Doors Open (36 page)
Authors: Ian Rankin
‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.
‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once …’
‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too …
Chib had hunkered down in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his face up so they were eye to eye.
‘Am I in the mood for jokes?’ the gangster spat. There were flecks of white either side of his mouth.
‘I don’t keep cash around the house,’ Mike said between gasps. ‘Never know when someone might come waltzing in. And even … even making a request to my bank … it takes time … time to arrange that sort of money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Plus, as soon as I say “cash”, alarm bells are going to ring.’
‘Money-laundering,’ Hate agreed. ‘The banks have to inform the authorities.’
‘And you’re suddenly the Bank of fucking Scotland?’ Chib roared at him.
‘Look,’ Mike said, having regained most of his breath. ‘Those four paintings are worth a lot more than the money you’re asking. Why not just take three of them? Maybe leave me one …’ He nodded towards Mr Allison. ‘We’ve got the very man here who can judge them authentic.’
Chib stared at him. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve, Mike.’ Then, over his shoulder towards Hate: ‘What do you think? Want to take your pick?’
Hate’s response was to walk over to the coffee table, lift the Cadell beach scene, and stick his fist straight through it. Calmly, the huge man then lifted the Monboddo - the glorious portrait of Beatrice - and did exactly the same thing.
‘Get the picture?’ he said.
‘I think so,’ Mike answered with a fresh groan. As Chib released his hair, he started to get to his feet, checking that his knees would lock and hold him upright. The painting … Hate had dropped it back on to the table. Was it beyond repair? No way of telling. And there sat Allan’s two ugly offerings, pristine and untroubled. ‘So what now?’ he asked to nobody in particular.
‘We wait here till morning,’ Chib replied. ‘Then a little trip to the bank, followed by a friendly visit to our art-forger-cum-dead-man.’
Mike had picked up the portrait of Beatrice. ‘They can’t
all
be fakes,’ he said, almost to himself.
all
be fakes,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘All that matters is, mine was,’ Chib stated. ‘Big mistake.’
‘But not
my
mistake, Chib.’
my
mistake, Chib.’
The gangster shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, you’re the one with the money.’
‘Which the bank won’t just hand over!’
‘Ever heard of transfers, Mike? I’ve got accounts all over the place, in any number of names. The dough goes into one of those, I close the account pronto, and Hate here gets his share.’
Hate didn’t look thrilled by this scenario. Mike guessed the man had already been kept waiting longer than he liked.
‘Why do you think Westie did it?’ Mike asked Chib.
‘We’ll soon find out.’ Chib was studying Allan’s two paintings, one in either hand. His own worthless Utterson lay abandoned on the floor, where anyone was welcome to step on it. Chib held one of the Coultons in front of Mr Allison. ‘What do you think, Jimmy - are these the real thing for a change?’ Without waiting for a reaction, he turned towards Mike. ‘Maybe I’ll take them with me, unless you’ve got any objection?’
‘They’re Allan’s, not mine.’
‘Then you can sort it out with Allan.’
Mike’s eyes were on the curator. He needed a diversion, and poor Mr Allison was just about his only bet. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if Allison had much hearing left. ‘I mean, I’m sorry for what’s about to happen to you …’ The man was staring back at him now as best he could: nothing wrong with his ears. ‘They need me,’ Mike continued to explain, ‘at least for another day or so. I’ve got money, you see, and they want it. But you, Mr Allison … they’re just about done with you. And Hate doesn’t seem to me the type who likes loose ends. You might promise on the heads of your grandkids that you won’t go running to the cops, but Hate’s not about to take a risk like that.’
‘Shut it!’ the Scandinavian warned.
‘Just thought he ought to know.’ Mike turned his attention to Chib. ‘I really
don’t
know what Westie was playing at. Gissing checked all eight paintings …’ He broke off, starting to get the glimmer of a notion.
don’t
know what Westie was playing at. Gissing checked all eight paintings …’ He broke off, starting to get the glimmer of a notion.
‘What?’ Chib prompted.
‘Nothing.’
‘Want me to set Hate on you? You’ve seen what he can do.’
To reinforce the point. Hate himself had taken a few steps forward. It was as much of a chance as Jimmy Allison was going to get. He was up on his feet and running. The first thing he did was shove at the door nearest him, which flew open. As he tried closing it after him, Hate make a lunge into the gap. Chib was starting to laugh, realizing that the curator had stumbled into Mike’s bedroom - no other exits. Mike, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. He shoulder-charged the off-balance gangster and did some running of his own - down the hall towards the front door. He flung it open and bounded down the stairs, taking them three at a time. As he ran from the building, he was grateful to note that Chib hadn’t thought to bring his minders with him. The BMW, however, was locked tight, so Mike flew past it, making for the boundary wall. He scrambled over it, landing in a neighbour’s garden. With only moonlight to guide him, he crossed the lawn and heaved himself over into yet another garden. A couple of cats on a windowsill glowered at him, but at least there were no dogs, meaning no barking. One more wall and he was back on the roadway. It was an alley locals used as a short cut, too narrow for vehicles to get down. He took it and kept moving. He patted his trouser pockets, double-checking that he had his wallet. That meant credit cards and cash, but no phone. And no keys to the flat, always supposing he would ever dare to go back. He tried not to think about the havoc Hate and Chib might be wreaking - or how they might then vent their spleen on the hapless Mr Allison …
Mike’s own options were limited. He could find a hiding place and wait there till morning, growing chilled in the process, or he could aim for a main road, where a taxi might just find him. After ten or fifteen minutes he paused to catch his breath, crouched low behind a hedge. The houses here were Victorian: three and four storeys high and semi-detached. Some were used as small hotels. For one mad second he considered a late-night check-in. But he was still too close to home.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ he told himself, regaining a little of his breath. Damage report: his knuckles were grazed and his shins and knees bruised. There was a stabbing pain in his chest and his lungs were aflame. He knew he should head straight to Westie’s flat and warn him what was coming. Would Chib know the student’s address? If so, it would be
his
first stop, too.
his
first stop, too.
‘You could always go to the cops,’ he whispered out loud. Would that be enough to save Allison’s life? But then what was he going to say? And what was the point, when Chib, Hate and Allison would be long gone from the flat? He screwed shut his stinging eyes, trying to impose some order on his thoughts.
Say Chib knew where to find Westie - Mike’s best course of action would then be to head for Allan’s. They could always call Westie, see if he was available to answer. Maybe he was wandering the streets, seeking Alice … And come to think of it, why was Mike so worried? The little bastard had kicked this whole thing off in the first place!
‘With a bit of help,’ Mike was forced to concede.
From his hiding place, he heard the distinctive diesel chug of an approaching cab. Its brakes squealed as it stopped outside one of the hotels. A middle-aged couple got out, talking loudly, slurring their words. Mike peered over the hedge and reckoned he had a chance. He tried to seem as nonchalant as possible as he emerged from hiding and stuck his arm in the air, gesturing with his hand. The driver had just stuck his roof light back on, but turned it off again when he saw him. Mike climbed into the back, almost overcome by the cloying perfume left behind by the woman. He closed the door and slid the window down, hungry for fresh air.
‘Gayfield Square,’ he told the driver.
‘Lucky you caught me,’ the man responded. ‘I’d just about made up my mind to call it a night.’ He was having trouble finding his passenger in the rearview mirror. Mike had slumped as far down into his seat as he could. ‘Had an evening of it, by the look of things,’ the driver rattled on. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that. We’ve all got to let off steam sometime, haven’t we? Whole country would explode otherwise.’
‘I’m sure that’s true.’ Mike was on the lookout for a cruising BMW; either that or two hulking figures on foot. But the streets were empty.
‘City’s been a bit dead,’ the cabbie was saying. ‘Only real problem I’ve got with the place - nothing ever happens in Edinburgh, does it, sir?’
32
The look of horror on Allan’s face did nothing but deepen as Mike told his story. The only moment of relief came when Mike started to apologise that Chib had got his hands on the Coultons.
‘He’s welcome to them,’ Allan had said, sounding as though he honestly meant it. ‘And now that we’re shot of all our ill-gotten gains, let’s shop Calloway to Ransome.’
‘And leave the professor in the lurch? Besides, Chib wouldn’t hesitate to tell the police everything, meaning you and me would still go away. Then there’s Westie to consider …’
They tried the student’s mobile, but it was only his messaging service. After the beep, Mike left a warning, to which Allan added a yelled coda:
‘It’s your own stupid fault, you moron!’
Mike ended the call. ‘I hope he’s out somewhere and not just wasted or blotto.’
‘If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll have left the country.’
‘That might not be too far from the truth,’ Mike mused.
‘Far as I’m concerned, they can go rot, him and his grasping girlfriend both.’ Allan had started to pace the room, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt.
‘Why are you dressed?’ Mike suddenly thought to ask. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
Allan studied himself. ‘I’ve not been to bed yet.’
‘You wear your tie in the house?’
‘Never mind all that - what are we going to do, Mike? That’s the bigger question. I knew something like this would happen! I knew it would all go wrong!’
‘Well, Allan, the first thing
you
can do is try calming down.’ Mike wanted to add that
he
was the one whose house had been broken into.
He
was the one who’d been threatened and assaulted, who’d had to flee for his life, scared witless as he leapt from garden into garden.
He
was the one known to Chib and Hate both - the one they were blaming for
everything
.
you
can do is try calming down.’ Mike wanted to add that
he
was the one whose house had been broken into.
He
was the one who’d been threatened and assaulted, who’d had to flee for his life, scared witless as he leapt from garden into garden.
He
was the one known to Chib and Hate both - the one they were blaming for
everything
.
Looking at his friend, however, he doubted any of that would help. Allan was muttering about ‘all that planning’ having ‘gone down the drain’. So instead, Mike repeated his first instruction and watched as Allan nodded distractedly, taking off his glasses and rubbing at them with the corner of a handkerchief. Mike poured out more coffee - without offering a refill to his friend - and allowed his head a moment’s rest against the back of the chair. He even let his eyelids droop for a few seconds, but the image of Chib Calloway’s furious face made him open them again. There was going to be hell to pay, no doubt about it. Allan was staring at him.
‘What did Westie think he was doing?’ he was asking. ‘Could he just not help himself, had to leave some sort of bloody signature? Or was he having a go at us because he really did see us as “the establishment”? And how come he didn’t swap the forgery for the original at the warehouse? Was it maybe just a cock-up?’
‘The Utterson was in
your
vault, Allan,’ Mike stated quietly.
your
vault, Allan,’ Mike stated quietly.
‘What?’
‘Chib’s Utterson was one of the paintings you lifted from the warehouse.’
‘Then I don’t understand. Are you saying we left the original painting in the back of the van? And what about all these other paintings they’re saying have gone AWOL? How many did we end up taking?’
‘We need to speak to Gissing,’ Mike commented. ‘After Westie, he’ll be the next person Chib and Hate will want a word with.’
‘And then it’ll be us?’
‘Don’t worry, Allan - I’m sure you’re parked solidly at the foot of his list.’
This produced a thin smile. ‘You might be sorry about that, but I can assure you
I’m
not.’ The smile was enough to prise a laugh from Mike, which started Allan off, too. Shoulders heaving, Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. Allan was catching his breath and dabbing at the corners of his eyes. ‘How did we ever get into this, Mike?’ he asked.
I’m
not.’ The smile was enough to prise a laugh from Mike, which started Allan off, too. Shoulders heaving, Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. Allan was catching his breath and dabbing at the corners of his eyes. ‘How did we ever get into this, Mike?’ he asked.
Mike shook his head slowly. ‘Never mind that - let’s concentrate on how we’re going to get out of it.’
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