Doors Open

‘Gayfield Square,’ he told the driver.

‘Lucky you caught me,’ the man responded. ‘I’d just about made up my mind to call it a night.’ He was having trouble finding his passenger in the rearview mirror. Mike had slumped as far down into his seat as he could. ‘Had an evening of it, by the look of things,’ the driver rattled on. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that. We’ve all got to let off steam sometime, haven’t we? Whole country would explode otherwise.’

‘I’m sure that’s true.’ Mike was on the lookout for a cruising BMW; either that or two hulking figures on foot. But the streets were empty.

‘City’s been a bit dead,’ the cabbie was saying. ‘Only real problem I’ve got with the place – nothing ever happens in Edinburgh, does it, sir?’

32

The look of horror on Allan’s face did nothing but deepen as Mike told his story. The only moment of relief came when Mike started to apologise that Chib had got his hands on the Coultons.

‘He’s welcome to them,’ Allan had said, sounding as though he honestly meant it. ‘And now that we’re shot of all our ill-gotten gains, let’s shop Calloway to Ransome.’

‘And leave the professor in the lurch? Besides, Chib wouldn’t hesitate to tell the police everything, meaning you and me would still go away. Then there’s Westie to consider…’

They tried the student’s mobile, but it was only his messaging service. After the beep, Mike left a warning, to which Allan added a yelled coda:

‘It’s your own stupid fault, you moron!’

Mike ended the call. ‘I hope he’s out somewhere and not just wasted or blotto.’

‘If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll have left the country.’

‘That might not be too far from the truth,’ Mike mused.

‘Far as I’m concerned, they can go rot, him and his grasping girlfriend both.’ Allan had started to pace the room, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt.

‘Why are you dressed?’ Mike suddenly thought to ask. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

Allan studied himself. ‘I’ve not been to bed yet.’

‘You wear your tie in the house?’

‘Never mind all that – what are we going to do, Mike? That’s the bigger question. I knew something like this would happen! I knew it would all go wrong!’

‘Well, Allan, the first thing you can do is try calming down.’ Mike wanted to add that he was the one whose house had been broken into. He was the one who’d been threatened and assaulted, who’d had to flee for his life, scared witless as he leapt from garden into garden. He was the one known to Chib and Hate both – the one they were blaming for everything.

Looking at his friend, however, he doubted any of that would help. Allan was muttering about ‘all that pla

‘What did Westie think he was doing?’ he was asking. ‘Could he just not help himself, had to leave some sort of bloody signature? Or was he having a go at us because he really did see us as “the establishment”? And how come he didn’t swap the forgery for the original at the warehouse? Was it maybe just a cock-up?’

‘The Utterson was in your vault, Allan,’ Mike stated quietly.

‘What?’

‘Chib’s Utterson was one of the paintings you lifted from the warehouse.’

‘Then I don’t understand. Are you saying we left the original painting in the back of the van? And what about all these other paintings they’re saying have gone AWOL? How many did we end up taking?’

‘We need to speak to Gissing,’ Mike commented. ‘After Westie, he’ll be the next person Chib and Hate will want a word with.’

‘And then it’ll be us?’

‘Don’t worry, Allan – I’m sure you’re parked solidly at the foot of his list.’

This produced a thin smile. ‘You might be sorry about that, but I can assure you I’m not.’ The smile was enough to prise a laugh from Mike, which started Allan off, too. Shoulders heaving, Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. Allan was catching his breath and dabbing at the corners of his eyes. ‘How did we ever get into this, Mike?’ he asked.

Mike shook his head slowly. ‘Never mind that – let’s concentrate on how we’re going to get out of it.’

‘There’s always this…’ Allan had produced something from the breast pocket of his shirt. Mike took it and peered at the tiny writing. It was a business card belonging to DI Ransome, dog-eared and smudged, and complete with his mobile phone number.

‘Last resort,’ he said, tucking it into his wallet. ‘First off, we go see Gissing.’

‘What if they’re waiting for us?’ Allan’s nerves were begi

‘I’ve got a plan,’ he told his friend. ‘We’ll have to take your car, though, and I’ll explain on the way…’

The cabbie had been right: Edinburgh was dead. It was a pere

There were a few taxicabs on the roads, their roof lights showing them to be still for hire, touting for customers who simply didn’t exist. Mike had considered a brief detour past Westie’s tenement building, just to check the lie of the land, but he didn’t think Allan would be keen, and wasn’t even sure it would be worth the risk. Gissing lived just outside town, and that was where they were headed. It was a large detached property in Juniper Green. Mike and Allan had been guests there at a couple of parties, where the professor had introduced them to critics, college lecturers, and a few established artists, one of whom, over di

‘Always meant to frame it,’ Allan responded with a nod. ‘My big regret is not asking him to sign the bottom of the bloody thing…’

It was another mile or so before Mike told him they were getting close. ‘Pull in to the kerb,’ he suggested. They were still a few hundred yards shy of Gissing’s house. It sat behind a low stone wall on what had become a main commuter artery into the city. At one time, the wall would have been topped with iron railings, but they had been removed during World War II for use in the manufacture of armaments. Gissing had told the story once over port and brandy.

‘Load of bollocks, of course,’ he had chuckled. ‘They collected tons of the stuff and ended up tipping the whole lot into the Firth of Forth. No way you could use it for anything useful, but it made the civvies feel they’d done their bit for the war effort.’