Doors Open

‘You’re Michael Mackenzie,’ the detective said.

Mike pretended to look surprised. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Do we know one another?’

‘Has your good friend Chib Calloway not mentioned me to you? Or Allan Cruikshank, come to that?’ Ransome was holding out his hand, waiting for Mike to reciprocate. Mike shook it.

‘Allan?’ he asked. ‘No, I don’t think he has. Do you work with him?’

Ransome laughed. Some students wanted to get past, so that the two men had to move back inside the reception area. ‘I’m a police officer, Mr Mackenzie. Surely Mr Cruikshank must have said something to you about me?’

‘Why should he?’

‘Because I’m investigating your friend Chib Calloway.’

‘You keep calling him that, but I wouldn’t class him a “friend”.’

‘What, then? An associate – would that be nearer the mark?’

‘We were at school together, Tynecastle High… bumped into one another again recently.’

‘And found that you share an interest in fine art,’ Ransome mused. ‘Does that explain your trip here today, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘I’m a bit of a collector.’ Mike offered a shrug. ‘Degree show’s coming up and I was hoping for a sneak preview.’

Ransome nodded along with this, but looked far from convinced. ‘So you weren’t just warning Professor Robert Gissing not to speak to me?’

Mike managed a laugh. ‘Why in God’s name would I do that?’ He cut the end of the sentence off with a little cough. He’d been about to add the word ‘Inspector’ but couldn’t remember if Ransome had identified himself as such. He’d already slipped up with Laura; couldn’t have it happen again.

‘You don’t deny you’re friends with Professor Gissing?’

‘I certainly know him a damned sight better than I do Chib Calloway.’

‘You’ll know where I can find him, then.’

‘He has an office on the top floor. I can’t say for certain he’ll be there.’

‘Well, I’ll try anyway.’ Ransome smiled and made to move past Mike.

‘What’s this all about? First Allan Cruikshank and now Professor Gissing… you seem to be talking to half my friends.’ Mike was trying for levity, but Ransome’s stare was steely.

‘You can’t be that short of friends, Mr Mackenzie, surely.’ He seemed about to leave it at that but then paused. ‘I’ve just been to see a man called Jimmy Allison – too much to expect that you know him, too?’ Ransome watched Mike shake his head. ‘He was the victim of a mugging, night before the Granton warehouse heist. You’ll have heard something about that, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘The heist? Sure,’ Mike agreed.

‘Well, this curator… expert in his field… he lives just a short hike from here, one of those newish blocks of flats by the canal.’

‘Yes?’

‘Only he wasn’t there. His wife’s up to high doh – called the police even, only no one thought to tell me. He’s gone missing, you see. Since yesterday. She’s worried he’s got concussion.’

Christ, first Alice, and now this…

‘Could have fallen in the canal,’ Mike eventually commented.

‘Is that what you think, Mr Mackenzie?’ Ransome’s jaw was jutting. ‘Thing about Mr Allison is, he knows Professor Gissing.’

‘Half of Edinburgh knows Robert Gissing.’ Mike paused. ‘You can’t think that the professor had anything to do with…?’

Ransome responded with a twitch of the mouth. ‘Only bit of good news I’ve got for you, Mr Mackenzie, is that having spoken to you, I don’t think it’s your voice on the tape. But pretty soon now, I’m going to know who made that call.’

‘What call?’

‘Ask your friend Allan.’ Ransome gave a little bow as he moved away. Mike watched him disappear into the building, then made good his escape, breathing hard. Allison was missing: what the hell was that about? Maybe concussion was the truth of it. Poor sod could have ended up in the canal. A tap on the head was all that had been requested and required, but Mike should have been there to make sure.

Maybe Allan was right – maybe the best thing to do was ditch the paintings and phone in a tip-off. Problem was, Hate still had his hands on one of them. Plus the forgeries might be traceable back to Westie, once identified as such. And Mike would need to convince Westie and Gissing to give their paintings back.

You wanted this, Mike, he told himself…

‘Oh, Christ, Gissing!’ Mike slapped at his forehead. Say the secretary had returned. Say she unlocked the door. The detective would find Mike’s note lying there… He slapped himself a couple more times for luck, then noticed that passing students, portfolios tucked under their arms, were staring at him.

‘Performance art,’ he explained, striding towards another of his favourite thinking places: the Meadows.

By six o’clock, the offices of First Caledonian were closed and Allan Cruikshank felt it safe to start answering his home telephone. Checking his messages, he discovered that the half-dozen calls he’d ignored during the course of the day had all been from his secretary, wondering where he was, asking if he was ill, telling him she was cancelling all his meetings. There was nothing from Mike or Robert Gissing, and nothing from the detective. Allan had turned off his mobile phone, and felt little compunction to switch it on again. He had the feeling that the first person he spoke to, he’d end up telling them everything. Had he been a religious man, he might have headed up Leith Walk to the Catholic cathedral, where confessionals doubtless awaited. He’d even considered Margot, but she would scold him and maybe even laugh at his plight, relieved to have rid herself of such an idiotic specimen.

Allan’s stomach had been growling since mid-morning, but he lacked an appetite. He’d sipped eight or nine glasses of tap water, but still felt unquenched. Daytime TV had proved little solace. One chat show aimed at housewives had contained a lengthy discussion about the international trade in stolen art. And at the top of every hour there’d been a news update, which Allan always switched off before the heist could be mentioned. He was shaved and dressed in his work suit, having woken up from a brittle, short-lived sleep determined to go into the office as usual. His resolve had lasted as far as the front door. With his hand ready to turn the lock, he’d frozen. There was a whole terrifying world out there. This flat was his only refuge. Most of the rest of the day he’d stayed by his window, wondering if Ransome or some other authority figure would exit the police station and take the short walk to the tenement, pressing the bell marked CRUIKSHANK. There were no signs of any media interest. Patrol cars came and went. Plainclothes officers ambled outdoors for cigarettes and conversation. With his window open, ears straining, all Allan could ever hear were birds in the trees and the rumble of buses on Leith Walk.

He could take one of those buses and lose himself elsewhere. Or a train south. An aeroplane headed overseas. He had a passport, and a couple of credit cards, only one of them nearing its spending limit. What was stopping him? Did he want to get caught? Ransome’s card was in his wallet, giving off some kind of weak radiation so that he was always aware of it. An eleven-digit phone number was all that stood between him and a kind of atonement. What was he so afraid of? Letting Mike and Robert Gissing down? Or the wrath of Chib Calloway? Seeing himself in the newspapers and the dock? Or slopping out with the other inmates? Seated on his living room floor, his back to the wall, he raised his knees and wrapped his arms around them. His secretary would have left for the evening. There’d be no more phone calls from work. If he could get through the rest of the evening, maybe things would start to look a little brighter. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Maybe things would turn out all right.