Now this is more like it, Chib thought to himself. This I understand . . . sort of.
It wasn’t the most genteel part of town, nearer Granton than Leith and not yet part of any regeneration scheme. Leith itself had changed. There were more Michelin restaurants there than in the city centre. It made Chib wonder what the Trainspotting tours made of the place. The guy who did those tours, Chib had tried persuading him that he should feature one of Chib’s pool halls. Chib also owned a couple of neighbourhood bars, and had just been into one of them to do the weekly check. He was realistic enough to know that the staff would be skimming, but needed them to know that he knew. That way nobody got too greedy. And if temptation proved too much, leading to takings below the norm, Chib would get out the photos of Donny Devlin and tell the staff, ‘This is what I do to friends who cheat me. So consider what I’ll do to you if that cash doesn’t magic its way back into my till by next week.’
Exiting the bar, happy enough with its turnover, Chib had started gnawing his top lip. The place was run almost too well. The manager had come to Chib from a big pub-grub chain in the south; said he missed Edinburgh and wanted to come home. Overqualified for the job, but never complaining. It was making Chib wonder. Could the guy be a plant, some kind of grass or CID undercover thing? Johnno and Glenn had checked him out as best they could, but that didn’t mean much. They were with Chib now as he crossed the road towards his car, flanking him in the approved manner. Across the street was a park - not much of a park, just playing fields for football, criss-crossed with paths and a few benches where teenagers could gather of an evening to scare their elders. Twenty-odd years ago, that would have been Chib, swigging cheap booze and blasting the ciggies, shouting and cursing, eyes on the lookout for intruders, strangers, victims . . . Top of the world and wanting the world to acknowledge the fact.
‘Hell’s going on?’
Johnno had been the first to spot the Hell’s Angel. Chib’s car was a 5-Series BMW, solid but not too showy. There was a Bentley GT in the garage back home, never used for business. The stranger had parked himself on the Beamer’s bonnet, sitting there cross-legged in his suit, hands rubbing up and down his cheeks as he watched the three men approach. Though he wore shoes, his ankles were sockless. There were tattoos there, too. Chib clicked his fingers and Glenn reached a hand into the front of his jacket, even though there was nothing there. The stranger couldn’t know that, of course, but he still grinned at the gesture, seeming to dismiss it. His eyes bored into Chib’s.
‘Better not have scratched the paint,’ Chib warned the man. ‘Respray could end up costing you an arm and a leg.’
The man eased himself off the bonnet and stood with his hands either side of him, fists bunched.
HATE and HATE.
‘You were not expecting me, Mr Calloway?’ The accent was foreign. Stood to reason. ‘I represent some people, Mr Calloway, people you should know better than to disappoint.’
By which he meant the Norwegians, the biker gang from Haugesund. Chib had known there’d be some trouble there.
‘You owe your friends for a shipment, Mr Calloway, and you have not been forthcoming.’
Johnno had taken half a step forward, but Chib swiped a hand against his shoulder. ‘I’ve already told them the money’s on its way,’ he rasped.
‘Repeatedly so, Mr Calloway, but it is hardly a sustainable bargaining position, is it?’
‘Chewed a bloody dictionary,’ Glenn snorted, Johnno adding a low chuckle.
The Hell’s Angel turned his face towards Glenn. ‘You mean because I speak your native language better than you yourself do?’
‘You don’t just come barging up to Mr Calloway!’ Glenn barked back. ‘You show him some respect!’
‘The same respect he has displayed towards my clients?’ The question sounded genuine.
‘You’re not part of the gang, then?’ Chib interrupted.
‘I am a collector of monies due, Mr Calloway.’
‘For a percentage?’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘I work for a straight fee, half of it in advance.’
‘Do you always collect the other half?’
‘So far.’
‘First time for everything,’ Johnno spat, while Glenn pointed out some marks on the BMW’s bonnet. The man ignored the pair of them: he had eyes only for Chib Calloway.
‘Tell them,’ Chib said, ‘the money’s coming. I’ve never let them down before and, frankly, I’m insulted they’ve sent you.’ He looked the stranger up and down. ‘A grocer’s boy running their errands for them.’ Chib decided a wagged finger might even be in order. ‘You report back to them, and we’ll talk again next week.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Calloway.’
Chib’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
The man offered a sliver of a smile. ‘Because by next week they’ll have had their money paid in full.’
Johnno’s face broke into a snarl and he lunged forward, but the man sidestepped him neatly and grabbed his wrist, twisting until Johnno buckled in pain. Chib noticed that there were spectators: the manager from the bar had been told by a couple of pavement smokers to come look. Kids bunking off school had stopped their BMX wheelies to follow the entertainment. Glenn was ready to wade in but Chib stopped him. He’d never liked playing to an audience. Not since schooldays . . .
‘Let him go,’ he said quietly.
The stranger held Chib’s gaze for a few more seconds and then pushed Johnno’s arm away. Johnno was left sitting on the roadway, rubbing at his injury. The look the stranger was giving Chib said it all: Johnno and Glenn were as much use as infants in a playground when the artillery comes calling.
‘I’ll be sticking around,’ the man was saying. ‘I need to hear from you today; tomorrow at the latest. After that, the talking will all be over - do you understand?’
Johnno took a petulant swipe with one foot, trying to make contact with the stranger’s shins. The man ignored him and handed Chib a folded scrap of paper. It was a row of digits: a mobile phone number. When Chib looked up, he was walking away, making to cross the park.
‘Hey!’ Chib called out to him. ‘What’s your name, big man?’
The stranger paused for a moment. ‘People have a habit of calling me Hate,’ he called back over his shoulder, striding past the serried ranks of BMXs.
‘That figures,’ Chib muttered to himself. Glenn had helped Johnno to his feet.
‘Dead man walking!’ Johnno yelled. ‘Next time I see you - that’s a promise, pal!’ He jabbed a finger in Hate’s general direction. Glenn was patting him on the back, trying to calm him down. Johnno’s eyes were on his employer. ‘We need to take him out, Chib. See him taken care of . . . send a message to anyone and everyone.’
‘Reckon you’re up to the job, Johnno?’ Chib asked. ‘I wouldn’t say you looked rusty back there, but I’ve known scrapyards with merchandise in better nick - and that’s after the compactor’s had a go at them.’
‘We could follow him,’ Glenn was saying. ‘Find out where he’s staying, what his real name is . . .’
Chib nodded thoughtfully. ‘Knowledge is power, Glenn. Reckon you could track him without him noticing?’
‘We can give it a go,’ Glenn offered. But the giant was three quarters of the way across the playing field. No way they could go after him on foot without him knowing about it: there was no cover.
‘Make some calls instead,’ Chib suggested by way of an alternative. ‘Bed and breakfasts to start with. Say you’re from the tourist office and some Norwegian bloke’s gone and dropped some money.’
Glenn was nodding. ‘I want to get his money back to him.’
‘And put out his description among the dossers and the jakeys - that lot have got eyes in the backs of their heads and would pimp their granny for a bottle of Buckie.’
Glenn was studying his employer. ‘Can I take it you’re not planning on paying up?’
‘Let’s see,’ was all Chib Callow
ay said, unlocking the car with his remote.
10
‘I don’t like this,’ Mike Mackenzie was saying.
He was in Robert Gissing’s office, the door locked and the plan of the warehouse spread across the desk, weighted down at its corners with oversized art books. Gissing had paid another visit to the warehouse and had amended the plan accordingly.
‘You turned up there unannounced,’ Mike stated. ‘Might make them suspicious come the heist.’
The professor patted Mike on the back. ‘I never thought of that, Michael. You’re quite right, and I’ll be sure to check with you first in future. But to put your mind at rest, I do the same thing once or twice a year, and I don’t think my presence was much noticed. They’re too busy finding space for all the new arrivals.’
By which he meant the extensive overflow from the Royal Museum. The place was getting a major overhaul, and a good part of its collection needed shifting elsewhere for the duration. As Gissing had explained, it might make their job harder on the day. Items could have been moved to make space. But he didn’t think the paintings would be relocated - he’d made the trip to assure himself of that.
Mike was studying the plan. ‘Gatehouse,’ he recited. ‘CCTV cameras. Guardroom. Staff acting as guides, plus everyone on the tour. If you’re sitting in the getaway van, that only leaves three of us to cope with it all.’
‘And at least one of you will need to be collecting the actual paintings.’
Mike nodded slowly, then began shaking his head instead. ‘We’ll never manage.’
‘Cold feet, young Michael?’
‘Just want to make sure we’re covering all the angles.’
Gissing seemed to accept this. ‘Maybe it’s Allan whose feet are getting chilled . . .’
Allan hadn’t been able to make the meeting. Mike had called it at short notice, and Allan had apologised by text: there were things at work he couldn’t get out of. Mike tapped the plan a final couple of times and then walked over to one of the chairs, sitting down on it heavily, running both hands through his hair while he looked around the room. The office was emptier than before - some of the boxes of books had gone. Pictures were missing from the walls.
‘Allan’s fine. He wants you to make a copy of the plan so he can study it at home.’
‘I’ll arrange it, but meantime, put my mind at rest . . .’
‘What?’
‘Something’s worrying you.’
‘It just seemed so straightforward, back at the start,’ Mike admitted with a sigh.
‘Most plans do, when you first think of them,’ Gissing offered.
‘Bottom line, Robert - we’ve been through this a dozen times . . .’ A dozen late-night phone calls; Mike pacing his living room, deep in thought. ‘You know it comes down to the same thing - we need more hands.’
Gissing folded his arms and rested his backside against the edge of his desk. He was keeping his voice down, aware of his secretary outside the locked door. He’d warned Mike - not too many more meetings, or she’d start to have suspicions of her own. ‘Remember,’ he said now, ‘the old adage about too many cooks?’
Mike just shrugged. ‘The only other alternative is, this stays on the drawing board - a nice dream, just as Westie said, never to be realised.’
‘I was under the impression, Michael, that that’s pretty much been your attitude throughout: a little challenge to keep the grey cells active. Or has the pull of Lady Monboddo finally become too strong to resist?’
‘I’m every bit as serious about this as you are, Professor.’
‘That’s good to hear, because, with your help or without it, I intend going ahead with the plan.’
Mike ignored this. His thoughts were elsewhere. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘The switch - we can’t do it in the warehouse itself. We’ll be in there maybe twenty minutes . . . no way we can walk away apparently empty-handed.’
‘Not even if we’ve raised the alarm ourselves?’
Mike shook his head determinedly. Gissing’s plan had been, swap the real paintings for Westie’s copies. Once that was done, hit an alarm and make a run for it, pretending the thieves had been spooked into leaving before they could take anything.
‘When the CID arrive, first thing they’re going to wonder is: what were we up to in those twenty minutes? How come we didn’t just grab something and run when we tripped the alarm?’
‘Then maybe we should take something . . .’
Mike shook his head again. ‘Better yet, we take everything - the originals and the copies. We only get frightened afterwards and abandon the van, with one lot of paintings in the back. Everyone will be so relieved to get the stuff back, they’ll not be thinking about anything else.’
Gissing’s eyes grew unfocused and Mike knew he was running it through his mind. Then he smiled.
‘You really have been doing some thinking, Michael. And maybe you’ve struck on something.’
‘But it does throw up another problem - we need a van we can jettison, meaning it can’t be traced back to us. Any good at a spot of hot-wiring, Professor?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Me neither, and I doubt either Allan or Westie has the necessary skills. So now we can add a van to the shopping list, alongside some weaponry and a few spare bodies.’ Mike got up from his seat, so he was facing Gissing at eye level as he went on. ‘What we really need is someone who knows about heists . . . someone Allan mentioned right at the start of this project. The raid on First Caly, remember?’
Gissing’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘We’d be mad to let him near this!’ he gasped.
Mike had moved a step closer. ‘Think about it, Robert: Calloway has the know-how and the manpower. He can find us that van and the necessary firearms.’
‘I believe the gangland terminology is “shooters”.’
Mike gave a conciliatory smile. ‘I mean, if there’s anyone else who springs to mind . . . anyone equally qualified . . . Because if we bring in any more amateurs like us, how do we know we can trust them?’
‘Are you telling me you think Chib Calloway is a man to be trusted?’
‘He’s got more to lose than any of us. With a record like his, the law would come down on him like Carl Andre’s bricks.’
‘A fitting enough analogy,’ Gissing conceded, folding his arms. ‘But why would friend Calloway be willing to offer us any form of assistance?’
Mike shrugged. ‘Maybe he won’t, but at least I can sound him out on it. Maybe I’ll persuade him it’s good for art. Calloway’s getting the bug, and I know from experience what that can do to a man.’
Gissing had walked back around to his own side of the desk. ‘I’m not sure, Michael,’ he said, slumping into his chair. ‘I’m just not convinced that he won’t try to push us aside.’
‘Well, we can always call it off,’ Mike offered. ‘At this stage, there’s no damage done - except to my bank balance if Westie demands some sort of compensation.’
Gissing smiled at this. ‘Maybe you’re right, my boy. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that Calloway would bring certain . . . qualities to the project.’ His eyes met Mike’s. ‘How exactly would you pitch it to him?’
‘I think Calloway’s a man who understands the value of a wad of notes,’ was all Mike could think of to say.
‘Then you have my blessing to talk to him.’
Which left Mike to wonder at his own powers of persuasion. Except that, really, the professor hadn’t needed much persuading at all.
‘Good for art?’ Chib Calloway echoed, laughing out loud. ‘I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ve been needing a bit of light relief all day, so bless you for that. That’s cheered me up no end . . .’
They were seated in Chib’s BMW. The two had exchanged phone numbers after their drink together at the Shining Star, and Mike had called Chib as soon as he’d left Gissing’s office. The meet had been arranged for two. Chib had picked Mike up from outside the Last Drop pub in the Grassm
arket, Johnno and Glenn in the back, eyes open for anyone following.
‘Safer this way,’ Chib had explained from the driver’s seat, before introducing Mike to the two henchmen. Mike had met them that day in the Shining Star, but Chib had been too busy with questions about art auctions to be bothered with names. Mike nodded a greeting and then asked if there was some trouble. ‘No trouble,’ he’d been assured. All the same, Chib had taken right turns and lefts and more rights, doubling back on himself so that at one point they ended up passing the Last Drop again.