Doors Open

‘The Audi’s a safer bet,’ Allan agreed. ‘It won’t pick up half the attention.’

‘And you’re willing to risk leaving it on Marine Drive for a few hours?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘I’m assuming it’s not going to die on us?’

‘It’s only just been serviced.’ Allan rubbed his hands down the steering wheel as if to assuage his car’s feelings.

‘Why don’t we just rent some cars?’ Gissing asked.

‘Best not to,’ Mike cautioned. ‘Means leaving a paper trail.’

‘Is that what your friend Calloway told you?’

Mike ignored this. Instead, he had another question for Allan. ‘You boot’s big enough to take the paintings?’

‘Check for yourself.’

‘Do you want to park it overnight or first thing in the morning?’

‘Early morning,’ Allan decided. ‘Forecast’s for rain, so even the dog-walkers may be dissuaded.’

‘I’ll meet you there, then. We can do breakfast at my place and then head to Gracemount.’

‘Is it best if I meet up with you at Gracemount?’ Gissing asked.

‘Up to you, Professor,’ Mike told him.

‘I’ll probably do that then – I’ll order a mini-cab.’

‘In which case, pay cash,’ Allan interjected. ‘Don’t use an account or anything that would leave one of those paper trails we’ve been talking about.’

‘In fact,’ Mike added, ‘best take a bus into town and then transfer to a cab.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Gissing grumbled, ‘you both sound like the real thing.’

‘That’s because we are the real thing,’ Allan reminded him. ‘Now fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen. It’s a short hop to Marine Drive, but I don’t want us getting pulled over by the traffic cops…’

16

Westie was a wreck, but he was enjoying the challenge. He’d complained to Alice about the lack of food in the fridge and booze in the cupboard. She’d reminded him that the nearest shop was only a two-minute walk.

‘Do I look like I can afford two minutes?’ he’d screamed at her.

‘If you stopped rolling joints every quarter-hour, you could take the whole sodding afternoon off,’ she’d snapped back.

‘I’m doing this for you, remember.’

‘Yeah, sure…’

With which, she had flounced out of the studio, kicking an empty pizza box out of her way. But the box had rattled, meaning it wasn’t quite empty. Two crusts with a trace of tomato paste on each – a feast, under the circumstances. Westie worked with music in the background – Bob Marley, John Zorn, Jacques Brel, P.J. Harvey. The Brel had been turned into an accidental drinks coaster at a party a while back, as a result of which it skipped on some tracks; not that Westie minded – he didn’t speak French anyway. The singer’s passion was what he wanted. Passion, elegance and striving.

‘Same wavelength,’ he cooed to himself, picking up yet another paintbrush, grinding its hardened bristles against the edge of the easel. Then he had a smile to himself as he remembered his little secret. If he looked closely, he would see it staring back at him. Westie placed a finger to his lips.

‘Sshhh,’ he said.

And with a quiet chuckle, he popped the last morsel of pizza crust into his mouth, lit what remained of his previous spliff, and got back into the swing.

Ransome was reminded of the old cliché: things were quiet; too quiet.

He’d tried tracking down the man called Hate, with no luck whatsoever. Nor had Gle

Plenty of campsites and caravan parks, but so far Ransome had drawn a blank there, too. He’d then decided to start at the other end, so to speak. There had been a slight frisson in contacting Interpol – he was ashamed to admit it, but it was true nevertheless. Full description… possible Hell’s Angel affiliation… Scandinavian. How much more did they need?

Well, a name for a start, one of his email respondents had joked. As a last resort, Ransome had contacted a mate at the Scottish Criminal Records Office, though he doubted Hate would have form in the UK.

‘I share your scepticism,’ the mate had said, ‘but I can run it through a few databases here and there.’

Ransome had also gone into the Shining Star and asked staff there about Chib Calloway and Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie they barely knew, and Calloway they were unwilling to discuss.

‘Never causes us any trouble,’ the manager had opined.

‘He will,’ Ransome had warned her. Liked the line so much, he’d repeated it to Ben Brewster back at the station. Ben had given a half-hearted laugh, his eyes on the paperwork piling up on his colleague’s desk.

‘I’ll get round to it,’ Ransome had chided him.

But Calloway was consuming too many of his waking hours, along with some of his sleep. In his dreams, he was chasing the gangster on foot through the streets of a sprawling city. His prey seemed to know the place better than him, and would lead him a merry dance through hotels and office blocks and factories. At one point, Ransome had been chatting up a good-looking woman in a hallway, while slowly becoming aware that Calloway had squeezed himself into a cupboard right next to them and was eavesdropping on the seduction.

Jesus, he needed a drink. He’d tried calling Laura to see if she might be free after work. So far he’d left three messages. He was seated at his desk in the CID unit at Torphichen Place and finding it hard to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the place. He’d been to the toilets, splashed water on his face. Too much coffee, he told himself. Too much stress. His wife Sandra had been studying cookery at night school – Thai, Chinese, Kashmiri, fusion. The nightly assaults of spiced concoctions previously unknown to him were playing havoc with Ransome’s digestion. Not that he could say as much to Sandra’s face. He kept a supply of Re

If only he could open one of the windows…

His request for 24/7 surveillance on Calloway had been met by his bosses with a hoot of derision. Cutbacks were biting – where was the money for overtime going to come from? CID was short-handed as it was. Ransome had taken it on the chin and walked out of the room with his pride intact. He’d even driven out one night to the newish housing scheme where Calloway lived. Car in the driveway; lights on in the living room; no sign of either Joh

Gle

Gle

At going-home time, Brewster suggested a quick one. But a quick one was never quick. For a start, they couldn’t drink anywhere near the station – too strong a chance they’d be sharing the place with people they didn’t want to meet, villains fresh out of the holding cells, scowls with a grudge. So that meant a jaunt, and Ransome didn’t feel much like a jaunt with his colleague.

‘Doing anything at the weekend?’ he asked instead, trying to sound interested.

‘It’s Doors Open tomorrow – I’m taking the girls to St Bernard’s Well.’

‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s down by the Water of Leith… used to be some sort of health spa. Kept under lock and key these days.’