Mike was impressed. He could see Calloway calculating all the possibilities and permutations in an instant. And when he made his move, it was lightning fast, too. Hate had turned away from him to face the line of hostages again, trying to decide who would be first to die. He didn’t hear the snooker cue being lifted from the table, didn’t feel the change in air pressure as it was swung at the back of his head. The force of contact snapped the wood in half with a crack, splinters falling into Mike’s lap. Alice screamed, and Laura gave a little yelp. The giant stumbled and almost fell on top of Mike, but he didn’t go down, not quite. Calloway started raining blows from behind, yelling for his henchmen to come and help him. The door opened and one man ran in.
‘Johnno!’ Chib commanded. ‘Whack him hard!’
‘About fucking time,’ Johnno snarled, joining the fray. He got a good kick at the doubled-over Hate, blood spurting from the giant’s nose. But Hate was already fighting back, heaving Calloway halfway across the room with a shoulder charge. Mike realised that Alice was screaming again, but not in horror at the events unfolding right there in front of her - she was shouting for help, struggling against her bonds. Mike saw why: she was staring wide-eyed at the open door, beyond which lay the outside world, so reassuringly unchanged and unthreatening. A pavement, a lamppost, the roadway . . . Anyone passing would be bound to notice and fetch help. Maybe a passenger in a car, or a cruising cab-driver . . . It had dawned on Westie, too. He wrestled with his chair until it tipped over. He started wriggling, using any purchase he could find, slithering and jerking his way towards anywhere that wasn’t here.
‘Don’t leave me!’ Alice yelled at him.
‘I’ll get help,’ he gasped, the heel of one shoe squeaking against the floor. As he moved, he left a slight trail in his wake and Mike was reminded - suddenly and absurdly - of a snail beginning some epically slow journey. He turned his head to check on Laura, but her eyes were on the wrestling match in front of her. There were flecks of blood on her cheeks, nose and forehead - Hate’s blood.
As for Jimmy Allison . . . his shoulders were heaving with a crazed species of laughter at the unfolding spectacle as Johnno launched himself on to Hate’s back, one arm around his throat. Calloway was upright again and preparing to charge. Mike was still impressed by the fluidity of the man’s thinking. An ally had become an enemy in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t be sure, though, whether Hate’s demise would necessarily lead to the group’s salvation, which was why he started working away at his own bonds. Westie was halfway to the door now, and Alice was still crying out for help. Calloway had a question for Johnno.
‘Where the hell’s Glenn?’
‘Thought he was right behind me.’ The reply came from between gritted teeth, as Johnno continued to squeeze the life from Hate. But then the giant powered himself backwards into one of the tables. Mike thought he could hear a sharp cracking sound - not dissimilar to the snapping of the cue - as Johnno’s spine connected with the table’s wooden rim. The arm fell from around Hate’s neck, and as Hate stepped away, Johnno slumped to the floor, face twisted in pain. Calloway meantime had aimed a kick where it hurts most, reminding Mike of school playground tactics. But it seemed to have little effect, and Hate swiped his gloved fist hard across the gangster’s jaw. The follow-up punch felled Calloway, knocking him unconscious to the floor. Hate took only a couple of moments to gather himself. Bubbles of blood appeared at both nostrils and his breathing was ragged. His face was near puce from the attempted strangulation. He staggered towards the door and slammed it shut, then bent down to drag Westie away from all hope of freedom. Westie screamed in agony as he was pulled along the floor by his hair. Hate hauled the chair upright again between Laura and Alice. A clump of Westie’s hair fell from his gloved hand as he removed it. Alice was yelling obscenities at the giant, but he ignored her. Instead, he reeled back towards Calloway and Johnno, assessing any level of threat they might still present. Satisfied, he turned his attention towards Mike and the others.
‘I’m going to kill you all,’ he spat, his voice hoarse. ‘And then I’m going home.’
‘Your employers won’t like it,’ Mike said coolly, ‘if you don’t take them their money. Remember - I’m the guy who can deliver it.’
But Hate was shaking his head. ‘A photograph of the corpses will suffice.’
‘You don’t think the police will show an interest?’
‘I’ll be long gone.’ He looked around him again. ‘Calloway has to die, and there can’t be witnesses.’ Hate pointed towards Mike. ‘I’ll be saving you till last, my friend.’
‘Does that make me the weakest?’
‘You’re all weak! This whole city is weak!’ Hate threw his head back ceilingwards and gave a little groan - not, it seemed to Mike, of pain, but rather of dismay at the blunt stupidity encountered so far on his adventure. ‘Someone like Calloway . . . he’s an idiot, and yet somehow he gets to be in charge? You’re fools, the lot of you.’
‘You might have a point.’
‘Oh, I do.’ A grin spread across the blood-smeared face as Hate reached behind him, into the collar of his shirt. Slowly he pulled out a slender, gleaming knife and started to survey his kingdom. Calloway, unconscious on the floor, blood trickling from one ear. Johnno in a heap, conscious but wishing otherwise, moaning in agony. And the five trussed figures in their chairs.
‘Best thing you can do,’ Mike stated, ‘is walk away from here before Glenn comes back with the cavalry.’
‘Glenn?’
‘Calloway has two bodyguards, remember. You might not have much time.’
‘He’ll find his boss dead, along with the rest of you.’
Mike came to the conclusion that at long last he had run out of options. His only hope was to charge at the man, try ramming his head into his stomach. He knew it was hopeless, but what else was there? Hate himself seemed to realise this and gave a soft chuckle. Mike turned towards Laura. She was trying hard to hold back the tears.
‘Not exactly how I’d hoped things might work out for the two of us,’ he apologised.
‘As second dates go, I’ll admit I’ve had better.’
Westie, who’d started struggling against his bonds again, had keeled over on to the floor for a second time. Alice wasn’t far off joining him. Allison was still chuckling to himself, eyes screwed shut, sanity evaporating. And all of this for a few paintings, Mike thought. All because I was bored, pampered, infatuated, and greedy.
And tricked by the greater villain - Professor Robert Gissing.
It galled him to think that Gissing was dodging all of this, enjoying his retirement surrounded by however many masterpieces. Cocktails on the patio and lazy days in the sun . . .
‘One last thing,’ he said, gaining the murderous giant’s irritated attention. ‘I’ve told Calloway and now I’m telling you - Robert Gissing is the man who conned all of us. Find Gissing and you’ll have your hands on an art collection worth millions. Remember to tell your client that when you get home.’
Hate thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ he said. ‘And to return the favour, I’ll make this quick - not painless, maybe, but quick . . .’
He placed himself in front of Laura, leaned down a little towards her, and drew back the knife. Laura’s scream drilled into Mike’s ears. He squeezed shut his eyes, straining one last time at his bonds. But then there was another sound, that of a door being kicked in. He opened his eyes to the sight of figures streaming through the doorway, dressed in black stab vests and some of them wearing visored helmets. On each chest, the word POLICE was picked out in white lettering. The officer at the front had dropped to one knee, and Mike realised he was pointing a pistol at Hate. Hate froze for a moment, the knife poised. Laura’s mouth was still gaping, though her screams had been silenced by the arrival of the cops. Hate turned his head so his eyes met Mike’s. The look was worth a thousand words. The officers were barking out a repeated order and eventually the giant complied.
The knife fell to the floor with a clatter and he raised his arms above his head, kneeling down as instructed, sliding his hands slowly around to the back of his head, awaiting the restraints.
The officers fell on him. The pistol was reholstered only after the handcuffs had been securely fastened.
‘We were told there are firearms,’ one of the faces behind a visor stated.
‘I’ve not seen any,’ Mike told him.
‘Get me out of this bloody chair!’ Alice yelped.
Mike was looking towards the doorway. Glenn, the missing henchman, was standing there. So was Detective Inspector Ransome. Ransome was whistling a little tune, hands in trouser pockets, as he stepped inside. He stared down at Calloway, then crouched down in front of him and checked his neck for a pulse. Satisfied, rubbing a little of Calloway’s blood between thumb and forefinger, he stood up again and headed for the row of chairs.
‘Anybody hurt?’ he asked. For some reason, the question made Laura laugh.
‘Use your eyes, Ransome,’ she said. ‘The guy at the end is barely breathing!’
Ransome ordered two officers to get the curator into an ambulance, then stopped to pick up Hate’s knife, checking it for blood. When he saw it hadn’t been used, he sliced through the tape with it, so that Laura’s hands were free. Despite Alice’s pleas, Mike was next. Ransome handed the knife to laura and asked her to do the honours. She looked towards Hate and then at the knife, but Ransome tutted.
‘Enough drama for one day,’ he chided her. ‘Leave Mr Bodrum to us.’
‘He might be Bodrum to you,’ Mike commented, ‘but he’ll always be Hate to me.’
As Laura began cutting Alice and Westie free - the latter complaining that he’d broken his arm when he fell - Ransome helped Mike rid himself of the ties around his ankles, then had to help him to his feet.
‘Better?’ the detective asked.
Mike nodded his agreement. He felt light-headed and his headache was intensifying. ‘How did you find us?’ he managed to ask.
‘Glenn Burns. But to be honest, we were already on your trail . . .’ The detective turned his head towards the doorway, Mike following suit. Allan was standing there, looking slightly sheepish. When Mike smiled and nodded, he came inside, taking in as much as he could.
‘Christ, Mike,’ he said, wrapping his arms around him. Mike whispered into his ear.
‘How much have you told him?’
When the embrace was finished, the look in Allan’s eyes was clear.
Everything.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ Mike answered.
‘I hope it was all worth it,’ Ransome mused.
‘Ports and airports,’ Mike said, grabbing the detective by the arm. ‘You’ve got to stop Robert Gissing leaving the country.’
‘Might be a bit late for that, Mr Mackenzie. Besides, it’s not your little Ladykillers gang that concerns me - a DI called Hendricks will be wanting to speak to you about all that.’ Ransome nodded in Calloway’s direction. ‘There’s the prize I was after . . . so I suppose really I should be thanking you for delivering it.’ With a smile, he moved off, just as the paramedics arrived. Hate was on his feet and, flanked by policemen, about to be escorted outside.
‘Looks like you won’t be going home just yet,’ Mike called out to him.
‘I’m not the only one,’ the giant spat back.
‘There’s something in that,’ Laura conceded.
36
‘You will testify against Calloway?’ Ransome asked.
Mike was being led towards a waiting police van, Allan next to him. Handcuffs had not been thought necessary. The DI called Hendricks had turned up, looking grumpy. Mike had watched Ransome explain the situation to him, which had done little to lighten his colleague’s mood but had given an extra spring to Ransome’s own step afterwards.
Mike shrugged now. It was a good question, after all. ‘Should really be the other way round,’ he told Ransome. ‘After all, I’m the one who dragged him into it.’
‘But you will testify.’ It sounded like a statement of fact rather than any kind of question. ‘If you do, it’ll go easier for you.’
‘Meaning what?’
Ransome shrugged. ‘Six years instead of eight. You’d be out of jail inside three. I’m sure you can afford the best lawyers in the land, Mr Mackenzie, and it shouldn’t be too hard for them to paint a picture of you in court as a naïve playboy who got in with the wrong crowd. Maybe a friendly psychoanalyst can plead diminished responsibility.’
‘Meaning I’m not in my right mind?’
‘Not at the time, no.’
‘How about me?’ Allan asked. ‘Where do I figure in this?’
‘Same goes, but with the added factor that you did the right thing and turned yourself in, and in the process helped save five people from being tortured and killed.’
‘Seven, actually,’ Mike corrected the detective. ‘Hate wasn’t about to leave Chib and Johnno alive.’
‘See?’ Ransome told Allan. ‘You’re practically a hero.’
An ambulance was parked next to the police van, and Jimmy Allison was being stretchered into it, an oxygen mask tied to his face. Another stretcher would be needed for Johnno. One man required a blood transfusion and some stitches, plus a potential lifetime of psychological counselling.
The other needed a new spine.
Mike wondered again at the sheer nerve of Robert Gissing: stealing paintings for years, never detected but about to be undone by something as straightforward as an inventory. Gissing, railing against the storing from view of so many important and beautiful works, making the same argument to practically everyone he met . . . in order to seek out a few gullible souls who might be duped into doing something about it. Then seeing to it that Allison was attacked so that he himself would be on hand to verify a series of fakes.
It was sublime, but so much could have gone wrong. Nevertheless, it was the only roll of the dice left to Gissing. And against all the odds, it had worked. And now Mike would go to jail and Allan would go to jail and Westie would go to jail. Allan looked devastated, but Westie didn’t seem too bothered. Mike had heard him inside the snooker hall, explaining to Alice that prisoners got to do art classes and everything.
‘Might well make the Westie brand even more valuable when I come out. Notoriety is something you can’t just buy off the shelf . . .’
Maybe he had a point at that, but it hadn’t stopped Alice from giving him a solid punch to his damaged arm, so that he’d howled and doubled over while she turned and walked away.
She would be taken in for questioning. They would all be questioned, especially Hate, who even now was struggling against his restraints and his captors both. He was like a force of nature, and Mike was thankful the giant was being afforded a van of his very own.
‘If we all go to jail,’ Mike asked Ransome, ‘will we be in the same wing as Calloway and Hate?’
‘I doubt it. We’ll find you the softest option possible.’
‘Even so, Calloway’s bound to have friends on the inside.’
Ransome gave a little chuckle. ‘I think you’re overestimating him, Mr Mackenzie. Chib’s got more enemies than friends behind bars. You’ll be fine, trust me.’
There was a shout from nearby. It was Glenn Burns. He was being led in handcuffs to a waiting patrol car.
‘You fucking well owe me, Ransome! You owe me everything!’
Ransome ignored the outburst and concentrated on Mike instead. The van doors stood wide open. They led to an inner cage with two bench seats.
‘So Gissing’s got all the missing paintings?’ Ransome asked.
Mike nodded. ‘Calloway’s got a couple of the ones we swapped, if he hasn’t already trashed them.’
Ransome nodded. ‘Mr Cruikshank here told me all about them. And Westwater and his girlfriend have another?’
‘A DeRasse.’
‘And what exactly are you left with, Mr Mackenzie?’
/> Mike considered this. ‘I’ve got my health, I suppose. And a story to tell the grandkids.’ He watched as Laura was brought out of the snooker hall. ‘Incidentally, Laura’s got nothing to do with any of it. I know she’s a friend of yours . . .’
‘She’ll have to give us a statement,’ Ransome said. ‘After that, I’ll see she gets home.’
‘Thanks.’ Mike stared at the inside of the van.
‘Not easy, is it, sir?’ Ransome asked.
‘What?’
‘Being a criminal mastermind.’