Doors Open

‘And if she’s feeling like you’ve turned against her… well, what’s to stop her trying a spot of blackmail again?’

‘She won’t… not now she knows Calloway’s involved.’

‘She might. So here’s what you have to do, Westie – you call her, text her, go knock on her friends’ doors, any family, that cinema she works in – you track her down and then you drop to your knees and tell her you’re sorry. She’s got to come back, Westie. She’s got to.’

There was silence on the line for a moment, then the sound of sniffles being wiped away. ‘I’ll try, Mike. What about Calloway?’

‘First things first, Westie. Let me know, soon as you find her.’

‘Find who?’ Chib was standing in the doorway to Mike’s left. Mike ended the call and thrust the phone back into his jacket.

‘Nothing,’ he lied, making a show of checking his watch. ‘You reckon your lads will be here soon? I have other business…’

‘They won’t be coming, Mike.’ Chib looked up and down the street as if for witnesses. ‘I changed my mind. We both know this has nothing to do with them. But from the sweat on your face and the way your hands are shaking, I’d say it could have something to do with that call you just took.’

‘It was from Westie,’ Mike confessed, rubbing at his forehead. The day was muggy. His shirt was sticking to his back.

Chib thought for a moment, then offered a smile. ‘He told you about my little scheme?’

‘Bit late to start replacing the missing paintings, I’d’ve thought.’

Chib shook his head slowly. ‘You’re not even close.’

‘So what are you up to?’ Mike folded his arms, trying to control the tremors.

Calloway sniffed the air as he considered his answer. ‘Seems to me,’ he eventually offered, ‘we’re all up to something, Mike – even you. That means there’s going to be wi

‘I’ve got to be going.’

Chib seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Of course you do, Mike,’ he said quietly. ‘But do me a favour, will you?’

‘What’s that?’

A dark smile spread across the gangster’s face. ‘Tell Westie I hope Alice comes home…’

29

‘Took your time,’ Ransome complained into his phone. He was at his desk, doing some actual real work for a change. That was exactly how DS Ben Brewster had put it: actual real work. Sarky little bastard. But now Gle

‘I’ve got good news and bad,’ the voice rumbled.

‘I always like the bad news first, Gle

‘Chib had you tailed yesterday.’

Ransome’s grip on the receiver tightened. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Joh

Ransome wondered if Joh

‘What time was this?’

‘About eleven till three.’

Meaning Chib probably now did know Ransome had paid Allan Cruikshank a visit. That might work out okay, actually… Chib turning the screws one side of the banker, Ransome the other. ‘So what’s the good news?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got four names for you. Chib told me he wanted to talk to them, then changed his mind. I reckon they’re the ones he was recruiting.’

Gle

‘Same here.’

Ransome sighed loudly. ‘Okay then, here’s an easy one: where’s Chib now?’

‘Diamond Jim’s in Gorgie.’

‘The snooker hall?’ Ransome tapped his pen against his notepad, thanked his CHIS, and ended the call. Complaints were rising into the air – someone in the crowded office had farted. Clipboards were being waved like fans; groans and pleas to try opening a window. The smell hadn’t reached him yet, but if he rose to leave he knew he would get the blame, so he held his ground and studied the names on his pad.

Billy, Kev, Dodds and Bellboy. Bellboy was a hard wee bastard. The others would be pals of his; known to local coppers, no doubt. Add Mike Mackenzie and Calloway himself and you had a posse big enough to pull off the heist. ‘The gang’s all here,’ he muttered to himself. He still wasn’t sure about Allan Cruikshank and Professor Gissing. Oh, he reckoned they knew about it – knew all about it. Mackenzie would have taken them into his confidence, bragging, showing off.

Making them complicit.

Making them accessories.

Which meant one of them might just squeal. Ransome hadn’t had a proper talk with Gissing yet. From what he’d seen so far of the old man, he thought he knew the type. Probably marched against the bomb in the fifties. Liked the idea of a student riot in ’68 but couldn’t get anyone else in Edinburgh to agree with him. Typical trendy leftie grown old, still anti-police and unlikely to cooperate as a result.

Leaving the banker, Allan Cruikshank. Ransome intended letting him stew another day, max, before a second visit, trusting the man didn’t have an aneurysm in the interim. But now that the detective had started to consider the professor, he realised there might be some fun to be had there, too. Before that, though, he had to pass these four new names around, get a minion to run a check. He’d managed to shift a further half-inch in depth from his in-tray.

‘Time for a break,’ he persuaded himself, tearing the page from the notebook.

Mike had spent a fruitless half-hour at the art college. Gissing’s secretary wasn’t around, and neither was he. The door to his outer office was open, but the i

‘You a dealer?’ It was the beard from the next studio along. He was wiping his hands down the front of his overalls. It took Mike a moment to realise he probably meant art dealer rather than any other kind. Mike shook his head.

‘There was a guy here yesterday,’ the man continued, ‘looked like a bouncer. I asked Westie afterwards who he was. Said he was a dealer. Takes all sorts, I suppose…’ The man was shuffling back towards his work.

‘Excuse me,’ Mike called to him. ‘Is Westie’s stuff any good, do you think?’

‘Define “good”,’ the man said, moving out of view.

Mike thought about this and decided that he couldn’t. He headed upstairs again and pulled open the door to the outside world. Someone else was coming in, so he took a step back. The man made to pass him with a nod of thanks, then stopped in his tracks. Mike realised who it was: Ransome. He stared at the floor, but too late.