Doors Open

4

Mike Mackenzie had recognised the gangster straight away, hoping it wasn’t too obvious when he exited the room pronto. This collection wasn’t really his thing anyway; he’d only come into town to do a bit of shopping: shirts to start with (not that he’d found any he liked). Then some eau de cologne and a slight detour into Thistle Street and Joseph Bonnar’s jewellery shop. Joe specialised in nice antique pieces, and Mike had gone there with Laura in mind. He’d been thinking of that opal around her neck, imagining her wearing something different, something unusual.

Something bought by him.

But though Joe was a master of his craft – Mike had a pocket watch back home to prove it – he hadn’t managed to work his charms this time. Mainly because it had suddenly dawned on Mike: what the hell am I doing? Would Laura thank him for the gesture? What exactly would she read into it? Did she even like amethysts and rubies and sapphires?

‘Call again, Mr Mackenzie,’ Bonnar had said, opening the door for him. ‘It’s been too long.’

So: no shirts and no jewellery. One o’clock had found him on Princes Street, not quite hungry enough for lunch and within a stone’s throw of the National Gallery. His mind felt clogged; hard to say why he’d been drawn to the place. There were some nice pieces – he’d be the first to acknowledge as much – but it was all a bit stuffy and reverential. ‘Art is good for you,’ the collection seemed to be saying. ‘Here, have some.’

The past few days, he’d been mulling over Professor Gissing’s argument about art as collateral. He wondered what percentage of the world’s art was actually kept in bank vaults and the like. Like unread books and unplayed music, did it matter that art went unseen? In a generation’s time, it would still be there, awaiting rediscovery. And was he himself any better? He’d visited regional galleries and viewed their collections, knowing he had better examples of some of the artists hanging on his walls at home. Wasn’t each home and living room a private gallery of sorts?

Help some of those poor imprisoned paintings to escape.

Not from public galleries, of course, but from wall safes and bank vaults and the unvisited rooms and corridors of all those corporate buyers. First Caledonian Bank, for example, had a portfolio running into the tens of millions – most of the usual suspects (they even boasted an early Bacon), plus the cream of new talent, snapped up at all those annual degree shows around the UK by the bank’s portfolio curator. Other companies in Edinburgh owned their own hauls and were sitting tight on them, the way a miser would sit on a mattress filled with cash.

Mike was wondering: maybe if he made a gesture. Opened a gallery and placed his own collection there… could he persuade others to join him? Talk to First Caly and all the other big players. Make a thing of it. Maybe that was why he’d felt drawn to the National Gallery – the perfect place to do a little more thinking on the subject. The last person he’d expected to see was Chib Calloway. And now, turning around, here was Calloway stalking towards him, smile fixed but eyes hard and unblinking.

‘You keeping tabs on me?’ the gangster growled.

‘Wouldn’t have taken you for a patron of the arts,’ was all Mike could think of by way of an answer.

‘Free country, isn’t it?’ Calloway bristled.

Mike flinched. ‘Sorry, that came out all wrong. My name’s Mike Mackenzie, by the way.’ The two men shook hands.

‘Charlie Calloway.’

‘But most people call you Chib, right?’

‘You know who I am, then?’ Calloway considered for a moment and then nodded slowly. ‘I remember now – your pals couldn’t look at me, but you held eye contact throughout.’

‘And you pretended to shoot me as you drove away.’

Calloway offered a grudging smile. ‘Least it wasn’t the real thing, eh?’

‘So what brings you here today, Mr Calloway?’

‘I was just remembering that book of paintings, the one you lot were poring over in the bar. I take it you know about art, Mike?’

‘I’m learning.’

‘So… this one we’re standing beside…’ Calloway took a step back. ‘Guy on a horse, so far as I can see. Not a bad likeness.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘How much would it fetch?’

‘Unlikely it would ever come to auction.’ Mike gave a shrug. ‘Couple of million?’ he guessed.

‘Hell’s teeth.’ Calloway moved along to the next painting. ‘And this one here?’

‘Well, that’s a Rembrandt… tens of millions.’

‘Tens!’

Mike looked around. A couple of the liveried custodians were beginning to take an interest. He gave them his most winning smile and started to move away in the opposite direction, Calloway catching him up only after a few more seconds of staring at the Rembrandt self-portrait.

‘It’s not really about the money, though, is it?’ Mike heard himself say, even though he knew only a part of him really believed that.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘What would you rather look at – a work of art, or a framed selection of banknotes?’

Calloway had retrieved one of his hands from its pocket, and he was now rubbing the underside of his chin. ‘I’ll tell you what, Mike – ten million in cash wouldn’t be on the wall long enough to find out.’

They shared a laugh and Calloway ran his free hand across the top of his head. Mike began to wonder about the other hand – the one in the pocket. Was it holding a gun? A knife? Had Calloway come in here with something other than browsing in mind?

‘So what is it all about then,’ the gangster was asking, ‘if not the money?’

‘Money plays a big part,’ Mike was forced to admit. He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there’s a café downstairs… do you fancy a quick coffee?’

‘I’ve had a stomachful,’ Calloway said with a shake of the head. ‘Might manage a cup of tea, though.’

‘My treat, Mr Calloway.’

‘Call me Chib.’

So they headed down the winding staircase, Calloway enquiring about prices, Mike explaining that he’d only been interested in art for a year or two and wasn’t exactly an expert. One thing he didn’t want Calloway to know was that he had a collection of his own, a collection some would doubtless term ‘extensive’. But as they queued at the service counter, Calloway asked him what he did for a living.

‘Software design,’ Mike said, deciding that he would elaborate as little as possible.

‘Cut-throat business, is it?’

‘It’s high pressure, if that’s what you mean.’

Calloway gave a twitch of the mouth, then got into a discussion with the girl behind the counter about which of the many teas on offer – Lapsang, green, gunpowder or orange pekoe – tasted most like actual tea. After which, they took their table, with its views on to Princes Street Gardens and the Scott Monument.

‘Ever been to the top of the Monument?’ Mike asked.

‘Mum took me up there when I was a kid. Scared me stupid. That’s probably why, a few years back, I dragged Donny Devlin up there and threatened to sling him off – owed me money, you see.’ Calloway had his nose in the teapot. ‘Smells a bit weird, this.’ But he poured some all the same, while Mike stirred his own cappuccino, wondering how to respond to such a warped confession. The gangster didn’t seem to realise that he’d said anything at all out of the ordinary. The memory of his mother had segued seamlessly into a momentary depiction of horror. Mike couldn’t tell if Calloway had set out to shock him; maybe it wasn’t even true – the Scott Monument was a stupidly public place for such a scene. Allan Cruikshank had hinted that Calloway had engineered the First Caly heist. Difficult now to envisage him as a criminal mastermind…

‘Anyone ever tried breaking into this place?’ Calloway asked at last, studying his surroundings.

‘Not that I know of.’

Calloway wrinkled his nose. ‘Paintings are too bloody big anyway – where would you stash them?’

‘A warehouse, maybe?’ Mike suggested. ‘Art gets stolen all the time – a couple of men in workmen’s uniforms walked out of the Burrell collection with a tapestry a few years back.’

‘Really?’ This seemed to tickle the gangster. Mike cleared his throat.

‘We were at the same school, you and me – same year, actually.’

‘Is that a fact? Can’t say I remember you.’

‘I was never on your radar, but I recall that you more or less ran the place, even told the teachers what they could and couldn’t do.’

Calloway shook his head, but seemed flattered nonetheless. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Mind you, I was a tearaway back then.’ He eyes lost focus, and Mike knew he was thinking back to those days. ‘A solitary O-Grade, I ended up with – metalwork or something.’

‘One project, we made screwdrivers,’ Mike reminded him. ‘You put yours to good use…’

‘Persuading the nippers to hand over their cash,’ Chib agreed. ‘You’ve got a good memory. So how did you get into computers?’

‘I stayed on for Highers, then college after that.’

‘Our paths diverged,’ Chib said, nodding to himself. Then he stretched his arms out. ‘Yet here we are, meeting up after all these years, proper grown-ups and no damage done.’

‘Speaking of damage… what happened to Donny Devlin?’

Chip’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Nothing at all… just curious.’

Chib pondered for a moment before replying. ‘He got out of the city. Paid me back first, mind. D’you keep up with anyone from the old days?’

‘Nobody,’ Mike admitted. ‘Took a look at Friends Reunited once, but there wasn’t anyone I particularly missed.’

‘Sounds like you were a loner.’

‘I spent a lot of time in the library.’

‘Might explain why I don’t remember you – I only went there the one time, took out The Godfather.’

‘Was that for recreational purposes or for training?’

Chib’s face darkened again, but only for a second. Then he burst out laughing, acknowledging the joke.

And so the conversation continued – fluidly; light-heartedly – neither man aware of the figure who twice passed by the window.

The figure of Detective Inspector Ransome.