Doors Open Read online

  Well, a name for a start, one of his email respondents had joked. As a last resort, Ransome had contacted a mate at the Scottish Criminal Records Office, though he doubted Hate would have form in the UK.

  ‘I share your scepticism,’ the mate had said, ‘but I can run it through a few databases here and there.’

  Ransome had also gone into the Shining Star and asked staff there about Chib Calloway and Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie they barely knew, and Calloway they were unwilling to discuss.

  ‘Never causes us any trouble,’ the manager had opined.

  ‘He will,’ Ransome had warned her. Liked the line so much, he’d repeated it to Ben Brewster back at the station. Ben had given a half-hearted laugh, his eyes on the paperwork piling up on his colleague’s desk.

  ‘I’ll get round to it,’ Ransome had chided him.

  But Calloway was consuming too many of his waking hours, along with some of his sleep. In his dreams, he was chasing the gangster on foot through the streets of a sprawling city. His prey seemed to know the place better than him, and would lead him a merry dance through hotels and office blocks and factories. At one point, Ransome had been chatting up a good-looking woman in a hallway, while slowly becoming aware that Calloway had squeezed himself into a cupboard right next to them and was eavesdropping on the seduction.

  Jesus, he needed a drink. He’d tried calling Laura to see if she might be free after work. So far he’d left three messages. He was seated at his desk in the CID unit at Torphichen Place and finding it hard to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the place. He’d been to the toilets, splashed water on his face. Too much coffee, he told himself. Too much stress. His wife Sandra had been studying cookery at night school - Thai, Chinese, Kashmiri, fusion. The nightly assaults of spiced concoctions previously unknown to him were playing havoc with Ransome’s digestion. Not that he could say as much to Sandra’s face. He kept a supply of Rennies in his desk drawer, but the indigestion tablets could do nothing about the pungent sweats he broke into occasionally.

  If only he could open one of the windows . . .

  His request for 24/7 surveillance on Calloway had been met by his bosses with a hoot of derision. Cutbacks were biting - where was the money for overtime going to come from? CID was short-handed as it was. Ransome had taken it on the chin and walked out of the room with his pride intact. He’d even driven out one night to the newish housing scheme where Calloway lived. Car in the driveway; lights on in the living room; no sign of either Johnno or Glenn.

  Glenn . . . someone else who owed him a text, a phone call, a message.

  Glenn the Gullible, who would be easy meat for CID once Calloway was behind bars. Always supposing Johnno let him climb on to their old boss’s throne unopposed. Glenn might be the clever one, but Johnno could boast a wide streak of viciousness. With Calloway gone, he was bound to fancy his own chances. Who would Chib’s old team be the more willing to follow - brain or brawn? Didn’t much matter to Ransome. The whole set-up was coming crashing down.

  At going-home time, Brewster suggested a quick one. But a quick one was never quick. For a start, they couldn’t drink anywhere near the station - too strong a chance they’d be sharing the place with people they didn’t want to meet, villains fresh out of the holding cells, scowls with a grudge. So that meant a jaunt, and Ransome didn’t feel much like a jaunt with his colleague.

  ‘Doing anything at the weekend?’ he asked instead, trying to sound interested.

  ‘It’s Doors Open tomorrow - I’m taking the girls to St Bernard’s Well.’

  ‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s down by the Water of Leith . . . used to be some sort of health spa. Kept under lock and key these days.’

  ‘I meant, what’s Doors Open?’

  ‘Doors Open Day. People get to go into lots of buildings, ones they’re normally barred from. Masonic lodges and banks and stuff. I think Leith cop shop’s throwing open its doors.’

  ‘Sounds a riot.’

  ‘It’s fun. Ellie says it’ll be good for the girls, too.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that.’ Ransome knew that Brewster had two daughters just shy of adolescence and a wife who, like Sandra, always got her way. The girls were being educated privately, which kept funds tight elsewhere. As good a reason as any never to have kids . . . not that Sandra had shown much interest in that department . . . Ransome sat at his desk until the office had emptied. He liked the CID suite when it was deserted and silent. Staring at his screen, however, he realised he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to do. There was the paperwork to be got through, but it could wait. Maybe he’d come in tomorrow or Sunday - a couple of hours would clear the backlog and give Brewster something to think about on Monday morning.

  An hour and a half later, Ransome had been home, eaten lamb Peshwari, changed clothes, and was seated in his local on Balgreen Road. There was a darts match, and normally he would have pitched in, but not tonight. Teams were wanted for a pub quiz, but he steered shy of that commitment, too. He was thinking about Chib Calloway and all his money . . . and Michael Mackenzie and all his money. Sure enough, they’d been at school together - a check of the records had confirmed as much. And it could well be true, as Glenn said, that they’d just bumped into one another. But Glenn could be pulling a flanker; or Chib could have lied to Glenn. Mackenzie had made a mint from computers. Calloway had to want him for something - either to fleece him or to bully him into paying protection.

  Or there was some skill Calloway needed, and Mackenzie was privy to it. Hacking came to mind. It was a stone-cold fact that these days to rob a bank like First Caly you didn’t need to ram-raid it or pick the locks - you just had to chip away at its digital defences. And that could be done from anywhere . . .

  He held out another hour before phoning the station, asked if anything had been happening. He did this some evenings - and on days off, too. He’d call the central switchboard at Bilston, or the comms room at Torphichen Place.

  ‘It’s Ransome here.’

  Usually that was all he had to say. They knew him well enough by now and would reel off the details. Cars nicked or torched, break-ins, fights, domestics. Dealers busted, flashers collared, shoplifters hunted down. Friday nights were second only to Saturday in the number and variety of offences. Tonight was no different. ‘Still on the lookout for a few stolen cars and vans,’ Ransome was informed. ‘Two drunks ejected from a stag do on Lothian Road and taking umbrage. And one poor old chap mugged down by the canal.’

  Ransome wasn’t surprised: like a lot of Edinburgh, the canal was more dangerous than it looked. Probably kids from Polwarth or Dalry.

  ‘What was he doing down there?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing suspicious, far as we can tell. He lives in the new flats by the old Arnold Clark showroom.’

  Just bad luck then - wrong place, wrong time. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Couple of shoplifters earlier on today, and a hit-and-run in Shandon. Teenagers smoking dope in the Meadows - give it till later, there’ll be the usual booze casualties and fights.’

  Ransome gave a sigh and put away his phone. He’d promised Sandra he wouldn’t be late, even though Friday had always been his night out. But looking around him, he wondered why he bothered. The darts players were going through the motions. The quiz hadn’t found enough bodies to make up the requisite teams. Nobody was playing the bandit. Ever since the smoking ban, the place had been dying on its feet.

  ‘Too quiet,’ Ransome muttered to himself, finishing his pint and deciding enough was enough.

  Mike was sitting on his balcony, smoking a cigarette, when the phone rang. He answered and there was a lengthy pause filled with static hiss. Then a voice he recognised.

  ‘Michael, you old bugger, how’s tricks?’

  Mike smiled to himself and sat back down. The past few days, whenever his phone had started ringing he’d assumed the worst: Westie had exploded or Allan had gone
running to the police for absolution. But this was just his old business partner, calling for a gloat.

  ‘Where are you?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Sydney, of course.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Bit of a breeze out here on the deck, but balmy with it. What are you up to?’

  Mike considered all the possible answers open to him. ‘Not much,’ he eventually said. ‘I’ve got half a cigarette left to smoke and then I was thinking about bed.’

  ‘You’re a desperate man, Michael. Isn’t it Friday night over there? Shouldn’t you be out making merry and draining the spuds? I could ship you over one of the girls I know here . . .’

  ‘I bet you could. So what have you been up to? Make me jealous . . .’

  ‘Just the usual - parties, more parties, sun, sand and surf. Chartering a boat later on today.’

  ‘Sounds awful.’

  There was laughter on the line. ‘Yeah, well, you always did prefer the quiet life - behind the scenes, I mean.’

  ‘So did you, Gerry. What happened?’

  ‘Life happened, mate.’ It was the answer he always gave. ‘Maybe it’ll happen to you some day.’

  ‘In Edinburgh?’

  ‘Good point - you need to drag your sorry carcass down here. How many times do I have to ask?’

  ‘It’s on my list, Gerry.’ And why not? What exactly was keeping him in Scotland? Then again, what was waiting for him elsewhere? ‘How’s your portfolio doing?’

  ‘Moved out of property just in time.’ Mike could hear his friend exhale noisily. ‘Minerals and gold, plus a smattering of new technologies. ’

  ‘You should get back into the game, Gerry. The world needs brains like yours.’

  ‘Pickled, you mean?’ Mike heard a female voice. Gerry covered the mouthpiece with his hand as he answered it.

  ‘Who is she?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Just someone I met.’

  ‘It’s considered courteous to get a first name at the very least.’

  ‘Harsh, Michael.’ There was a pause. ‘But fair.’ Followed by an explosion of laughter from the other side of the world. ‘Suppose I better go see how I can keep her happy.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Come visit, Mike - just picture the fun we’d have.’

  ‘Night, Gerry.’

  ‘Morning, cobber.’

  Their usual sign-off routine. Mike was still smiling as he placed the phone on his lap. He took a deep breath and stared out across the city, a jagged silhouette dotted with points of light.

  What happened?

  Life happened . . .

  Wasn’t that the truth of it? He knew he could have told Gerry about the heist, probably would tell him about it some day, if it turned out a success. Or even if it didn’t, come to that. Gerry would whoop and slap his thighs and shake his head in wonder, same as he had when Mike had walked into the office with news of the cash offer for their company from the consortium.

  Shouldn’t you be out making merry?

  Who with, now that his friends had become ‘business associates’? What would Chib Calloway be up to? Bars and nightclubs, wine, women and song? Fine and dandy, but Mike needed a clear head for the morning, needed to rehearse each and every step one final time. At what point would there be no turning back? Hadn’t that point already been reached?

  What happened?

  ‘A door opened,’ he told himself, flicking the cigarette butt out into the night sky.

  17

  Saturday was Doors Open Day in Edinburgh.

  There was a light drizzle and a chill breeze, but that wouldn’t deter the sightseers. For some locals, Doors Open had become as welcome a part of their year as the various festivals. They would plan an all-day itinerary, perhaps taking in the Castle or Freemasons’ Hall, the observatory or the city’s main mosque. Sometimes sandwiches and a flask of tea would be packed. The bulk of the buildings earmarked for public inspection stood in the city centre, all of it dubbed a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Others lay further afield, and included a power station and the sewage works.

  Not forgetting the seafront warehouse at Granton where the national galleries and museums stored their overflow. Much of Granton had yet to succumb to the modernisation evident in neighbouring Leith. Potholed roads led past trading estates and abandoned factory units. The grey North Sea could be glimpsed now and again behind some of these fences and buildings, reminding visitors that Edinburgh had yet to make the most of its largely coastal location.

  Likewise, the warehouse served as a reminder that the city’s museums and public galleries, while arguably making the most of their collections, were forced by circumstances to hide the bulk of their holdings.

  ‘Which is what happens,’ Professor Gissing muttered, ‘when a culture gets greedy.’

  He was seated behind the steering wheel of the stolen van. His disguise comprised sunglasses, a flat tweed cap, and a check shirt.

  ‘No corduroy today, Robert?’ Allan Cruikshank had joked nervously when they’d rendezvoused in Gracemount. Allan himself was now wearing a brown wig beneath his blue baseball cap, and had forsaken his business suit for a pair of baggy denims and a shapeless sweatshirt. The rest of the team sat in the back of the van: Mike Mackenzie, Westie, plus the four young tearaways supplied by Chib Calloway. The teenagers had decided that the only disguise they would endure was a baseball cap with the brim tugged low over the eyes, and a Burberry-style scarf to cover the lower half of the face. All anyone had heard from them so far were grunts and guttural mutterings. No names, no pack drill.

  Which was just fine by Mike. He glanced at his watch again. They were parked on the side road with the view of the gatehouse. Fifteen minutes had passed since the previous tour had made its way out of the warehouse, Allan counting twelve individuals. Forty minutes they’d been inside. Twenty-minute gaps between tours, meaning the next group would start gathering in around five minutes’ time. Limited to twelve names, pre-booked. This time round, seven of those names would be fake. Seated in the front of the van, Gissing and Allan had a much better view of the arrivals and departures. No one would contemplate coming here on foot - too far from any form of public transport. A couple of cabs had arrived to pick up prosperous-looking couples, leading Mike to wonder again what the odds were of anyone he knew turning up. The prof would stay with the van, but Mike and Allan would be in the warehouse. Most of the people who bothered with Doors Open were mildly curious, attracted by the notion of passing through doors normally kept locked to the public. But this was an extension of the National Gallery - chances were, it would be art-lovers who made the trek . . . the very sorts of people Mike and Allan knew from the various exhibitions and auctions they attended.

  Gissing had been warned - ‘You don’t step out of the van except in the direst straits.’ But now Mike was wishing the raid could be carried out without the need for either Allan or himself saying anything. Or Westie, come to that - art-lovers usually visited all the college degree shows, and voices could be identified as readily as faces. There was a thin trickle of sweat running down Mike’s spine. All these factors they hadn’t taken into account - if Chib’s crew had been briefed sooner, they could have been the ones doing all the talking. So far, all they’d been doing was listening, and Mike was afraid that the conversation between Gissing and Allan had given too many clues. They’d talked about building projects in the city and the financing of same, Allan sounding too knowledgeable. Then Gissing had started rattling on about the various art and antiquity holdings, showing he knew a fair bit about the topic. How hard would it be for the teenagers to put two and two together? If they were arrested at any point in the future, might they try cutting a deal by telling what they knew? Was the fear of Chib Calloway enough to keep them silent in the long term?

  One bonus: the chippie van was locked tight for the weekend - one potential witness out of the running . . .

  ‘That’s the first two arriving now,’ Allan piped up.


  Mike’s heart was pumping; he could hear the blood singing in his ears. He saw that Westie had clamped his hands between his knees, as if to stop them shaking. He’d done well, though. The van’s first stop had been his flat, where they’d loaded the fakes into the back, Gissing giving each of the eight a final once-over before declaring them ‘first class’, adding that this was also the mark Westie could be confident of getting for his degree show. This had probably been meant to relax the student, but it had the opposite effect on Mike - Chib’s lot, seated in the van as the paintings were loaded and inspected, now knew they had a student in their midst, and probably someone who taught him, too. Westie had declared himself ‘shattered’ by the experience, and he really didn’t look too good: pale and pasty and with eyelids drooping towards sleep. Mike had the feeling only caffeine was keeping him going. Last thing they needed was one of the team nodding off or losing his concentration during the actual heist.