Doors Open

Westie puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of work.’

Calloway’s face tightened. ‘You’re forgetting – you’ve a lot of making up to do after that little stunt Alice tried to pull.’

Westie raised his hands in surrender. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Not for you, Mr Calloway. I’m flattered you think I’d be good enough.’ Watching the gangster’s features relax again, he decided it was safe to ask a question. ‘By the way, which painting did you get from the raid?’

‘It’s by some guy called Utterson – Dusk on Ra

‘A DeRasse,’ Westie was able to say, despite the sudden queasy surge in his gut.

‘Never heard of him.’ Calloway’s hands still rested on Westie’s shoulders. ‘Any good, is he?’

Westie cleared his throat. ‘Not bad. Experimental… style of Jasper Johns but a bit hipper… Do you want to swap?’

The gangster just laughed, as though Westie had been making a joke. Westie tried smiling back, maintaining the illusion while his brain screamed.

The Utterson! Why did it have to be the bloody Utterson?

26

Allan Cruikshank was in his office at First Caledonian Bank’s HQ on the corner of George Street and St Andrew’s Square. The building was becoming cramped, and being Grade I listed there was little way to renovate it to accommodate the twenty-first century. Allan’s office was half its original size, subdivided by means of a partition wall. The only view from his remaining window was of a ghastly seventies office block to the rear of the building. Along with everyone else at his level, Allan worked to monthly targets. His roster of High Net Worth clients had been underperforming of late, and he should have been making a few calls, maybe arranging lunches or pre-di

But then who was Allan kidding? They were no longer ‘just friends’. They’d pulled off a heist together, and Allan now had something he’d always wanted – at least theoretically. He owned two paintings that First Caledonian, despite its muscle, its own extensive portfolio of art, and its own curator, could never possess.

And he hated the fact. He didn’t think it was simple cowardice that had convinced him to hand the paintings over to Mike for safe keeping. It was just that the Coultons didn’t mean anything to him. He realised he’d have been as happy with Westie’s reproductions. And at least he could have displayed those… His fingers drifted over a nick on his chin. He’d been shaving this morning, not really concentrating. Hadn’t slept much either, not since Saturday. He tossed and turned and imagined himself in a police cell, a court-room, a prison.

‘You were a bloody fool, Allan,’ he said out loud. Not that any of it had been his idea, not really. Gissing had come up with the original notion, and Mike had fleshed it out. Without Mike as a conduit to Chib Calloway, they’d probably never have gone ahead with it. Allan’s role had been secondary, negligible. Christ Almighty, he sounded as if he was explaining himself to the prosecutor.

When the alarm bell sounded, he jolted upright. But it was only the phone: the buzzer signalling an internal call. He picked it up.

‘Allan Cruikshank speaking,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

‘Front desk, Mr Cruikshank. There’s a gentleman here to see you.’ Allan’s appointment diary was open in front of him, empty till mid-afternoon. He knew what the receptionist was going to say, but still felt a rush of cold at her words.

‘He’s with the police – Detective Inspector Ransome. Shall I send him up?’

‘Can you tell him I’m in the middle of a meeting?’ Allan waited while his message was relayed.

‘He says he’s happy to wait,’ the receptionist trilled, ‘and he’ll only need five minutes of your time.’

‘Then tell him to wait there in the lobby. I’ll be another quarter of an hour or so.’ Allan slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. The window looked inviting: four floors to the waiting roadway and oblivion. But he knew it only opened an inch and a half – nobody at First Clay wanted an accident. If he exited his office and walked towards the lifts, there was a stairwell for use in a fire. He didn’t know where it would bring him out, though… maybe into the very lobby where his nemesis was waiting.

‘Hell and damnation,’ he muttered, picking up the phone again. Mike wasn’t answering at home, so Allan tried his mobile. This time he got through.

‘Hello?’ the voice said.

‘That bloody detective’s here,’ Allan blurted out. ‘Wants to talk to me. He knows, Mike. He knows. You’d better get yourself over here.’

‘Who is this?’

In horror, Allan studied the display. He’d transposed two digits of Mike’s number! He ended the call, squeezed shut his eyes, and felt like weeping. Eventually, he took a deep breath and tried again, making sure this time that it was Mike who answered.

‘It’s got to be about the heist, Mike,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to help me.’

‘By rushing over there?’ Mike asked after a lengthy pause. ‘And what message would that send, Allan? You’ve got to brazen it out.’

‘Why the hell is he here? Who’s been talking?’

‘He’s fishing, that’s all.’

‘You don’t know that!’

‘We won’t know anything until you’ve talked to him. Have you got something you can take to calm down?’

‘Maybe if someone whacked me with a hammer…’ As the words left Allan’s mouth, he regretted them. He didn’t want Mike getting ideas, ideas he might take to his new best friend – Chib Calloway. Allan swallowed hard and took a nice deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, Mike. Sorry if I overreacted.’

‘Call me when you’re done with him.’ Mike’s voice was all steel.

‘Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call.’

The joke was weak, but Mike laughed anyway. ‘Just be yourself, Allan. You’re a deal-maker, remember that. And Ransome’s not even part of the official investigation. As far as I can tell, he’s been on Chib’s case. He’s probably sniffing around anyone who knows him.’

‘But how does he know?’

‘There’s a chance he saw us at the auction, and maybe at the Shining Star afterwards.’

‘So he knows we’re interested in art and drinking…’

‘You can bet I’ll be on his list, too. But you’ve barely met Chib, Allan – and that’s all you need to tell him.’

‘Okay,’ Allan agreed. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

‘Call me straight after.’

‘Sure,’ Allan put the receiver down, then picked it up again and spoke to his secretary, asked her to head down to reception in a couple of minutes and sign in a Mr Ransome. He didn’t bother saying who Ransome was. Then again, she’d know by day’s end – the receptionists and secretaries were as thick as thieves. Allan spent the time trying to compose himself. He pulled some paperwork from his drawer and spread it across the desk. Switched on the TV to the stock market screen. By the time the knock came, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, calculator to hand, jacket draped over the back of his executive chair.

‘Come in,’ he called.

Ransome was younger than he’d expected, and dapper with it. He’d known HNWs with less style.

‘Nice place to work,’ was the detective’s opening gambit. Allan had stood up long enough to shake hands across the desk. He gestured for Ransome to sit down. ‘Lot of expensive-looking art on the walls,’ Ransome continued. ‘Down in the lobby… all along the corridors…’

‘First Caledonian has its own curator,’ Allan informed him. ‘Our portfolio is worth in excess of twenty million.’

Ransome gave a whistle. ‘Do they ever let the staff borrow something for a couple of nights?’