Doors Open

‘They should ban nippers from places like this,’ Gle

‘I agree,’ Ransome said, ‘and I’d stop students coming in, too.’ He glanced over to where a solitary teenager, coffee long finished, had spread laptop and coursework over a table intended for four. The laptop was sucking electricity from a socket nearby. ‘But then the place would be half empty,’ the detective relented, ‘and we’d stick out all the more.’

‘Suppose so,’ Gle

‘So that’s the important issues of the day taken care of… maybe we can get back to your employer?’

‘He’s keeping me and Joh

‘Kids?’

Gle

‘So give me some names.’

Gle

‘What does he want them for?’

‘Du

‘Reckon you’re being put out to pasture, Gle

Even at a distance, Ransome felt the power of the big man’s stare. ‘Nobody’s putting me out of the game, Mr Ransome.’

‘All the same, if he’s putting together a “posse”, there’s got to be something they’re after.’

‘Something or someone…’ Gle

‘You’re talking about a hit?’ Ransome’s eyes widened. ‘Who could he be pla

‘Well, there’s this big tattooed guy, foreigner, comes from Iceland or somewhere. He’s in town to collect a back payment on some merchandise. Problem is, your lot grabbed our goods. Hell’s Angels still want paying.’

‘And Chib’s unwilling to cough up?’

‘Four or five schemies with pool cues might be his way of thinking.’ Gle

Ransome thought he’d misheard. ‘Hate?’ he repeated.

‘That’s what he calls himself.’

Ransome jotted down Gle

‘What does Chib’s old school pal look like?’ Ransome asked into his phone. Gle

‘We were in a wine bar when Chib bumped into him. Du

Ransome tapped his pen against the notepad. ‘Could mean something or nothing,’ he admitted.

‘Yeah,’ Gle

‘So what’s the deal with Hate? Is he just scratching his arse while he waits for the cash?’

‘We’ve been looking for him. Bastard must be camping under the stars on Arthur’s Seat or something – nobody in town seems to have seen him, and trust me, he’s a hard man to miss.’

‘Is Chib bricking it?’

‘He thinks he’s got something up his sleeve.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘He’s keeping it to himself.’

‘Maybe this hit he’s pla

‘Maybe.’

Ransome sighed. ‘Christ on a bike, Gle

‘Fuck you, too, Mr Ransome. Last thing I need right now is any more grief from you.’

The detective made a show of incredulity. ‘You think this is grief, Gle

‘Point taken.’ Gle

‘Careful not to skim too much before you hand it over to our friend.’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. Skimming was a sore point with Gle

And to think I had you down as the brains of the operation, Gle

Gle

‘Ever handled a gun before, Mike?’

‘Not since I was a kid. They tended to be made of plastic and fired caps…’ Mike felt the heft of the handgun. It had a dark sheen to it, and an oily smell.

‘It’s a Browning,’ Chib explained. ‘Best of the bunch, so I hope you like it.’

They were in the workshop of an MOT garage in Gorgie, not far from where they’d both grown up, walking distance to their old school. There was a rusty-looking Sierra sitting in the only bay, cranked up above the examination pit. Wheel hubs and tyres were scattered around the place, corroded exhausts, headlamps with wires curling from them. A couple of venerable topless calendars on the wall above the workbench. The mechanics had clocked off for the night. The forecourt had been in darkness as Mike walked across it. He’d felt it as he approached the door – last chance to back out with a few shreds of dignity intact. Moment he went in and accepted a gun, that was it.

Chib had been waiting for him, arms folded and a smile scratched across his face. Knew you’d be game, the look seemed to say.

The other guns were in a flimsy-looking cardboard box that had once contained forty bags of prawn cocktail crisps. While Mike got used to the feel of the Browning, Chib brought out the sawn-off shotgun.

‘Bit rusty,’ he commented, ‘but good for the fear factor.’ He pointed it at Mike and chuckled. Mike pointed the Browning back at him. Chib cocked the gun and angled it upwards before pressing the trigger. There was a damp-sounding click. ‘Decommissioned, as promised. Normally they’d cost you a double ton a day.’

‘I’m good for it,’ Mike stated.

‘Oh, I know you are, Mike. Makes me wonder what this is all about… I’m guessing you can afford to buy near as dammit anything that takes your fancy.’

‘But what if it’s not for sale?’

‘Like that, is it?’ Chib was watching Mike switch hands with the Browning. ‘Tuck it in the back of your waistband, see how it feels.’

Mike did as he was told. ‘I can tell it’s there.’

‘Me, too – that’s a problem. Might want to think about a longer jacket, and something a good bit more roomy. There’s a couple of starting pistols. They’ve got blanks in them, just in case you need to make some noise. Plus a replica of your Browning and some old piece of junk from the Falklands or Iraq or somewhere.’