‘Know why it’s called that?’ Chib had asked.
‘Isn’t it where they used to hang criminals?’ Mike had answered.
‘Meaning people like yours truly. The town would turn out in force to watch, make a sort of party of the whole thing. Wasn’t just thieves and muggers, either - they hanged you if you were a Covenanter or a witch. They’d slaughter anyone in those days.’
‘Things have moved on.’
‘Bet you’d still get a crowd for an execution, though . . .’
Eventually, a voice from the back seat had declared that they were ‘clear’, which was when Chib had pulled the car to a stop and ordered his men out. They’d put up a bit of resistance until their boss handed over a twenty-pound note for a cab and told them to meet him ‘at the snooker hall’.
‘Sure about this?’ Johnno had said with a glare. He kept rubbing his wrist, as if he’d sprained it. Probably, Mike reckoned, after belting someone.
‘I’m sure,’ Chib had said.
‘But what if the Viking . . . ?’
Chib had ignored this and raced off, leaving Johnno and Glenn on the pavement. Mike hadn’t felt able to ask who or what ‘the Viking’ might be. Instead, Chib had turned to him with a question of his own. ‘So what’s on your mind, Mike?’
And Mike had told him, starting at the beginning, almost as if it was some story he’d heard somewhere. There’s this collection of artworks in the city and not many people know about it . . . and there’s a way, apparently, to get hold of some of these paintings without anyone twigging . . .
To the man’s credit, it hadn’t taken Chib long to work things out.
By that time, they were sitting in a car park halfway round Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park. Mike seldom ventured up here: it was a place for dog-walkers and tourists. You rounded a bend and were met by incredible windswept panoramas of the city. But at other moments you felt surrounded by wilderness, the humped shape of Arthur’s Seat itself fooling you into imagining you were miles from civilisation. Yet Edinburgh surrounded you, the chimneypots, church spires and housing schemes just out of view.
‘Good for art,’ Chib said again, shaking his head. But then he sniffed and rubbed a finger across his nostrils and asked Mike to reprise the story. Only this time Chib had questions, concerns and ideas of his own. The ideas were too elaborate, but Mike listened patiently, his heart racing. He’d experienced a frisson from the moment he’d stepped into the car - actually, even before that. Waiting outside the pub as office workers and visitors hurried past, he’d wondered what they would say if he blurted out the identity of the man he was waiting for and the reason for their meeting.
I’m putting together a team . . .
I’m leading a gang . . .
The heist of the century . . .
And then the car had pulled up. He’d felt uneasy with those two gorillas hulking in the back, couldn’t help thinking of all the other people who, down the years, had taken a ride with Chib Calloway and his men, many of them fearful or plain petrified, some never seen again. But what Mike had felt chiefly was exhilaration. There was something feral about Chib. Mike’s first week in high school, the weakest newcomers had been selected and given a half-hearted kicking by the older boys. But Chib had been there, too, already accepted by his elders, his reputation preceding him. It hadn’t bothered Mike - better to be picked on than ignored completely. But afterwards, that was just what Chib had done - ignored him. And a couple of years later he was gone from the school, expelled after a headbutt on his chemistry teacher, leaving behind only the legend. There had still been bullies and gangs, but nothing like Chib. By fourth year, Mike had been the one laying into the new kids . . .
Afterwards, Mike had studied at college, found himself a flat on the edge of the New Town. And, a few brawls apart, he’d succeeded in leaving his upbringing far behind - parents dead, his only sister living in Canada. It interested him that Chib wasn’t merely about anger and the need to be the alpha male. There was intelligence in those piercing eyes, and a hunger for something - knowledge, perhaps. Maybe the gangster was beginning to realise just how narrow his world had become.
And just maybe, Mike conceded, the same thing was happening to him.
He watched as, without saying anything more, Chib got out of the car and walked to the edge of the car park, from where he could stare out across a nearby pond. Mike decided to follow, getting a cigarette lit as he exited the car. His hands were trembling, but only just. There was a small island in the middle of the pond, a swan nesting while its mate swam in protective circles. A woman had brought her toddler along so they could toss chunks of bread to a nearby cacophony of ducks, coots and moorhens. But it was the swans that interested Chib. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets as he watched them. Mike wished he knew what the man was thinking. Maybe he wanted the same sense of poise and certainty, the same equilibrium. Mike made the offer of a cigarette from his packet, but Chib shook his head. It was another minute or so before he spoke.
‘You lied to me, Mike, back in that gallery. Said you were in computers. I suppose it’s sort of true, but you didn’t want me to know all of it. Mr Success Story. Mr Millions in the Bank. A tenner to a kid in an internet café and I had more gen on you than I knew what to do with.’ He glanced towards Mike. ‘Scared I’d come calling on you one cold dark night, hand stretched out for a sub?’
Mike gave a shrug. ‘I didn’t want to look like I was showing off.’
‘We Scots are bad that way,’ Chib eventually acknowledged. ‘You ever been back to the school? Have they not invited you to hand out the prizes, inspire the kids with a few words of wisdom?’
‘No.’
‘Your old college gave you an honorary degree, though - was it the cash they were after?’
‘One day, I suppose,’ Mike conceded.
‘Kid says you’re not signed up to any of those sites that put you in touch with old pals.’
‘Like I told you, that’s because I don’t have any old pals.’
‘No, me neither . . .’ Chib leaned forward to spit on to the surface of the pond. ‘Doubt most of the folk I was at school with would give me the time of day. They organised some anniversary do last year for kids in our year - did you get an invite to that?’
‘I think so.’
‘You should’ve gone. Rented a Roller for the night and a couple of nice-looking escorts . . . rubbed all their noses in it.’
‘You could’ve done that, too,’ Mike offered, causing Chib to smile.
‘Don’t go thinking it didn’t cross my mind, but in the end . . . Well, fuck it.’ He made a little writhing motion, as though a cold wind were blowing. Then he turned his body so he was face to face with Mike. The hands stayed in their pockets. Mike was reminded of their meeting at the gallery and his fear that the gangster carried a gun or a knife. He doubted it now. But Calloway had worries in his life - maybe to do with ‘the Viking’. And Mike had given him something to take his mind off them - a fresh challenge. ‘You’ll need to be tooled up, Mike, you do realise that? You’re going to have to put the fear of God into everybody, make them think you’ll do whatever it takes.’
‘But the gun doesn’t need to be real, right?’
Chib shook his head. ‘Just needs to look real - if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s all we’ll need.’
‘Better be sure of that - just takes one of the guards to be ex-military . . . you poke an airgun in his face and he’s going to know it.’
‘Replicas, then.’
‘Even better is the real thing with the firing pin out.’
‘You’re the expert, Chib.’
‘Damned right I am.’ He was silent for a few more moments. ‘Four additional crew, I reckon. One apiece for the gatehouse and guardroom and two to keep the visitors quiet. That leaves the three of you clear to do the actual finding and fetching.’
‘Quicker we’re in and out, the better for all concerned.’
‘Stil
l can’t see it, though, Mike - you and the old professor guy and that poofy-looking pal of yours? More I think about it, more I’m convinced it’s a wind-up.’
‘You don’t think it’ll work?’
‘Actually, it sounds all right. It’s the planners rather than the plan I’m thinking of . . .’
‘Needn’t concern you, Chib. If it falls apart, it’s our problem - you’ll still get your fee, and so will the four crew. Have you got anyone in mind?’
‘You want them young,’ Chib stated. ‘Means they’re hungry, on top of which there’s all that testosterone . . . makes them even scarier.’
‘How much will they want?’
But Chib shook his head. ‘Guns and bodies aren’t a problem. Crew don’t even need to be told who they’re working for - a word from me’ll be enough. All they’ll see is a warehouse, won’t know what’s being taken.’
‘They will if they’re in the back of the van. Speaking of which . . .’
‘Getting a van’s easy enough - maybe with faked number plates. Something plain, something like a Transit. Nobody looks twice at blacked-out windows in the back of one of those . . .’
‘Fair enough. So, really, we’re back to your fee . . .’
‘How does a hundred and fifty thou sound?’
Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘Bit on the high side, actually,’ he was able to say eventually. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’
Chib barked out a laugh and slid a hand from his pocket so he could slap Mike on the arm with it. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered. ‘I’d be willing to take a painting off your hands, so long as it was worth that sort of money.’
‘What?’
‘Auctions don’t make much sense to me, Mike. You’re planning on lifting seven paintings . . . seems to me one extra won’t make much difference.’
‘You’d never be able to sell it . . . not on the open market.’
‘I’m not planning on selling it.’
‘If one forgery’s identified,’ Mike persisted, ‘the others won’t be far behind.’
Chib’s face hardened. ‘That’s my price, Mike. Unless you want to stump up the cash equivalent.’
Mike thought hard. ‘Our forger’s pushed as it is,’ was all he could manage.
‘Then we push him harder.’ Chib had leaned in towards Mike. Although the gangster was a good couple of inches shorter than him, Mike felt he was being towered over. The city he knew was no longer visible and the temperature had dropped. The bird-feeders had disappeared. No cars passed, no other humans within hailing distance. ‘Have we got a deal?’ Chib was intoning. ‘Or do I start to get narked again that you lied to me back in that gallery?’
One of the ducks had vanished beneath the surface of the pond. Mike was beginning to understand how it felt . . .
The oversized envelope had been left at reception by a courier. Allan opened it in his office, relieved afterwards that he hadn’t delegated the task to his secretary - a scale photocopy of Gissing’s drawing of the compound.
‘You silly bugger, Robert,’ Allan muttered. No forewarning; no sense of danger. And now a receipt on file at the courier company - urgent delivery of documents from Professor R. Gissing, Edinburgh College of Art, to Mr A. Cruikshank, HNW Relationship Manager, First Caledonian Bank. Allan shook his head slowly. The beginnings of a paper trail now existed where none had been necessary. Despite which, he was glad to have the plans. He would lock them in his briefcase and take them home with him at day’s end. He would close his curtains and make sure his front door was bolted. And only then would he spread them out on the table, pouring himself a glass of Rioja and commencing to study them.
Determined to prove himself.
Determined to pay his way.
He might even push the glass to one side, keeping a clear head for later, when a night-time drive down to Granton’s industrial estates and warehouses might be in order.
11
Chib was having dinner that evening with a woman who ran an escort agency. A couple of years back, he had offered to help her with the business, an offer she’d turned down out of hand. All the same, Chib had grown to like her. She was tougher than most of the men he knew, tougher certainly than Glenn and Johnno, the latter still nursing his wrist along with his wounded pride. The morning visit from the Viking seemed a lifetime ago. Chib was supposed to be talking to him tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He had the slip of paper in his pocket, but what was he supposed to say?
Chib and this woman, it wasn’t serious between them. Just dinner now and then, maybe a film or a show. They swapped news and gossip, rumours and anecdotes. Sometimes, he even let her pick up the tab. His wife had died a few years back from lung cancer. It was a terrible way to go - his own mum had been the same. He used to say to Liz, long before they were married, that he didn’t want kids, didn’t want them going through what he’d had to go through with his mum. His dad hadn’t been much use either, hitting the bottle and falling asleep in his clothes every night. Cheery bugger, aren’t you? had been Liz’s response the first time he’d told her. It’d made him angry that she made light of it, but he hadn’t done anything about it - that was how much he’d loved her.
Tonight’s venue was a newish restaurant in one of Leith’s gentrified sections. Chib remembered Leith when it had been all about the docks and the hard men, drinking dens with knocking shops upstairs and tattoo parlours along the street with wraps of speed under the counter for those in the know. There was still that side to it, but a lot of the dockside had been spruced up, style bars opening, bonded warehouses turned into flats. Chib often wondered what happened to the old-timers when these makeovers took place. All across the city, neighbourhoods were changing. Where Chib lived, there hadn’t been any houses at all until ten or twelve years back. Now it had its own railway station. Sometimes it was hard to keep up.
He’d been chewing over Mike’s crazy scheme the remainder of the afternoon, to the extent that he’d lost three frames of snooker in a row, Johnno teasing him that there must be a woman behind it. There was a smell in the snooker hall; Chib wasn’t sure he’d registered it before. It was nasty and vinegary and it caught in his nostrils. Old men’s sweat and desperation; bad diet and wasted time. Nothing like that here - the chef had his first Michelin star, so Chib had been told. Seafood was cooking, and the staff were busy dicing vegetables in the kitchen - there was a window between them and the tables, so you could follow every move. Chib liked that. Back as a child, the owner of his local chip shop used to hawk into the fryer to test how hot the fat was. The thought of it now made Chib’s stomach turn.
He was early for his assignation, and had driven there himself in the Bentley. He didn’t like bringing Johnno and Glenn, even when they stayed with the car or ate at a distant table. They always made jokes next day about whether his ‘lady friend’ snored and how did she like her eggs at breakfast . . . When he’d told them they weren’t needed, they’d been quick to warn him again about the Viking. Questions had been asked in town, feelers were out, but no one had reported any sightings of him. Could turn up at any moment . . .
‘Sure you don’t want us around, boss?’
‘Positive.’
Seated at his corner table - with an uninterrupted view of the entrance area - Chib noticed that he’d been studying the art on the walls. Not even reproductions of anything worthwhile, just splotches bought as a job lot to cover the pale yellow plasterwork. He’d been reading up on the subject ever since visiting the auction house. A bookshop in town had suggested various ‘primary texts’ - the very words the assistant had used. ‘Primary’ to Chib meant junior school, so he’d started to argue that he wasn’t thick, thank you very much, until the assistant had explained what she meant, her voice shaking. After which, they’d gotten along fine. Now ‘primary’ got him thinking back to high school . . . funny he didn’t remember Mike. Recognised the type, though: still wanted the hard kids to notice him, even twenty-odd years on. The scheme wasn??
?t really that daft - he’d encountered plenty worse, and a good number of those had come off. If anything went wrong this time round, well, Chib wouldn’t be there to take any of the rap. The kids he talked into helping, they’d know better than to blab - better to spend a bit of time behind bars than have to face a grassed-up Chib Calloway. Mike and his pals might well want to cooperate with the filth, but that wouldn’t get them very far - Chib would stay at one remove. And nobody would ever be able to lay their hands on the painting . . .
The valuable painting . . . Christ, yes! Of course!
He reached into his pocket and took out one of his mobile phones, along with the slip of paper. Punched in the numbers and waited. He saw his friend walk in, and offered her a wave. She was being fussed over as usual by the maître d’, her coat removed. Now and then, a wealthy visitor to one of the city’s better restaurants might be tempted to pick the brain of the maître d’. They’d want to know where they could find a girl for the night, just someone to spend a bit of time with . . . And the maître d’ would know just the place - very nice girls; all very discreet. After which he’d pocket a tip from the customer, and another next day, this time from Chib’s friend. She was pressing her hand to the maître d’ right now, and Chib didn’t doubt that there was a twenty or maybe even a fifty there . . . His call was picked up and he moistened his lips with his tongue.