‘That much I already know, Donny. What else have you got?’
‘More along the same lines, plus the guy’s mug shots. The whole lot’ll be on your desk in about three hours.’ Donny paused. ‘Can I go back to my pit now?’
‘Sweet dreams, Donny.’
Ransome ended the call and placed the phone on the windowsill. Hate was acting as a go-between. No . . . more than that . . . he was an enforcer. Glenn had said Calloway owed money on a drug deal, the creditors being an overseas Hell’s Angels chapter. It meant Chib was hurting, needing a quick injection of cash. And who did they both know had cash? Step forward, Mike Mackenzie. Or First Caly, come to that - and hello again, Allan Cruikshank. Ransome reckoned this was the sort of thing he could take to the Chief, ask again for a full-scale surveillance and maybe some of those search warrants. He wasn’t stepping on Hendricks’ toes - there was no need to mention the heist - so there’d be no reason to turn him down. If a budget couldn’t be found, Ransome would do the whole thing by himself, gratis and for nothing.
All he needed was permission.
He had walked away from the window and now had his back to it, which was why it took him a moment to realise his phone was vibrating. Incoming call: had to be Donny with something else, maybe something crucial. But the sill was narrow and the phone fell to the floor just as Ransome was reaching out towards it. The casing went one way and the memory chip another and the thing went dead. Cursing under his breath, Ransome reassembled the phone, then had to switch it on again. The screen had suffered a fracture, but the LCD display behind it was readable. No messages. He went to last call, didn’t recognise the number, but then he didn’t know Donny’s mobile number, did he? Hit ‘callback’ and pressed the phone to his ear.
‘Thanks for getting back to me, Inspector. I think we were cut off . . .’
It wasn’t Donny’s voice. Ransome couldn’t place it at all. ‘Sorry, who is this?’ he asked.
Silence at the other end, as though options were being weighed - last chance to hang up, et cetera. And then a clearing of the throat, and when the name was announced Ransome put the face to it straight away. After all, hadn’t he just been thinking about the man? Could this really be happening? Had he dozed off and this was all some bizarrely satisfying dream? First Arne Bodrum, and now this . . . Ransome sat himself down and crooned his opening words into the mouthpiece.
‘Something must be troubling you, Mr Cruikshank. Why don’t you tell me all about it . . . ?’
Nice of you to drop by,’ Chib Calloway said.
Opening his eyes, Mike knew where he was: the abandoned snooker hall. Chib was standing in front of him. Some way off, Hate was studying the positions of the balls on one of the tables. Five chairs had been arranged in a line, and Mike was seated to the far right, hands tied behind his back, feet strapped to the chair legs. He looked to his left and saw Laura next to him, similarly bound. He gave a low groan of apology in her direction, which she acknowledged with a slow blinking of the eyes. Westie was next along, his own eyes brimming with tears, then came Alice, whose sharp gaze was nothing but venom with Calloway as its target. At the furthest end of the short, unhappy row sat the hapless curator, Jimmy Allison, looking dazed and bereft, and whose only crime had been to become a recognised expert in his field.
‘Wake up, dummy,’ Calloway was telling Mike. ‘Time to get a good smacking.’
Hate had grabbed one of the reds in his paw and was making his way towards the chairs. He tossed the ball as he walked, catching it each time with a slap of his cupped palm.
‘Lots of bodies to dispose of,’ he speculated.
‘No shortage of resting places,’ Calloway assured him. ‘We’ve got the North Sea and the Pentland Hills, not to mention all those building sites around Granton . . .’ Then, to Mike: ‘I’ve already had a fulsome apology from Westie here.’ He made to pat the young man’s cheek, causing Westie to flinch and screw his eyes shut in expectation of something harder. At the sight of this, Calloway gave a low chuckle and turned his attention back to Mike. ‘But not much by way of explanation.’
‘You expect me to fill you in?’
‘Before we fill you in,’ Hate growled.
‘I hope there’s no extra charge for the lousy puns,’ Mike said. Hate wrapped his fingers around the snooker ball and drew back his fist.
‘I told you, Hate - he’s mine!’ Calloway snarled, stabbing a warning finger towards the Scandinavian.
‘You’re not in a position to order me around,’ Hate told the gangster.
‘My town, my rules,’ Calloway spat back. It was like watching two caged animals, feral, territorial and deadly.
Hate spat on the floor, then channelled some of his pent-up anger towards the ball, hurling it at the wall behind the chairs. When it landed - out of Mike’s sight line - it failed to roll, telling him it had split in two.
Calloway leaned down so he was level with Mike’s face.
‘My boys tell me you were quite the Sir Galahad with your lady friend . . . But how smart was it to go back to your damned flat?’
‘About as smart as kicking and slashing your way through half a million quid’s worth of art instead of taking it with you.’
‘The old red mist descended,’ Calloway explained. ‘Besides which, what the fuck do I want with paintings?’ He rose to his full height and walked along the line till he was in front of Westie again.
‘Leave him alone!’ Alice raged. ‘You touch him again, I’ll rip your balls off !’
Calloway gave a whoop, and even Hate offered a lopsided grin of admiration.
‘She’s a tough old broiler, Westie, isn’t she?’ Calloway asked. ‘Easy to see who wears the cock in your house . . .’ Then, for Mike’s benefit: ‘Westie here tells me it was Gissing’s idea to switch paintings on me. He doesn’t seem to think you knew anything about it.’
‘You’ve been to Gissing’s house?’ Mike waited for the gangster to nod. ‘Then you’ll have seen the evidence. I’m guessing he left town yesterday. Maybe even before that - explains why he couldn’t be reached on the phone. I thought he was lying low, but actually it was more like deep cover. That house of his must’ve been on the market for weeks, meaning he knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘And what was he doing, Mikey?’
‘Let the others go and I’ll tell you.’
‘Nobody goes anywhere,’ Hate interrupted, stabbing a finger in Mike’s direction. The finger was encased in sleek black leather. A driver’s glove. Hate had started to pull them on, one for each hand. Mike knew what that meant: some work - manual work - was about to be done. And no fingerprints. He focused his attention on Calloway.
‘One thing you need to know - both of you. I’m not afraid of you. Maybe I was once, but not now.’
Nor was this mere bravado - almost the only thing he had left, it seemed, was a sudden and irrational lack of fear. The school bully was right there in front of him, and Mike wasn’t flinching. He was aware of the others watching him as he spoke: not just Laura, Westie and Alice, but even Allison, who was leaning forward, straining against his restraints for a better view. Hate, too, hands now gloved to his satisfaction, was acting the spectator.
‘You should be afraid,’ the gangster was saying.
‘I know,’ Mike agreed with as much of a shrug as his bonds would allow. ‘But somehow it’s not working. Maybe it’s because of all that money you need me to get for you.’
‘I can lay my hands on plenty of cash without your help!’ Calloway snarled, but not even Hate looked convinced by the outburst.
‘Let them go,’ Mike stated calmly. ‘I can tell you the whole story once they’ve walked out of here.’
‘Not a chance,’ Hate growled.
‘What do I need the “whole story” for, anyway?’ Calloway added. ‘I know I’ve been cheated, and that’s all that matters.’ He straightened up and started rolling his shoulders, limbering up for the task ahead. ‘Which one do you want to kill first, Hate?
’
‘The strongest,’ came the answer. ‘Always leave the weakest until last.’
‘Wise words,’ Calloway conceded. ‘Probably means we should start with Westie’s little ball-breaker.’
‘Bring it on,’ Alice said, baring her teeth.
‘With pleasure, sweetheart.’
Mike realised that he had to start telling the story - it was the only thing that might postpone all their ends.
‘You’re not the only one who’s been conned,’ he blurted out to Calloway. ‘We all have - in as much as we’ve been set up for a fall. Gissing planted a seed in my head, then watered it by coming up with the notion of switching paintings. The plan was so well conceived, he’d obviously been thinking about it for a long time. In fact, he said as much. But suddenly he had an absolute need to put it into action, and that meant finding allies - allies who’d then take the fall on his behalf.’
‘You and your flaky friend Cruikshank? Don’t go thinking I’ve forgotten about him, by the way.’
Mike nodded, then wished he hadn’t. When Glenn had thumped him, he’d done a sterling job.
‘Me and Allan,’ he said, swallowing back the nausea. ‘Gissing already had his eye on Westie for the role of forger. He was wary of you becoming involved, though - it raised the stakes, I suppose. But he soon changed his mind. At the time, I thought it had been too easy to persuade him, but now I can see his thinking - out of all of us, you were the perfect fall guy, someone the police would love to nail. But then you went and asked for a painting . . . Well, as far as he was concerned you were one of the great unwashed. He couldn’t let you have a precious original - that would have been sacrilege. At the same time, he doubted you’d ever spot a fake, so he made Westie here prepare an extra copy without the rest of us knowing.’
Westie was nodding. He picked up the story. ‘The professor came to see me. He told me he needed an extra copy of the Utterson, and no one was to know about it. I asked him why and he told me I was better off staying ignorant. That “ignorant” rankled - I knew it was the way he’d always thought of me.’
‘So you added one of your little secret flourishes to the finished article?’ Mike guessed.
Westie nodded some more. ‘We made the switch while you and Allan were back in the warehouse doing the final check. The professor hid the real Utterson inside the back of one of the paintings he’d chosen for himself - it was a nice snug fit.’ And then, for Calloway’s benefit: ‘Honest, Mr Calloway, if I’d known it was meant for you, I’d never have agreed.’
Mike watched the gangster pat Westie’s cheek again. He was thinking of all the other clues, clues he should have spotted: the plans Gissing had drawn up, with so much thought and detail having gone into them, and the professor’s own comment when Mike had said that the plan itself seemed perfect - most plans do, when you first think of them . . . Yes, Gissing had had the heist in mind for some considerable time, but not just so as to steal some paintings - he’d been doing that for years without anybody noticing. Sneaking the occasional small masterpiece out with him when he visited the warehouse on one of his many ‘research’ trips. But then he must have learned of the upcoming inventory - a full and thorough inventory - the first one in years. He’d realised then that the missing paintings would not be overlooked. So he had brought forward his retirement without telling anyone outside the college. His house had been placed on the market. And then he’d gone fishing for companion plotters. When he’d first laid out the plan, he’d made sure to tempt Mike with the Monboddo and Allan with the prized Coultons - appealing to their avarice . . . When the inventory’s discrepancies were noted, the police investigation would zero in on these dupes - after all, hadn’t they just pulled off a heist? Stood to reason they’d be the ones with the missing paintings, leaving Gissing himself tucked away somewhere out of sight. Somewhere abroad was Mike’s guess. It wouldn’t be anywhere the professor had discussed; would be some secret place that he held dear. He’d mentioned Spain, then changed his mind and said the west coast of Scotland - one of his very few slip-ups, and Mike should have realised at the time what it meant.
‘I’m getting bored with this,’ Hate complained into the silence. ‘Time to do some killing.’
‘Gissing’s the one you want,’ Mike stressed, eyes boring into Calloway’s. ‘When you’re finished with me, promise you’ll not forget that.’
‘I’ll remember,’ the gangster allowed. ‘But as of this moment, I’m inclined to agree with Mr Hate here - there’s been far too much talking.’
‘About time,’ Hate stated, punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. Mike turned his head towards Laura. He was almost close enough to kiss her goodbye.
‘Sorry I got you into this.’
‘You should be.’ There was plenty of iron left in her voice. ‘So the least you can do now is save the day.’
His eyes stayed locked on hers, and eventually he gave a slow nod, pain pounding through his brain. The nodding appeared confident and the eye contact was good. His senses seemed heightened, just as in the immediate aftermath of the heist itself, and he was with the woman he loved. This is living, he thought. Shame about the rest of it . . . Save the day, Laura had demanded. Who was he to argue?
In fact, the only thing he lacked was a plan.
Any sort of plan.
35
Johnno and Glenn stood guard on the pavement outside the snooker hall. Johnno was smoking, looking twitchy.
‘What’s up?’ Glenn asked,
‘Why are we stuck out here?’
‘Might work better for us - we can’t be called as witnesses.’
‘You think Chib’s going to top every single one of them?’ Johnno’s eyes had widened, but only a little.
‘Seems likely.’
‘And what the hell’s Hate doing here? I still owe him for what he did to my arm.’
‘Some wars you just have to walk away from, Johnno.’
Johnno stared at him. ‘Walk away?’
Glenn shrugged. ‘Whatever the mess in there ends up being, guess whose job it’ll be to mop things up after?’
‘Ours,’ Johnno agreed, flicking the remains of his cigarette on to the roadway. ‘What’s it all about, anyway? Have you figured it out yet?’
‘I’ve got an inkling - but like I say, best not to know.’
Johnno cupped the front of his trousers. ‘I’m bursting. Reckon I can . . . ?’ He nodded towards the door of the snooker hall. There was a toilet in there, but he’d have to walk past everyone to reach it. Glenn shook his head slowly.
‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d try over there.’ He gestured towards the pend on the other side of the street.
‘Fair enough.’
Glenn watched Johnno cross the road, watched as he headed down the lane and disappeared behind a row of communal bins. He’d already retrieved his phone from his pocket. Once Johnno was out of sight, he flipped it open and started punching numbers.
Mike wasn’t at all ready to die, and if he was going to live, so was Laura. It was his fault she was here. She’d only come looking for him because she’d been worried, which meant she cared about him. Least he could do in return was save her life, or (more likely, admittedly) perish in the attempt.
The air in the snooker hall felt electric. Hate had taken a step forward, and Chib Calloway didn’t look like doing anything other than aiding and abetting. Alice had just stopped cursing the pair of them out, having received a slap for her efforts. Westie had bitten his lip, saying nothing, so she’d vented her spleen on him for another half-minute or so. At the far end of the row, Jimmy Allison looked beaten by life and accepting of his fate. It seemed to Mike that he’d lost some dignity and control of his bodily functions to go with the blood on his shirt front.
‘I’ve been in this goddamned country too long,’ Hate was saying. ‘All I want to do is go home - whether I get my client’s money or not.’ He’d turned towards Calloway, a sudden sneer making his face even uglier. ‘I
know Edvard will be keen to hear about the fake you were going to try to fool him with.’
‘I’ve told you a dozen times, I didn’t know it was a fake!’ Calloway growled. But then his own face lost some of its tension as he realised what Hate had just said.
‘You haven’t told him?’ he asked with ominous calm.
‘Just get me the money and he need never know.’
‘But I’m already in negotiations,’ Calloway was saying. Mike saw that the gangster was looking towards Westie. Yes . . . because the Hell’s Angels back in Scandinavia did a lot of international trading, and fine art made for useful collateral. On Calloway’s instructions, Westie was going to make more fakes with which to dupe Hate’s employers . . . and those same employers didn’t know as yet that they’d been tricked with the Utterson . . .