Doors Open

The look on Gle

Chib’s idea was to hit the shopping crowds on Princes Street. Cars weren’t allowed down there, so any tail would have to come after him on foot. He could then climb the steep flight of steps at the side of the Mound and head for the quieter streets of the Old Town, streets where anyone following on foot would be easy to spot.

It was a plan.

But not much better than nothing, as he soon learned. He’d told Gle

‘Castle’s not just for tourists,’ he’d explained to the hapless drunk. ‘It’s a working bloody garrison. How you going to sneak the jewels past that lot, eh?’

He crossed the foot of the Mound at the traffic lights and walked towards the steps. Kept stopping, casting glances back – no sign of anyone. Bloody hell, though… Peering up the incline, he realised just how steep the steps actually were. He wasn’t used to walking. The shoppers and tourists on Princes Street hadn’t helped his blood pressure. He’d broken into a sweat just dodging the buses as he crossed the road. What was the point of ba

‘How much?’ he asked.

‘No charge, sir,’ the guard answered. He even gave a little bow.

Ransome watched as the door swung shut behind Chib Calloway.

‘Now I really have seen everything,’ he muttered to himself, reaching into his coat for his phone. Ransome was a detective inspector with Lothian and Borders Police. His colleague, Detective Sergeant Ben Brewster, was in an unmarked car, parked somewhere between the Mound and George Street. Brewster picked up straight away.

‘He’s gone into the National Gallery,’ Ransome explained.

‘Meeting someone?’ Brewster’s voice was ti

‘Du

‘Know which I’d choose.’ Brewster was chuckling.

‘Can’t say I was looking forward to hauling myself up them,’ Ransom agreed.

‘Reckon he’s spotted you?’

‘Not a chance. Where are you?’

‘Double-parked on Hanover Street and not making many friends. Are you going to follow him inside?’

‘I don’t know. More chance of him clocking me indoors than out.’

‘Well, he knows someone’s watching him – so why ditch the two stooges?’

‘That’s a good question, Ben.’ Ransome was checking his watch. Not that he needed to – a blast to his right was followed by a puff of smoke from the Castle’s ramparts: the one o’clock gun. He peered down into the Gardens. There was an exit from the gallery down there… no way he could cover both doors. ‘Stay put,’ he said into his phone. ‘I’m going to give it five or ten minutes.’

‘Your call,’ Brewster said.

‘My call,’ Ransome agreed. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gripped the railings with both hands. It all looked so orderly down in the Gardens. A train was rumbling along the railway track, making for Waverley Station. Again, all very calm and orderly – Edinburgh was that kind of city. You could live your whole life and never get any inkling of what else was going on, even when it was living next door to you. He turned his attention towards the Castle. It appeared to him sometimes like a stern parent, frowning on any impropriety below. If you looked at a map of the city, you were struck by the contrast between the New Town to the north and the Old Town to the south. The first was pla

Chib Calloway, on the other hand, could easily afford the New Town life, but chose instead to live on a ticky-tack estate on the western outskirts of the city, only a couple of miles from where he’d grown up. There was, it seemed to Ransome, no accounting for taste.

The detective didn’t think Chib would linger in the gallery – to someone like him, surely art had to act like kryptonite. He would emerge either from the main door, or from the one in the Gardens. Ransome knew he had to make a decision. But then again… how much did it matter in the great scheme of things? The meetings Chib had arranged – the ones Ransome knew about – were no longer going to happen. No evidence would be gathered; several more hours of Ransome’s life wasted as a result. Ransome was in his early thirties, ambitious and alive to possibilities. Chib Calloway would be a trophy, no doubt about that. Not, perhaps, as much of a trophy as four or five years ago, but back then Ransome had been a lowly detective constable and unable to direct (or even suggest to his superiors) a long-term surveillance operation. Now, though, he had inside info, and that could mean the difference between failure and success. One of Ransome’s first CID cases had been a push against Calloway, but in court the gangster’s expensive lawyer had picked apart the evidence – to the cost of the youngest member of the team of investigators.

Detective Constable Ransome… you’re sure that’s your correct title? Only, I’ve known plain constables with more apparent ability. The advocate smug and ruddy-cheeked in his wig; and Chib Calloway braying in the dock, wagging a finger at Ransome as the young detective sloped from the witness box. Afterwards, his team leader had tried telling him it didn’t matter. But it had; it did; all the way down the passing years.

The time felt right to him… right here, right now. Everything he knew, everything he suspected, led to one imminent prospect: Chib Calloway’s life was about to implode.

It might well be messy, might happen without any interference from Ransome himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be there to enjoy it.

Nor did it mean he couldn’t take the credit…