Doors Open Page 22

  Westie short-changed. Another picture or 20K cash, you choose. Alice.

  ‘Nothing urgent, I hope?’ Chib was asking.

  ‘Not really.’ Mike pretended to be punching a reply into the keypad, aware of Chib’s eyes drilling into him.

  ‘So you’re pretty confident about your pal Allan?’

  The question caught Mike off guard. ‘Of course,’ he spluttered. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, because of his taste in art for one thing.’

  Mike barked out something that he hoped might be construed as a laugh, Chib obliged by smiling back. He straightened his back and clasped his hands behind his head, studying the room again as if he were considering its purchase.

  ‘Very nice,’ he commented. ‘Bet it cost a few bob.’

  ‘A few,’ Mike conceded.

  ‘Owe any money on it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t expect you would, man of your talents. What’s that word they use about businessmen when they know what they’re doing . . . ? Ecumen?’

  ‘Acumen,’ Mike corrected him.

  ‘That’s it.’ Chib nodded slowly. ‘Now do us all a favour, Mike . . .’ He was bearing down on Mike, for all the world as though he was going to back him against the wall. ‘Use some of that famed acumen of yours to make sure nothing goes wrong, starting with your good friend Mr Allan Cruikshank. A chain’s only as strong as its weakest link, isn’t that what they say?’ The two men stood only inches apart, so that Mike could feel the gangster’s breath on his face. He took a moment to steady himself.

  ‘From where I’m looking,’ he said eventually, ‘the weakest link is that headcase Hate. If he wants to take you down, all he has to do is send the cops an anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘But then his clients wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting what’s owed them. When it comes down to it, they’re business people, same as you. So don’t you go worrying about that, and don’t give me cause to worry about anything at your end.’

  ‘A chain doesn’t have an end,’ Mike said quietly.

  ‘A chain’s nothing but ends!’ Calloway snapped back. They locked eyes for a moment, and then the gangster turned away. It looked to Mike as if he was readying to leave. The replenished mug, still three quarters full, was placed on the coffee table. Chib exited into the long hallway, Mike following.

  ‘Maybe next time I’ll get the full tour, eh?’ Calloway was gesturing towards the art that lined the walls. ‘And like I say, there’s an open invite to mine. Not half as snazzy as yours, of course, but then it’s been through the wars - a bit like its owner.’

  The thing is, Mike thought to himself, I don’t know your address, while you now know mine. The front door was open, Chib striding out on to the landing with a backwards wave of the hand. Mike pressed the door closed after him and leaned against it, as if to repel further intruders. He listened out for the sound of the lift arriving, and hazarded an eye to the spy hole. The lift doors were sliding closed. He turned and walked back to the living area, scooping his phone up and making for the window. As yet there was no sign of Calloway. Mike didn’t want the gangster seeing him making a call - no telling who he’d think Mike was talking to - so he retreated a few steps into the room before punching Gissing’s number into the keypad.

  Laura wants to see me . . .

  Westie’s girlfriend is getting greedy . . .

  But it was Gissing he wanted; maybe the professor could offer solace, or at least the vague reassurance that, as bad as things might seem, Mike’s life was not yet ready to implode.

  The call was answered. ‘My boy, this is unexpected . . .’ The line was terrible, Gissing’s voice breaking up.

  ‘Where are you?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Keeping my head down, just as we agreed. At least, I thought that’s what we’d agreed . . .’

  ‘How much does Ransome know?’

  ‘He seems to know that I know Charles Calloway.’

  ‘How is that even possible?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Things are starting to unravel.’ Mike heard the BMW’s engine starting.

  ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Michael.’ Gissing sounded so calm that Mike felt it a shame to spoil things. So he came to a sudden decision: he would keep the news of Allan’s paintings, Hate’s collateral and Chib’s visit to himself.

  At least for now.

  ‘By the way,’ Mike said, ‘I’ve told Allan about Ransome.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘He took it.’ Mike paused. ‘How did it go at the warehouse yesterday? ’

  ‘I did all that was asked of me in my usual thorough manner. They’re even offering to pay me for my time.’

  ‘Your message said Ransome is probing - what does that mean?’

  ‘It means what it says - he’s not part of the official inquiry, yet he’s sniffing around it like a dog after a truffle. I happened to mention as much to DI Hendricks when I saw him. He wasn’t best pleased.’

  ‘Nicely done, Robert.’

  ‘I thought so,’ the professor purred. ‘Meantime, the very best thing we can do is stay calm and keep ourselves very much to ourselves, except in the direst of straits.’

  These are the direst of straits, Mike wanted to tell him, but instead, watching the BMW retreat down the long, sloping driveway, he found himself agreeing. With a sigh, and running his free hand through his hair, he asked again for Gissing’s whereabouts.

  ‘I’m at home, keeping busy with some marking assignments. But whenever boredom strikes, I find I have one or two things I can gaze at in wonder and reverence. We are blessed, are we not, Michael?’

  ‘Blessed,’ Mike echoed, as Chib and his men finally disappeared from view.

  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 ne
xt 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 . . .