Doors Open

‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.

‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once…’

‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too…

Chib had hunkered down in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his face up so they were eye to eye.

‘Am I in the mood for jokes?’ the gangster spat. There were flecks of white either side of his mouth.

‘I don’t keep cash around the house,’ Mike said between gasps. ‘Never know when someone might come waltzing in. And even… even making a request to my bank… it takes time… time to arrange that sort of money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Plus, as soon as I say “cash”, alarm bells are going to ring.’

‘Money-laundering,’ Hate agreed. ‘The banks have to inform the authorities.’

‘And you’re suddenly the Bank of fucking Scotland?’ Chib roared at him.

‘Look,’ Mike said, having regained most of his breath. ‘Those four paintings are worth a lot more than the money you’re asking. Why not just take three of them? Maybe leave me one…’ He nodded towards Mr Allison. ‘We’ve got the very man here who can judge them authentic.’

Chib stared at him. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve, Mike.’ Then, over his shoulder towards Hate: ‘What do you think? Want to take your pick?’

Hate’s response was to walk over to the coffee table, lift the Cadell beach scene, and stick his fist straight through it. Calmly, the huge man then lifted the Monboddo – the glorious portrait of Beatrice – and did exactly the same thing.

‘Get the picture?’ he said.

‘I think so,’ Mike answered with a fresh groan. As Chib released his hair, he started to get to his feet, checking that his knees would lock and hold him upright. The painting… Hate had dropped it back on to the table. Was it beyond repair? No way of telling. And there sat Allan’s two ugly offerings, pristine and untroubled. ‘So what now?’ he asked to nobody in particular.

‘We wait here till morning,’ Chib replied. ‘Then a little trip to the bank, followed by a friendly visit to our art-forger-cum-dead-man.’

Mike had picked up the portrait of Beatrice. ‘They can’t all be fakes,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘All that matters is, mine was,’ Chib stated. ‘Big mistake.’

‘But not my mistake, Chib.’

The gangster shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, you’re the one with the money.’

‘Which the bank won’t just hand over!’

‘Ever heard of transfers, Mike? I’ve got accounts all over the place, in any number of names. The dough goes into one of those, I close the account pronto, and Hate here gets his share.’

Hate didn’t look thrilled by this scenario. Mike guessed the man had already been kept waiting longer than he liked.

‘Why do you think Westie did it?’ Mike asked Chib.

‘We’ll soon find out.’ Chib was studying Allan’s two paintings, one in either hand. His own worthless Utterson lay abandoned on the floor, where anyone was welcome to step on it. Chib held one of the Coultons in front of Mr Allison. ‘What do you think, Jimmy – are these the real thing for a change?’ Without waiting for a reaction, he turned towards Mike. ‘Maybe I’ll take them with me, unless you’ve got any objection?’

‘They’re Allan’s, not mine.’

‘Then you can sort it out with Allan.’

Mike’s eyes were on the curator. He needed a diversion, and poor Mr Allison was just about his only bet. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if Allison had much hearing left. ‘I mean, I’m sorry for what’s about to happen to you…’ The man was staring back at him now as best he could: nothing wrong with his ears. ‘They need me,’ Mike continued to explain, ‘at least for another day or so. I’ve got money, you see, and they want it. But you, Mr Allison… they’re just about done with you. And Hate doesn’t seem to me the type who likes loose ends. You might promise on the heads of your grandkids that you won’t go ru

‘Shut it!’ the Scandinavian warned.

‘Just thought he ought to know.’ Mike turned his attention to Chib. ‘I really don’t know what Westie was playing at. Gissing checked all eight paintings…’ He broke off, starting to get the glimmer of a notion.

‘What?’ Chib prompted.

‘Nothing.’

‘Want me to set Hate on you? You’ve seen what he can do.’

To reinforce the point. Hate himself had taken a few steps forward. It was as much of a chance as Jimmy Allison was going to get. He was up on his feet and ru

Mike’s own options were limited. He could find a hiding place and wait there till morning, growing chilled in the process, or he could aim for a main road, where a taxi might just find him. After ten or fifteen minutes he paused to catch his breath, crouched low behind a hedge. The houses here were Victorian: three and four storeys high and semi-detached. Some were used as small hotels. For one mad second he considered a late-night check-in. But he was still too close to home.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ he told himself, regaining a little of his breath. Damage report: his knuckles were grazed and his shins and knees bruised. There was a stabbing pain in his chest and his lungs were aflame. He knew he should head straight to Westie’s flat and warn him what was coming. Would Chib know the student’s address? If so, it would be his first stop, too.

‘You could always go to the cops,’ he whispered out loud. Would that be enough to save Allison’s life? But then what was he going to say? And what was the point, when Chib, Hate and Allison would be long gone from the flat? He screwed shut his stinging eyes, trying to impose some order on his thoughts.

Say Chib knew where to find Westie – Mike’s best course of action would then be to head for Allan’s. They could always call Westie, see if he was available to answer. Maybe he was wandering the streets, seeking Alice… And come to think of it, why was Mike so worried? The little bastard had kicked this whole thing off in the first place!

‘With a bit of help,’ Mike was forced to concede.

From his hiding place, he heard the distinctive diesel chug of an approaching cab. Its brakes squealed as it stopped outside one of the hotels. A middle-aged couple got out, talking loudly, slurring their words. Mike peered over the hedge and reckoned he had a chance. He tried to seem as nonchalant as possible as he emerged from hiding and stuck his arm in the air, gesturing with his hand. The driver had just stuck his roof light back on, but turned it off again when he saw him. Mike climbed into the back, almost overcome by the cloying perfume left behind by the woman. He closed the door and slid the window down, hungry for fresh air.