt hadn’t been in the same league. Hadn’t even been playing ballboy.

Another reason for the little visit today: Chib wanted to see exactly how rich Michael Mackenzie was. Just because he’d run a company, sold some product, it didn’t mean things hadn’t gone tits up along the way. Plenty of guys Chib knew had made money only to blow the whole lot on misguided shares or badly tipped nags. But Mike was living the high life, no question about it. Chib doubted the paintings on the walls were repro. Flat-screen TV must’ve been three of four K. As for the flat itself – not much change out of a million. Hell, the way things were in Edinburgh, maybe even a million-five, million-six.

Which was all to the good: Chib liked a man with money.

Mike could solve the Westie problem by throwing cash at it, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come back wanting more – might happen next week or next year, but it would happen. Come to think of it, Mike could solve Chib’s own cash-flow problem, too, if the Vikings decided they didn’t want to go with the painting. The planning… the clandestine meetings… car manoeuvres to lose any tail… the handover of the shooters… all these things had kindled something in Mike Mackenzie. He’d been growing to like it. Introducing him to Hate, however, might have been a mistake – Mike hadn’t been ready for that. Hate had scared him good and proper, and he had yet to recover his early confidence. Still, he’d held up pretty well this morning.

How did you get this address?

Chib had to smile at that – it had been as easy as asking an estate agent. They all knew ‘the Mackenzie pad’, could reel off the magazines and supplements it had appeared in. Another good reason, Chib told himself, for not being flashy with your cash and your choice of residence. Didn’t want every fucker knowing your business or that you might be worth a visit.

‘Where to, boss?’ Glenn was asking from the driver’s seat.

‘Home,’ Chib said. The other text message had been from ‘Laura’. When Chib had noted her resemblance to the portrait, Mike had been all casual – Laura Stanton, you mean? But the pair of them were close. She sent him texts, used only her first name, and sounded keen to see her millionaire businessman friend. Chib would have to consider the ramifications of this, too. But for now, one of his own mobiles was trilling. He recognised the number and considered not answering, then told Glenn to pull over. Chib was pushing open the door before the BMW was fully stationary. He’d taken a deep breath and flipped the phone open.

‘Calloway?’ came the quiet voice.

‘Hiya, Edvard.’ The only name Chib had for the man: Edvard. Boss Hogg of a Hell’s Angels chapter in the wilds of Norway. They ran drugs from all over: Denmark to Sweden; Russia to Finland; Norway to the UK. ‘Happy with the collateral?’ Chib noticed that he was standing beside some railings. Behind them was a patch of churned-up grass, some kids having a kickabout.

A quarter-century back, that was me. Nobody would dare take the ball away once I had it…

‘Well,’ Edvard was saying, ‘that’s why I wanted to talk with you.’ The voice was cultured, never threatening. Chib had been informed early on in the relationship that he would never meet its owner. Probably not even Hate had got to meet Edvard…

‘I hope there’s not a problem.’ Chib was staring at the game without really seeing it. A dog was barking. It had been tied to one of the goalposts.

‘No problems as yet – in fact, quite the contrary. You will know, of course, that collateral such as yours can make for a reliable form of currency?’

‘The one you’ve got isn’t even posted as missing.’ Turning towards the car, Chib noticed that the passenger-side window was down, meaning Glenn and Johnno were listening. Of course they were. Chib knew he had to keep from saying anything meaningful. He walked further down the pavement.

‘That’s good, that’s very good.’ Edvard’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. ‘So then, to cut the story short, perhaps more of our business could be transacted in similar fashion in future?’

Chib doubted it.

‘Sure,’ he agreed, sounding enthusiastic. ‘No problem at all, Edvard. You like your art, huh? Me, too.’

‘I like money better, Mr Calloway.’ The voice had turned cold. ‘And what I’m really passionate about just now is the money you still owe me.’

‘It’s coming, Edvard…’

‘I’m happy to hear that. I’ll be in touch soon about further transactions. ’

The phone went dead – Edvard never stayed on too long, just in case. Chib snapped the phone shut and tapped it against his teeth. He was replaying the conversation, and winced when he got to You like your art, huh? To anyone listening in – on a wire-tap, say – he’d just given away the nature of the bloody collateral!

Good work, Chib… Nice fucking going…

Still, Edvard wanted to do business with him. More paintings to be swapped between gangs as security on various deals. Tap, tap, tap of the phone against his teeth. The dog howling now in frustration. The BMW drawing up alongside Chib, making him realise he’d kept on walking. He was thinking about Edvard and the people Edvard did business with, hundreds and thousands of miles away from Edinburgh. How much did they know about art? About the Glasgow Boys and the Scottish Colourists? If paintings were just collateral to them, just something to be held on to while deals were being done…

Professor Robert Gissing reckoned that this kid Westie was a master forger, and Chib began to wonder about that, too. He was still thinking as he got back into the car, thinking as they pulled away from the kerb. Westie and Alice, Alice and Westie.

Westie short-changed.

‘I know how you feel, pal,’ Chib said out loud.

‘Boss?’ Glenn asked from the driving seat.

‘Nothing.’

‘Who was on the phone? Was it Hate?’

Chib sat forward in his seat until his face was almost level with Glenn’s. ‘Any more sticking your big pointy nose in, you’ll have my hands around your throat – understood?’

‘Loud and clear,’ Glenn said, sounding suitably chastened. ‘It’s just that…’ He swallowed hard, as if fearing his boss’s hands. ‘If you’re in trouble, me and Johnno want to help.’

‘What we’re here for,’ Johnno piped up.

‘Well, isn’t that touching?’ Chib crooned.

‘We feel maybe you don’t trust us the way you used to,’ Glenn persisted.

‘Oh aye? And who are you going to complain to – your shop steward? Get a grip, Glenn. Some of my business you’re better off not knowing. I’m taking more than my share of flak, just to keep you two off the radar, know what I mean?’

‘Not really, boss,’ Johnno eventually admitted. Chib just groaned and slouched back again. Mackenzie’s coffee was giving him a headache. Had to be the coffee. Either that or brain cancer from the mobile phone. One or the other.

What else could it be?

There was a restaurant next to the auction house. It had been a bank at one time, and still boasted a rococo interior of vast fluted columns and intricate cornicing. In the morning the tables were kept empty, ready for the lunchtime rush, but breakfast could be had at one of the booths by the window. Laura was stirring a foamy cappuccino when Mike arrived. He pecked her on both cheeks and ordered water – frizzante – from the waiter before sliding on to the bench across from her.

‘No coffee?’ she asked. There was a plate in front of her, showing leftover crumbs from a croissant. Little pots of jam and pats of butter sat untouched.

‘Already had my share of jolts this morning,’ he explained. ‘I haven’t seen you since the day of the auction – how did it go?’

‘Not quite record-breaking.’ She was stirring her spoon slowly around the remains of her drink. ‘Did you hear about the warehouse? ’ She seemed to be studying him as he adjusted his shirt cuffs.

‘Yes,’ he said, eyes widening. ‘Wasn’t that extraordinary?’

‘Extraordinary,’ she echoed.

‘You probably know the people at the National Gallery – they must have had a fit.’

‘I’d imagine so.’

‘Bloody lucky the gang didn’t get away with it.’

‘Lucky, yes…’ Her voice drifted away, though her eyes stayed locked on him.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mike said, affecting a laugh. ‘Shaving foam on my ear lobe?’ He made a show of checking, but wasn’t about to be rewarded with anything like a smile.

‘One of the paintings was the portait by Monboddo of his wife, Beatrice.’ She pronounced the name in the Italian style. ‘I remember it from the exhibition and how you couldn’t take your eyes off it…’ She waited for him to speak.

‘Nice to know I was under surveillance,’ was all he could think to respond.

‘Allan teased me,’ she went on, ‘said the reason you were so keen was because she looked like me.’

‘Well… I suppose there’s a certain truth in that.’

‘You remember that night of the exhibition? Some of us went to a restaurant after…?’

Mike winced. ‘Don’t,’ he said. Too much wine at the preview, and Mike giddy at this new world he had entered, a world where people knew about art, and spoke from the heart. One too many brandies at the restaurant. He’d caught Laura’s eye several times. She’d always smiled back. Then she’d gone to the ladies’ and he’d followed her, barging in and trying to kiss her…

‘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 picked 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.