Doors Open Read online

  She acknowledged this truth with a twitch of the mouth, but was not to be deflected. Her eyes remained fixed on Mike. ‘Westie says you offered him a cash payment. As you can see, he’s earning every penny. But just now I overheard you trying to squeeze another painting out of him without adding anything to the price. Hardly sounds fair, does it?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want what’s best for Westie. It sounds insane to me, but he says he’s keen to go along on the raid itself. He’s also getting a painting - one we both happen to like very much, so that’s all right . . .’

  ‘I sense a “but”.’

  ‘But,’ she obliged, ‘something up front would seem to be in order ... we were thinking a grand.’

  Mike made a show of patting his pockets. ‘I don’t seem to have that sort of cash on me.’

  ‘You could always write a cheque.’ She paused for effect. ‘But then that would mean us knowing your surname, Mr Mike.’ Her smile was full of mischief, the tip of her tongue rubbing itself against her top lip. Mike’s face had hardened and he’d slipped his hands into his pockets. Allan sensed the right hand curl into a fist, and he was grateful the guns had not yet been delivered. When his friend spoke, it was in an ominous monotone.

  ‘I can get you the money, but I’ll need something in exchange.’

  ‘This?’ Alice guessed, waving the camera. Mike nodded slowly. ‘It’s a nice piece of kit,’ she teased, pretending to examine it. ‘Not sure I could bear to part with it.’

  ‘For five hundred pounds, I think you can.’

  ‘A grand,’ she corrected him. Mike had his hand stretched out, palm upwards. ‘You want it now?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Before we’ve even seen the colour of your money?’

  ‘Can’t leave it with you, Alice.’ Mike’s voice still lacked all emotion. ‘You could copy the footage, download it - anything.’

  ‘But handing it over would mean trusting you.’

  ‘Then make your decision.’ Mike was brushing something invisible from his tailored jacket. ‘Just so long as you know - you’re part of this now, and that means all our futures are linked.’

  ‘Like worry beads,’ Alice offered.

  ‘Or dominoes - only takes one to fall the wrong way . . .’

  Her smile was more expansive this time. The camera was placed in Mike’s waiting palm.

  ‘One goes, they all go,’ Alice was saying.

  ‘That’s right.’ Mike slipped the camera into his pocket, and although his eyes were still boring into Alice’s, Allan couldn’t help thinking that the whole exchange could just as easily have been aimed at him.

  13

  ‘Your boss,’ Detective Inspector Ransome said, ‘is getting good at losing us.’

  He was seated in a coffee shop on the High Street, just up from the Parliament building, talking into his mobile phone. The man he was talking to was seated three tables away. They held eye contact and their phones to their faces, but couldn’t risk an actual meeting.

  ‘That’s because he won’t let me drive,’ Glenn Burns said into the mouthpiece. ‘Or Johnno, come to that.’

  ‘You think he’s suspicious?’

  ‘If I thought he was on to me, I’d have packed my passport and fake beard by now.’

  ‘He’s the one who’ll be going away, Glenn,’ Ransome stated with confidence. ‘Leaving his little empire going begging.’

  ‘And you just let me take over? How do I know you won’t try shafting me, same as you’re doing to him?’

  ‘We’ve been through this before, Glenn,’ Ransome said with a grin of reassurance. ‘I will try shafting you - but you’ll be top dog, not just a spear-carrier. And you’ll be wise to me.’

  ‘Plus you’ll owe me one.’

  ‘That, too, of course.’ Ransome broke off eye contact long enough to lift the oversized mug of coffee to his lips. The liquid was scalding and tasted mainly of frothed milk.

  ‘Is that the latte?’ Glenn asked into the phone.

  Ransome nodded. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Hot chocolate with whipped cream.’

  ‘Sounds disgusting.’ Ransome wiped the foam from his top lip. ‘So what’s your employer up to, Glenn?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing . . .’

  ‘No need to get sarky,’ Glenn said huffily. ‘He’s up to something, though.’

  ‘You just said he wasn’t.’

  ‘What I said was, I don’t know what he’s up to.’

  ‘But there is something?’

  Glenn nodded. The door opened with a tinkling of its bell and both men looked round, checking the new arrival, in case it was someone they should avoid. But it was just another young mum pushing a buggy.

  ‘They should ban nippers from places like this,’ Glenn was commenting, staring at the table of mothers and infants that was greeting this latest arrival. One of the kids was griping, and didn’t look like stopping any time soon.

  ‘I agree,’ Ransome said, ‘and I’d stop students coming in, too.’ He glanced over to where a solitary teenager, coffee long finished, had spread laptop and coursework over a table intended for four. The laptop was sucking electricity from a socket nearby. ‘But then the place would be half empty,’ the detective relented, ‘and we’d stick out all the more.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Glenn agreed.

  ‘So that’s the important issues of the day taken care of . . . maybe we can get back to your employer?’

  ‘He’s keeping me and Johnno out of it.’ Glenn sounded aggrieved, and Ransome knew now why the man had asked for a meet: he had some steam to blow off. ‘But a couple of the pubs we’ve been to, he’s been asking about kids.’

  ‘Kids?’

  Glenn saw that he’d been misunderstood. ‘Tearaways, soccer casuals . . . not kiddie kids.’ With a nod towards the table of young mums.

  ‘So give me some names.’

  Glenn shook his head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘What does he want them for?’

  ‘Dunno. It all started when he bumped into this guy he was at school with. I mean, he tells me they were at school but I can’t see it - the other bloke’s a class apart, if you get my meaning. Chib and him went for a drive a few days ago, and when Chib came back he was starting to think about putting together this posse of kids.’

  ‘Reckon you’re being put out to pasture, Glenn?’

  Even at a distance, Ransome felt the power of the big man’s stare. ‘Nobody’s putting me out of the game, Mr Ransome.’

  ‘All the same, if he’s putting together a “posse”, there’s got to be something they’re after.’

  ‘Something or someone . . .’ Glenn let his words hang in the air between them.

  ‘You’re talking about a hit?’ Ransome’s eyes widened. ‘Who could he be planning to whack?’

  ‘Well, there’s this big tattooed guy, foreigner, comes from Iceland or somewhere. He’s in town to collect a back payment on some merchandise. Problem is, your lot grabbed our goods. Hell’s Angels still want paying.’

  ‘And Chib’s unwilling to cough up?’

  ‘Four or five schemies with pool cues might be his way of thinking.’ Glenn paused again. ‘I doubt they’d cause this guy too many problems though, not unless they were seriously tooled up. And even if they were, there’d be others where Hate comes from.’

  Ransome thought he’d misheard. ‘Hate?’ he repeated.

  ‘That’s what he calls himself.’

  Ransome jotted down Glenn’s description of the man, then flicked back through his notebook a few pages. He’d run a check on all three of the names Laura Stanton had given him: Mike Mackenzie, Allan Cruikshank, Robert Gissing. He’d drawn a blank with Cruikshank, though she’d said he worked at First Caly. Gissing had done a bit of painting a while back, and had also written lots of boring-sounding tomes about art. Mackenzie . . . well, Mackenzie was some sort of computer fat-cat.

  ‘What does Chib’s old school pal look like?’ Rans
ome asked into his phone. Glenn’s description fitted Mackenzie like a glove.

  ‘We were in a wine bar when Chib bumped into him. Dunno what happened after that, but suddenly they’re pals.’

  Ransome tapped his pen against the notepad. ‘Could mean something or nothing,’ he admitted.

  ‘Yeah,’ Glenn agreed.

  ‘So what’s the deal with Hate? Is he just scratching his arse while he waits for the cash?’

  ‘We’ve been looking for him. Bastard must be camping under the stars on Arthur’s Seat or something - nobody in town seems to have seen him, and trust me, he’s a hard man to miss.’

  ‘Is Chib bricking it?’

  ‘He thinks he’s got something up his sleeve.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘He’s keeping it to himself.’

  ‘Maybe this hit he’s planning.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ransome sighed. ‘Christ on a bike, Glenn - you’re supposed to be my guy on the inside!’

  ‘Fuck you, too, Mr Ransome. Last thing I need right now is any more grief from you.’

  The detective made a show of incredulity. ‘You think this is grief, Glenn? I’ve not got started yet. I’m still in the home team changing room with my kitbag zipped up. Grief’s what I’m saving for the moment I’m placing the cuffs on Chib Calloway’s wrists. But I don’t want to grow old in the process - and neither do you.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Glenn glanced at the front of his phone and Ransome knew he was checking the time. ‘Got to go. I’m supposed to be collecting from a pub at the top of Abbeyhill.’

  ‘Careful not to skim too much before you hand it over to our friend.’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. Skimming was a sore point with Glenn. It was how he’d ended up where he was. Walked into one of his boss’s bars one day to check the takings; walked out again twenty minutes later carrying a bag but with one side of his jacket weighted more heavily than before. Ransome stepping out in front of him and squeezing the jacket pocket, feeling the weight of coins there, the tightly banded banknotes. Tutting and shaking his head.

  And to think I had you down as the brains of the operation, Glenn ... Still, gives us a chance to have a little chat . . .

  Glenn risked a full-blown glower at the detective as he stood up and shoved his phone into his pocket. Then he stomped out of the coffee shop, barging past a couple of female tourists in the doorway. One of them carried a map, and had been about to ask Glenn something, but the look on his face had changed her mind. Ransome had a little smile to himself as he lifted his mug to his mouth.

  ‘Ever handled a gun before, Mike?’

  ‘Not since I was a kid. They tended to be made of plastic and fired caps . . .’ Mike felt the heft of the handgun. It had a dark sheen to it, and an oily smell.

  ‘It’s a Browning,’ Chib explained. ‘Best of the bunch, so I hope you like it.’

  They were in the workshop of an MOT garage in Gorgie, not far from where they’d both grown up, walking distance to their old school. There was a rusty-looking Sierra sitting in the only bay, cranked up above the examination pit. Wheel hubs and tyres were scattered around the place, corroded exhausts, headlamps with wires curling from them. A couple of venerable topless calendars on the wall above the workbench. The mechanics had clocked off for the night. The forecourt had been in darkness as Mike walked across it. He’d felt it as he approached the door - last chance to back out with a few shreds of dignity intact. Moment he went in and accepted a gun, that was it.

  Chib had been waiting for him, arms folded and a smile scratched across his face. Knew you’d be game, the look seemed to say.

  The other guns were in a flimsy-looking cardboard box that had once contained forty bags of prawn cocktail crisps. While Mike got used to the feel of the Browning, Chib brought out the sawn-off shotgun.

  ‘Bit rusty,’ he commented, ‘but good for the fear factor.’ He pointed it at Mike and chuckled. Mike pointed the Browning back at him. Chib cocked the gun and angled it upwards before pressing the trigger. There was a damp-sounding click. ‘Decommissioned, as promised. Normally they’d cost you a double ton a day.’

  ‘I’m good for it,’ Mike stated.

  ‘Oh, I know you are, Mike. Makes me wonder what this is all about . . . I’m guessing you can afford to buy near as dammit anything that takes your fancy.’

  ‘But what if it’s not for sale?’

  ‘Like that, is it?’ Chib was watching Mike switch hands with the Browning. ‘Tuck it in the back of your waistband, see how it feels.’

  Mike did as he was told. ‘I can tell it’s there.’

  ‘Me, too - that’s a problem. Might want to think about a longer jacket, and something a good bit more roomy. There’s a couple of starting pistols. They’ve got blanks in them, just in case you need to make some noise. Plus a replica of your Browning and some old piece of junk from the Falklands or Iraq or somewhere.’

  ‘It’s a revolver,’ Mike said, lifting the gun in his right hand. ‘I didn’t know the army still used them.’

  Chib just shrugged. ‘The student and your pal Allan should get some practice in. They’ve got to look comfortable when they go crashing through that door.’

  Mike nodded. ‘And the rest of the crew?’

  ‘My lads will have handled shooters before, don’t worry about them.’

  Mike placed the revolver back in the box, keeping the Browning tucked in against the small of his back. He tried the shotgun next. It felt awkwardly heavy and lacked balance. He shook his head and handed it back. ‘When do we meet your “lads”?’

  ‘On the day itself. They’ll be primed, and they’ll be under orders to do everything you tell them to.’

  Mike nodded. ‘And the van?’

  ‘Nicked this very evening. It’s safely garaged - fake number plates are probably being installed as we speak.’

  ‘Not here, though?’

  Chib shook his head. ‘I’ve got a few places like this dotted around the city. So if you ever need an MOT on a dodgy motor . . .’

  Mike managed a smile. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You need to tell your crew that there’ll be disguises to wear. And we don’t want them toting any flashy jewellery, anything that could get them recognised. ’

  ‘Listen to the resident expert,’ Chib said with another low chuckle. ‘Is that us, then? All set?’

  Mike nodded slowly. ‘Day after tomorrow. I just hope the paint’s dry on the fakes.’ Chib’s phone sounded and the gangster lifted it from his pocket, checking the number on the screen.

  ‘Got to take this,’ he said by way of apology, turning away from Mike as he answered. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone AWOL . . .’ Mike pretended to be checking the guns again as he listened. ‘He’s going to go for it?’ Chib was saying, head angled downwards, as if studying his shoes. ‘That’s good . . . Definitely no funny business, believe me . . . just good honest collateral . . . Two or three days tops . . . Cheers, then.’ He ended the call and turned back towards Mike with a wide smile.

  ‘Collateral?’ Mike echoed. Chib just shook his head.

  ‘Is that us, then? he repeated, keen to wrap things up.

  ‘I suppose so . . .’ But then Mike gave a little wince. ‘No, not quite, actually - there’s something I forgot . . .’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  Mike slipped his hands into his pockets, as though wishing to make the request seem more casual.

  ‘There’s this mugging victim . . .’

  Chib’s eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed as if in comprehension. ‘You want me to find out who did it, have them made an example of?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Mike paused for effect. ‘You see, this particular mugging hasn’t actually happened yet.’

  Chib’s eyes narrowed again. ‘I don’t get it,’ he conceded.

  ‘Keep listening,’ Mike advised, ‘and you soon will . . .’

  14

  ‘Chib was disappointed,’ Mike said, ‘when I
told him the National Collection doesn’t stretch to a Vettriano.’

  Gissing snorted into his drink. The two men were seated in an anonymous bar near the railway station. It was a no-nonsense place, meant for drinkers only: no TV or jukebox and only crisps to stave off any hunger pangs. Not having indulged in the best part of a decade, Mike had found himself ordering two packets of prawn cocktail, thinking of the box of guns that was hidden, for want of a better place, in the boot of his car. Three old-timers were seated on stools at the bar itself and had ignored Mike completely as he ordered the drinks and snacks. Gissing had chosen the table furthest from the door. He wrinkled his nose at the crisps and stuck to alternating between sips of malt and gulps of IPA.