Doors Open (30 page)
Authors: Ian Rankin
Could probably handle himself, too, while Westie was a fully paid-up pacifist - give peace a chance and all that . . .
‘This is some awful dump, by the way,’ a voice growled from the doorway. Westie studied the man who was lumbering into the room. Shaved head, leather coat, gold rings and neck chain. ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, son - nobody’s going to find you down here unless you leave a trail of breadcrumbs.’
‘Can I help you?’ Westie asked as the stranger chuckled at his own joke.
‘Course you can, Westie. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ The man was holding out a pudgy hand. Westie could have sworn there was scar tissue on the knuckles. ‘I’m Chib Calloway. Reckoned it was high time we had an actual face-to-face.’
‘Chib Calloway?’
The man nodded. ‘Judging by the way your jaw’s grazing the floor, I’m guessing the name means something to you. That’s good - saves lengthy explanations.’
‘I know who you are,’ Westie admitted.
‘Then you know why I’m here?’
Westie felt his knees trying to buckle. ‘N-no . . . I’ve no idea w-why you’re here.’
‘Has nobody bothered to tell you, Mr Westwater? Dearie me . . .’
‘Tell me what exactly?’
Calloway chuckled again and patted him on the shoulder. Westie’s knees almost went again under the pressure. ‘The extra guys on your team last Saturday, did you think they maybe appeared in a puff of smoke? The shooters and the van . . . who the hell did you think organised it all?’
‘You?’ Westie just managed to choke the question out.
‘Me,’ Chib Calloway confirmed. ‘I’m pretty impressed, actually . . . reckoned someone would have blabbed. Good that my name’s kept out of the spotlight. And yet I find myself having to come here . . .’ The gangster started tutting as he began a tour of the studio and its contents. Westie wanted to ask what was going on, but the greater part of him really didn’t want to know. Only a couple of the paintings had actually been hung, the other five resting against one of the whitewashed walls. Calloway had crouched down to flick through them, saying nothing. Eventually, he stood up again, brushing imaginary dust from his palms. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he apologised, ‘except for the noble art, of course. Know what that is, Westie?’
‘Boxing?’ Westie offered.
‘That’s it exactly - boxing.’ The gangster was walking away from Westie, heading towards the doorway. ‘Closely followed by hammering, battering, kicking, gouging, slashing, hacking and stabbing.’ He turned and gave a smile. ‘Not quite so noble by the time it gets to that stage, of course.’
‘L-look, Mr Calloway, I just did what I was told. N-nobody said you were part of the . . . I mean, you’ve got n-nothing to worry about, not from me.’
Calloway was advancing slowly on Westie again. ‘You saying it’s all down to your girlfriend, then? How is Alice, by the way?’
Westie’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’
Calloway took a deep breath. ‘Your dear, sweet little Alice sent a warning to my friend Mike Mackenzie. She says you want an extra twenty K on top, either that or another painting. According to her, you feel cheated. Is that right, Westie? Do you feel hard done by?’ But the student’s powers of speech had deserted him.
‘Now,’ Calloway went on, seemingly satisfied by this reaction, ‘how do you suppose she got Mike’s mobile number? Want to go fifty-fifty or ask the audience? No, because she got it from
you
, Westie. She got it from you . . .’ A forefinger stabbed Westie in the chest. It felt like the heft of a blade, the barrel of a gun. Calloway had leaned forward from the waist so he was eye to eye with the student. ‘Unless you can come up with some other highly convincing explanation.’ Spittle hit Westie’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it away until Calloway had started another circuit of the room, taking care not to trip over the various cables. ‘These are dangerous times, Pretty Boy,’ he was saying. ‘People get a bit frantic, a bit crazy.’
you
, Westie. She got it from you . . .’ A forefinger stabbed Westie in the chest. It felt like the heft of a blade, the barrel of a gun. Calloway had leaned forward from the waist so he was eye to eye with the student. ‘Unless you can come up with some other highly convincing explanation.’ Spittle hit Westie’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it away until Calloway had started another circuit of the room, taking care not to trip over the various cables. ‘These are dangerous times, Pretty Boy,’ he was saying. ‘People get a bit frantic, a bit crazy.’
‘I didn’t know the silly cow had sent that text!’
‘But you knew she was thinking about it, didn’t you? You knew it was a
text
, even though I never mentioned the fact.’ Calloway had turned and was closing in on Westie again. His hands had emerged from his pockets. They were bunched into fists. ‘The pair of you talked it over, maybe tweaked the wording till you’d got it just right . . .’
text
, even though I never mentioned the fact.’ Calloway had turned and was closing in on Westie again. His hands had emerged from his pockets. They were bunched into fists. ‘The pair of you talked it over, maybe tweaked the wording till you’d got it just right . . .’
‘We only thought . . .’
The punch hit Westie in the stomach and sent him backwards until he hit the wall, either side of a framed canvas. Calloway had followed up with a hand around the student’s throat.
‘It’s good that we’re getting to know one another,’ he spat, ‘because you’re going to do something for me. Two things, in fact. For one, persuade your bony-arsed girlfriend that nobody’s getting shafted around here except
her
.’
her
.’
Westie, eyes bulging, had started to nod as best he could. Calloway released his grip and the young man collapsed to his knees, coughing a string of phlegm from his mouth. Calloway crouched down in front of him, a hand resting on either shoulder.
‘Is that a deal?’ he asked.
‘No bother, Mr Calloway,’ Westie managed to gasp. ‘I’m on that straight away.’ He managed to swallow. ‘And what’s the second thing?’
‘The second thing is this, Westie - we’re going to be a team, you and me.’ Calloway was nodding as if to reinforce the point.
‘A team?’ Westie’s ears were ringing and his mouth felt full of sand. There was juice in a carton on the floor next to him, but he didn’t think now was the right time for a refreshment break.
‘Looks like those forgeries of yours did the business, young Westie,’ Calloway was telling him. ‘In my book, that means you know what you’re up to. Quick turnaround, too, from what I’m told. So now you’re going to make me a few more.’
‘More copies?’
Calloway nodded again. ‘Plenty more paintings in that warehouse. ’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Don’t fret.’ The gangster offered a smile. ‘We’re not going to turn the place over again - do I really look that thick?’
‘So you want them for yourself?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
Westie felt himself relax a little. ‘Sure, Mr Calloway, I can do that. After all, what’s the difference between hanging a fake on your wall and owning the real thing?’
‘If the fake’s perfect, no difference at all.’ Calloway helped Westie back up on to his feet, brushing dust from his shoulders.
‘Do you have anything particular in mind?’ Westie asked. ‘Doesn’t have to be from the warehouse - I can do you a
Mona Lisa
if you like.’
Mona Lisa
if you like.’
‘No, Westie, not the
Mona Lisa
. These have to be paintings that are kept locked away from the public gaze.’
Mona Lisa
. These have to be paintings that are kept locked away from the public gaze.’
‘How many are we talking about?’
‘Couple of dozen should do it.’
Westie puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of work.’
Calloway’s face tightened. ‘You’re forgetting - you’ve a lot of making up to do after that little stunt Alice tried to pull.’
Westie raised his hands in surrender. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Not for you, Mr Calloway. I’m flattered you think I’d be good enough.’ Watching the gangster’s features relax again, he decided it was safe to ask a question. ‘By the way, which painting did you get from the raid?’
‘It’s by some guy called Utterson -
Dusk on Rannoch Moor
. How about you?’
Dusk on Rannoch Moor
. How about you?’
‘A DeRasse,’ Westie was able to say, despite the sudden queasy surge in his gut.
‘Never heard of him.’ Calloway’s hands still rested on Westie’s shoulders. ‘Any good, is he?’
Westie cleared his throat. ‘Not bad. Experimental . . . style of Jasper Johns but a bit hipper . . . Do you want to swap?’
The gangster just laughed, as though Westie had been making a joke. Westie tried smiling back, maintaining the illusion while his brain screamed.
The Utterson! Why did it have to be the bloody Utterson?
26
Allan Cruikshank was in his office at First Caledonian Bank’s HQ on the corner of George Street and St Andrew’s Square. The building was becoming cramped, and being Grade I listed there was little way to renovate it to accommodate the twenty-first century. Allan’s office was half its original size, subdivided by means of a partition wall. The only view from his remaining window was of a ghastly seventies office block to the rear of the building. Along with everyone else at his level, Allan worked to monthly targets. His roster of High Net Worth clients had been underperforming of late, and he should have been making a few calls, maybe arranging lunches or pre-dinner drinks, the better to talk them into sticking some more of their money the bank’s way. He knew that, if asked, Mike Mackenzie would come on board as a client, but then they would cease to be just friends; the transaction would sit between them, changing everything.
But then who was Allan kidding? They were no longer ‘just friends’. They’d pulled off a heist together, and Allan now had something he’d always wanted - at least theoretically. He owned two paintings that First Caledonian, despite its muscle, its own extensive portfolio of art, and its own curator, could never possess.
And he hated the fact. He didn’t think it was simple cowardice that had convinced him to hand the paintings over to Mike for safe keeping. It was just that the Coultons didn’t mean anything to him. He realised he’d have been as happy with Westie’s reproductions. And at least he could have displayed those . . . His fingers drifted over a nick on his chin. He’d been shaving this morning, not really concentrating. Hadn’t slept much either, not since Saturday. He tossed and turned and imagined himself in a police cell, a court-room, a prison.
‘You were a bloody fool, Allan,’ he said out loud. Not that any of it had been his idea, not really. Gissing had come up with the original notion, and Mike had fleshed it out. Without Mike as a conduit to Chib Calloway, they’d probably never have gone ahead with it. Allan’s role had been secondary, negligible. Christ Almighty, he sounded as if he was explaining himself to the prosecutor.
When the alarm bell sounded, he jolted upright. But it was only the phone: the buzzer signalling an internal call. He picked it up.
‘Allan Cruikshank speaking,’ he said, stifling a yawn.
‘Front desk, Mr Cruikshank. There’s a gentleman here to see you.’ Allan’s appointment diary was open in front of him, empty till mid-afternoon. He knew what the receptionist was going to say, but still felt a rush of cold at her words.
‘He’s with the police - Detective Inspector Ransome. Shall I send him up?’
‘Can you tell him I’m in the middle of a meeting?’ Allan waited while his message was relayed.
‘He says he’s happy to wait,’ the receptionist trilled, ‘and he’ll only need five minutes of your time.’
‘Then tell him to wait there in the lobby. I’ll be another quarter of an hour or so.’ Allan slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. The window looked inviting: four floors to the waiting roadway and oblivion. But he knew it only opened an inch and a half - nobody at First Clay wanted an accident. If he exited his office and walked towards the lifts, there was a stairwell for use in a fire. He didn’t know where it would bring him out, though . . . maybe into the very lobby where his nemesis was waiting.
‘Hell and damnation,’ he muttered, picking up the phone again. Mike wasn’t answering at home, so Allan tried his mobile. This time he got through.
‘Hello?’ the voice said.
‘That bloody detective’s here,’ Allan blurted out. ‘Wants to talk to me. He knows, Mike. He
knows
. You’d better get yourself over here.’
knows
. You’d better get yourself over here.’
‘Who is this?’
In horror, Allan studied the display. He’d transposed two digits of Mike’s number! He ended the call, squeezed shut his eyes, and felt like weeping. Eventually, he took a deep breath and tried again, making sure this time that it was Mike who answered.
‘It’s got to be about the heist, Mike,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to help me.’
‘By rushing over there?’ Mike asked after a lengthy pause. ‘And what message would that send, Allan? You’ve got to brazen it out.’
‘Why the hell is he here? Who’s been talking?’
‘He’s fishing, that’s all.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘We won’t know
anything
until you’ve talked to him. Have you got something you can take to calm down?’
anything
until you’ve talked to him. Have you got something you can take to calm down?’
‘Maybe if someone whacked me with a hammer . . .’ As the words left Allan’s mouth, he regretted them. He didn’t want Mike getting ideas, ideas he might take to his new best friend - Chib Calloway. Allan swallowed hard and took a nice deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, Mike. Sorry if I overreacted.’
‘Call me when you’re done with him.’ Mike’s voice was all steel.
‘Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call.’
The joke was weak, but Mike laughed anyway. ‘Just be yourself, Allan. You’re a deal-maker, remember that. And Ransome’s not even part of the official investigation. As far as I can tell, he’s been on Chib’s case. He’s probably sniffing around anyone who knows him.’
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