Doors Open

I want something he can’t have, Allan would think to himself. I want something none of my feckless clients could ever own.

I want those two Coultons.

But he didn’t want to go to jail.

These past few nights, he had been waking in a sweat, adrenaline shuddering through him. He would sit in his dressing gown at the dining table, poring over the plan. How many years would he serve for his part in the scheme? How would his kids react to a father banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Would it all be worthwhile for just a couple of desirable paintings – paintings he could never show to anyone, never boast about to clients, colleagues, boss? Then again, his ex-wife, Margot, had chided him for years that he was dull. His conversation was dull, his cooking was dull, his dress sense was dull.

And his lovemaking, too.

When she’d moved out, he’d realised he loved her. But by then she had found herself a new man, a younger model who wore black lambswool polo necks and a smug, seemingly permanent half-smile. This hadn’t stopped Allan calling her every few days for a catch-up, suggesting lunch at various trendy bistros. She seemed already to have been wined and dined in each of them.

Well, there was one thing Allan could do that Mr Lambswool couldn’t: pull off the perfect crime. Which was why, despite the sweats and the bad dreams, he was determined to go ahead with the heist. Hell, his kids might actually like him a little better, even supposing he went to jail – notoriety beat anonymity in most teenagers’ eyes.

‘You’re sure?’ Mike asked him for the umpteenth time as they climbed the stairs to Westie’s third-floor flat.

‘Positive,’ Allan replied, hoping he sounded convincing. Mike had stressed that his job was to study the fine detail, but every time he made a suggestion or spotted a potential problem, it seemed Mike had been there before him. With Chib Calloway on board, bringing muscle and firepower, Mike had explained that Allan could jump ship if he was anything but one hundred per cent behind the project.

‘You won’t be losing face or anything,’ he’d said.

‘Mike,’ Allan had replied, ‘are you sure it’s not you that wants me out?’

To which Mike had shaken his head, maintaining eye contact but saying nothing.

They had reached Westie’s landing and stood for a moment outside the door, catching their breath. Then Mike gave a slow nod before pressing the bell. Westie, however, looked more nervous than either of his visitors, something Mike was quick to point out as the student led them inside.

‘Your fault,’ Westie snapped back. ‘Know how much sleep I’ve had this past week? I’m ru

‘Tabasco or Worcester sauce?’ Mike asked. Westie just glared at him. They were in the living room by now. It smelt of fresh paint, varnish, wood. Westie was using old wood where possible for the stretchers – no need for frames, they’d be swapping them on the day. Where old wood hadn’t been available, he was staining new pine with several coats of instant coffee.

‘Works a treat,’ he explained, as Mike picked up one of the frames and sniffed it.

‘Fairtrade, I hope,’ he commented. Westie ignored him. He actually seemed prouder of the stretchers than of the copied paintings themselves, but as Allan studied them, he could see that they were marvellous, and this was the very word he uttered, Mike making a noise of agreement while Westie preened. Gissing had provided reproductions of the paintings, and these were pi

‘Told you I could do it,’ he was saying. But as he made to light a fresh cigarette from the butt of an old one, he gave a hacking cough and pushed the greasy hair back from his eyes.

‘You need a lie-down,’ Allan told him.

‘Try stopping me,’ Westie snorted.

‘Plenty of time for that once the job’s done,’ Mike cautioned. ‘How many are ready?’

‘See for yourself.’ Westie stretched out an arm towards the relevant canvases. ‘Five down, two to go.’

‘Three,’ Mike corrected him.

Westie glowered. ‘We said seven – two apiece for you lot and one for me.’

‘Another partner has come on board.’

‘Can’t start changing the goalposts now.’

‘Yes, we can. Our new partner is insistent.’

The two of them began to argue, Westie pushing for more cash. But Mike stood his ground as Allan watched in silent appraisal. His friend had changed, had grown into the role he was now playing – deal-maker, tough guy, criminal. Maybe he’d been spending too much time with Chib Calloway, but Allan thought it went further: quite simply, Mike was enjoying himself for the first time in an age. The electricity that coursed through Allan’s body was coursing through Mike’s, too, but to very different effect.

Mike was ready for anything.

A tall man, he’d always affected a slightly round-shoulded posture, as though embarrassed by his size. But now he was more comfortable in his skin, shoulders back, spine stiffened. He made eye contact more readily and spoke slowly but with growing authority. This was what he must have been like in business, Allan thought. This was how he got to the top. Which meant that selling the company had brought Mike wheelbarrows of cash, but only at the cost of his vigour. The problem was, Allan liked this new Mike just that little bit less. In the past, they had gossiped like fishwives, telling jokes and sharing anecdotes. Now it seemed the heist was their only currency. And what about afterwards? Was it likely to galvanise their friendship or drive a wedge into it? Allan was almost afraid to ask. So he watched and listened and wondered about Chib Calloway. He’d argued against the gangster’s involvement, until giving in to the combined will of Mike and the professor. Still, he knew it was a mistake. As a move, it was anything but cautious.

The men Calloway provided would be his. He could make them do whatever he liked. But would they do whatever Mike or Allan or Gissing told them to do? And what was to stop Calloway ripping them all off afterwards? They could hardly run to the authorities to complain. Mike had nodded throughout, then had argued his own corner. Did Allan want to go find some guns? Steal a van? Talk a few hooligans into helping them out? Doors Open Day was less than a week away. Calloway was the only realistic option they had.

We could buy a van second-hand… fake names and paying cash… and do we really need weapons…?

Defeated by a show of hands, two against one. So much for his role as the ‘details guy’.

The five completed forgeries sat on their individual easels. Paint glistened on several. Allan didn’t doubt they’d be tacky to the touch – oil took a while to dry. Days, he seemed to remember. And would they retain that newly painted smell? Mike had come here today because he wanted to make sure Westie hadn’t been tempted to add any flourishes – no drinks cans or aeroplanes tucked away in a corner of the canvas. When he started peering at each painting in turn, Allan did the same.

‘These look good, Westie,’ Mike said at last. The student accepted the reiterated praise with a bow, and Allan knew then that he would complete the necessary eighth canvas – Mike was in charge, and the bow acknowledged this. Allan watched as Mike pulled five folded sheets of paper from his pocket. Gissing had cherry-picked them. They were valuable but obscure and should prove relatively easy to copy.