‘Vettriano isn’t universally admired,’ he commented, wiping foam from around his mouth.
‘Popular, though,’ Mike countered, knowing full well the professor’s views on the subject. Gissing decided not to rise to the bait.
‘So what exactly is our gangland friend settling for?’
‘An Utterson.’
‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor?’
‘That’s the one. Westie didn’t think he’d have any trouble painting it.’
‘You showed a picture of it to Calloway?’
‘I did.’
‘And he liked it?’
‘He asked what it was worth.’
Gissing rolled his eyes. ‘Well, good riddance to it, I suppose.’ He took another swallow of beer, and Mike realised how nervous the professor was, while Mike himself was growing calmer with each passing hour. From the internet, he had printed off an aerial map of the streets around the warehouse, charting the best route for the van. He’d arranged with Chib where to pick up the four extra crew, and where to drop them afterwards. The crew would take the guns and dispose of them. Looking at Gissing, he felt glad the old boy wouldn’t be storming the warehouse, firearm at the ready: the hand reaching for the whisky glass was trembling.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Mike assured him.
‘My dear chap, of course it will. You don’t think I’m having doubts?’
‘A lot could still go wrong.’
‘You’ll handle it, Mike.’ The professor gave a tired smile. ‘You seem to have developed a taste for all of this.’
‘Maybe a little,’ Mike conceded. ‘But it was your idea, remember.’
‘Still, I won’t be sorry when it’s done and dusted, while I have the sneaking suspicion you just might be.’
‘So long as we don’t end up in jail. Christ, imagine it - with Chib Calloway as our disgruntled cellmate.’
Gissing raised a hand, palm out. ‘As the Americans might say, let’s not even go there.’
They shared a smile and concentrated on their drinks. Just one more day to go. Mike knew he’d have to fill tomorrow with activity, so that he didn’t start to fret. They’d gone over the plan on paper, rehearsed the details a dozen times. Allan had been through it with a fine toothcomb. They knew what they had to do, and how much time would be available. But there were factors they couldn’t determine. Mike wondered if that was why he felt so calm: a case of que sera sera. As a businessman, he’d always liked to be in charge, knowing what would happen, in control of the various sequences of events. But when he’d picked up that Browning, he’d felt a thrill of electricity. The weight of it, the machine-tooled detail. It was a work of art in itself. He’d loved playing with guns as a kid; had a huge collection of plastic soldiers, cowboys and Indians. Hell, give him a banana and he’d have been aiming it at the nearest target. An aunt had brought him back a boomerang from Australia - same thing: point, aim with one eye closed, then make that plosive sound of the bullet and its trajectory.
He remembered Chib, aiming a nonexistent pistol from the passenger seat of the 5-Series. And back at the garage, hoisting the sawn-off. Shifting against the back of his chair, he could feel the Browning tucked into his waistband. It was rash to carry it - what if anyone glimpsed it and reported him? - but he couldn’t help himself. He only had it until Saturday afternoon. He thought back to the Indian restaurant and wondered how those drunken suits would have reacted if he’d pulled a gun on them. Not in the restaurant itself - too many witnesses. But outside, waiting in the shadows for them to come reeling out . . .
When the door to the bar opened, Mike swivelled his eyes. Caution mingled with mistrust . . . but it was just another drinker. A scant week or two back, he would have paid no heed - the world ended at the length of his stretched arms - but this was different. He wondered how he could go back to his old self again, seated in his flat’s spare bedroom, the one he kept all his computer stuff in, staring at the monitor or checking the shelves for signs of his relevance - the business initiative awards and framed citations (Outstanding Achiever; Creative Spirit; Scottish Entrepreneur . . .). What did any of it mean?
The drinker had joined his friends at the bar. The door was swinging shut again, reminding Mike of that day at the auction house.
When one door opens, another closes . . .
And vice versa, obviously.
‘We’re really going to do it, aren’t we?’ Gissing had punched his right fist into his left palm and was rubbing the one against the other.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mike confirmed. ‘No getting away from it now.’
‘Getting away from it may not be the problem. We need to focus on getting away with it. And what happens afterwards, Michael?’
‘We’re freedom fighters, remember . . . afterwards, we get to feel good.’ Mike shrugged; he had nothing else to offer as yet. The professor was silent for a few moments. Then he sighed, staring into the remains of his beer.
‘Cezanne’s Boy in a Red Vest was stolen, you know - not so long ago. From a museum in Switzerland. They reckon it was taken to order. Someone has it on their wall at home.’
‘I heard about it. Interpol reckon six billion dollars’ worth gets stolen each year . . . know how much of it they recover? Not much.’ Mike saw the enquiring look on Gissing’s face. ‘I’ve done my research, Robert. Few clicks of the mouse and there it was - fourth largest criminal enterprise in the world after drugs, arms-running and money-laundering. Which is good news for us - means that if and when our little undertaking is discovered, the police will be focusing on criminal gangs.’
‘And we’re not one of those?’
‘Not the way the local plod would understand it.’
‘You see yourself more as Thomas Crown,’ Gissing teased. ‘Does that make Laura your Faye Dunaway?’
‘I’m a long way short of Steve McQueen, Prof - or Pierce Brosnan, come to that . . .’
They had another little laugh to themselves.
‘“The still watches of the night”,’ Gissing eventually said.
‘Sounds like a quote.’
‘A Victorian cat burglar called Adam Worth - some say he’s the basis for Moriarty. He once stole a Gainsborough and said it was so he could worship it in “the still watches of the night”.’
‘I hope he worshipped it in daylight, too.’
Gissing nodded, deep in thought.
‘Another?’ Mike offered.
Gissing shook his head. ‘Early night for me,’ he said. ‘What was Allan’s excuse this time?’
‘Dinner with a client. Wasn’t sure how long it would go on. But he’s cleared his diary for tomorrow.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Gissing rose slowly to his feet, then noticed there was a trickle of whisky remaining, so drained it and exhaled noisily. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Michael. Try to get some rest.’
‘Do you need me to run you home?’
Gissing waved the offer aside and made for the door. Mike waited a couple of minutes, then emptied his own glass and nodded goodbye to the barman as he exited. His car was on a single yellow line fifty yards along the road. There was no sign of the professor. This was a street of galleries. Mike peered through the window of the nearest, but couldn’t make out anything other than vague shapes on the walls. He looked to left and right, but saw nothing to trouble him. Unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat. He decided to take the long route home, the one that would lead him past Allan’s flat. It was just off Leith Walk, in an undistinguished part of the New Town. Nice flat, though, and never any trouble in the vicinity, due in no small part to the police station directly opposite. Mike kept his indicators on as he stopped adjacent to two patrol cars. They were parked kerbside, locked and empty. Allan’s flat was two floors up. The lights were on behind the curtains. Didn’t mean he was home, of course - could be for security. Didn’t mean he’d lied about the dinner. Didn’t mean he was becoming a liability.
Not yet.
The problem was i
n the detail. Mike had asked Allan to look for chinks in the plan’s armour, meaning he spent all his time on negatives - what could go wrong - rather than getting any sort of buzz from the adventure. Allan had been to Granton, driving past the warehouse, skirting its perimeter, noting movements and personnel, then had reported back with news of several dozen potential problems and setbacks. And, it seemed to Mike, had begun believing the task to be altogether more fraught than was manageable, while Mike himself felt the opposite. Even Chib Calloway - Chib Calloway! - was bending to his will. He rubbed his spine against the driver’s seat, feeling the gun in his waistband. With a well-lit police station not fifteen feet away.
In charge.
In control.
Senses heightened.
Mike switched off his flashers and let the Maserati rumble down the hill into the heart of the New Town.
15
They met at Mike’s flat in Murrayfield. Gissing spent the first few minutes studying the works of art that lined the walls, while Allan wanted to see Mike’s den, asking questions about the spec of his computer and commenting on the display of awards.
Mike knew what they were doing: deferring the inevitable. He busied himself making coffee, Miles Davis providing the soundtrack. The flat was fitted with a centralised music system, meaning anything on his iPod could be piped into any or all of the rooms. The speakers were in the ceilings, but a couple of them had stopped functioning. Same went for the display panel on the living room wall. That was the problem with a ‘smart home’: the smarter it got, the more could go wrong. One of the recessed lights in the kitchen needed replacing, too, but it was a halogen thing and fiddly to install. Mike would sometimes joke that when the last bulb fizzled out, he’d have to find somewhere else to live.
He took the tray into the living room and placed it on the dining table next to the cardboard box.
‘Everything’s ready,’ he said.
His guests accepted their drinks with silent nods, trying not to show any interest in the box or its contents. Gissing had brought a list with him: fake names of the seven individuals booked on to tomorrow’s tour.
‘How long ago did you book the tour?’ Mike asked.
‘It tends to fill up pretty quick,’ Gissing commented.
‘How long?’ Mike persisted.
The professor shrugged. ‘Three . . . four weeks back.’
‘Before we started planning this?’
Gissing acknowledged as much with a twitch of his mouth. ‘I told you, Mike, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I did the same thing last year: reserved a block of names for the tour.’
‘You bottled out?’ Allan guessed.
‘Didn’t know who might be willing to help.’ The professor slurped some coffee. ‘I hardly knew you back then, Allan . . .’
‘And you’d yet to meet me,’ Mike added.
Gissing nodded slowly. ‘It’s one thing to have an idea, another to carry it to fruition.’ He toasted Mike with the coffee mug.
‘We’re not there yet,’ Mike warned. ‘How did you make the bookings? ’
‘By phone.’
‘But without using your own name?’
‘Fake names throughout. They asked for contact details, as I knew they would, so I used the phone numbers of some Indian and Chinese restaurants. They won’t need to phone unless the tour is being cancelled.’
‘And it’s not going to be cancelled this year?’
Gissing shook his head. ‘I had my secretary call them yesterday to see if there was any chance of adding a student to one of the tours. She was informed that all the tours are full, meaning they’re going ahead.’
Mike thought for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to sound reassured. He then opened the box and lifted out the first of the guns. He placed it on the surface of the table, and another followed it, followed by a third and a fourth. ‘Take your pick. Whatever’s left goes to Chib’s men.’
‘And the sawn-off ?’ Allan had spotted it, still resting in the box, barrel pointed upwards.
‘That’s for them, too.’
Gissing was weighing up one of the starting pistols. ‘Believe it or not, I used to shoot as a lad. My school had cadet training. Sometimes we were allowed live ammo.’
‘Not tomorrow,’ Mike said.
‘Heavier than it looks,’ Allan commented, picking up another of the guns. He studied it. ‘I thought you were supposed to file off the serial number.’
‘They’re untraceable,’ Mike assured him.
‘According to your friend Chib,’ Allan countered. He was taking aim at the window, one eye squeezed shut. ‘Thing is, if we go in there waving these around, the guards might get spooked, start lashing out . . .’
‘Chib’s men are there to lash back.’
‘But say one of them rushes me,’ Allan persisted. ‘Do I pull the trigger and shout “Bang!”?’
‘Just improvise,’ Gissing growled.
‘The starting pistols fire blanks,’ Mike explained. ‘The noise should be enough to freeze anyone in their tracks.’
Gissing picked up the revolver. ‘This one’s genuine, isn’t it?’
‘Ex-Falklands or Gulf War,’ Mike confirmed. ‘You know a bit, don’t you?’
‘Actually, I think that’s my knowledge of these things pretty well exhausted. How about you, Michael? Any preference?’
Mike reached around into the waistband of his denims. He was wearing a loose shirt, and the Browning emerged in one fluid movement.
‘Jesus, Mike,’ Allan said, ‘you make that look almost too practised. ’
Mike smiled. ‘I had it on me last night in that pub.’
‘Did you now?’ Gissing said. ‘I’d no idea.’
‘I bet service would have improved if you’d whipped it out,’ Allan added.
‘Once you’re happy with your choice,’ Mike went on, nodding towards the guns, ‘I want you to keep it with you, try to get comfortable handling it.’
‘Not that I should have any reason to use mine,’ Gissing stated.
‘Not if you’re outside in the van, no ... but we don’t know what the situation’s going to be like in the compound. Just needs one extra guard to be patrolling the perimeter and we’ve got a problem. That’s why you’ll be carrying it.’ He pointed towards Gissing’s gun.
‘Understood,’ the professor said with a nod.
‘That was my idea, by the way,’ Allan added. ‘Compound’s a huge area, which makes it vulnerable.’
‘Good to see you’re pulling your weight,’ Gissing responded. ‘When you cried off last night, I admit I started having doubts . . .’
‘That reminds me,’ Mike interrupted, ‘how did your dinner go?’
‘Fine,’ Allan replied, just a little too quickly, his eyes everywhere but on his friend.
Gissing and Mike shared a look. The professor was passing his chosen gun from hand to hand. He tried fitting it into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket but it threatened to fall out. ‘Maybe I’ll wear something with bigger pockets tomorrow.’
‘Whatever you wear, it’s got to be disposable,’ Mike reminded him. ‘No favourite shirts or coats. Whole lot’s going to have to be got rid of.’
‘Right,’ Allan said. He’d pushed his own gun into the front of his trousers. ‘Going to do my groin an injury if I try sitting down,’ he complained. He shifted the gun round to the small of his back. ‘That works,’ he decided.
‘Then we’re all set, aren’t we?’ Mike waited for his two friends to nod their agreement. There was a slight niggle at the back of his mind. Seven false names for the tour . . . booked weeks ago by Gissing. So the old man had known they would need back-up. He said as much to Gissing.
‘That’s not what I was thinking,’ the professor corrected him. ‘My rationale was, the more “ghosts” I could load on to the tour, the fewer actual participants I’d have to deal with on the day. There happened to be seven spaces left, so I gave seven names. End of story.’
Mike turned his attention to Allan - his ‘details guy’. Allan gave a twitch of the mouth, then cleared his throat.
‘The one thing I still don’t like,’ he said, ‘is Westie’s girlfriend.’
‘Agreed,’ Gissing growled. ‘I might have a word with our young friend about that particular little stunt.’