Doors Open

Mike thought he could see the blood rising up Laura’s neck, colouring her cheeks. She gave a little cough and paused between lots, taking a few sips of water and sca

But something was happening at the front of the saleroom. Calloway had raised a hand to make a bid on something, and Laura was asking if he had a paddle.

‘Do I look like I’m in a canoe?’ Calloway responded, bringing laughter from those around him. Laura apologised that she could accept bids only from those who had registered at the reception desk, and explained that there was still time if the gentleman wanted to…

‘Never mind,’ Calloway said, waving the offer away.

This seemed to relax the room, and things perked up even more with the next lot. One of the Matthewsons: sheep in a snowdrift, late nineteenth century. Laura had mentioned at the preview that there was interest in it, and now two telephone bidders were going head to head, focusing the attention of the room on the members of staff who held the receivers. The price kept cranking up and up until it was double the top estimate. The gavel eventually came down at eighty-five thousand, which would do no harm at all to Laura’s bottom line. This seemed to give her a renewed confidence and she made a well-received joke, which in turn brought a little more life to the room as well as a delayed guffaw from Chib Calloway. Mike flicked through the next few pages of the catalogue and saw nothing tempting. He squeezed past the crush of dealers next to him and shook hands with Gissing.

‘Isn’t that,’ Gissing muttered with a nod towards the front of the room, ‘the rogue we had the run-in with at the wine bar?’

‘You can’t always judge a book by its cover, Robert,’ Mike whispered into the professor’s ear. ‘Any chance of a word later?’

‘Why not now,’ Gissing shot back, ‘before my blood pressure gets the better of me…’

At the far end of the hallway were some stairs leading upwards to floors where antique furnishings, books and jewellery were displayed. Mike stopped at the foot of the staircase.

‘Well?’ Gissing prompted.

‘Enjoying the sale?’

‘As little as usual.’

Mike nodded slowly, but couldn’t think how to start the real conversation. Gissing smiled indulgently.

‘It’s been preying on your mind, Michael,’ he drawled. ‘What I said to you that night in the wine bar. I could see that you understood straight away, understood the absolute validity of what I was proposing.’

‘Not a serious proposal, though, surely. I mean, you can’t just go around stealing art. For a start, First Caly wouldn’t be too thrilled at the idea… And what would Allan say?’

‘Maybe we should ask him.’ Gissing sounded serious.

‘Look,’ Mike argued, ‘I agree it’s a nice thought – I like the idea of pla

‘It’s been preying on my mind, too,’ he said eventually. ‘For some considerable time – as you say, a nice little exercise for the grey cells. It occurred to me early on that First Caly wouldn’t do, their security’s too good. But what if there were a way to emancipate a certain number of paintings without them even being noted as missing?’

‘From a bank vault?’

Gissing shook his head. ‘Nothing so onerous.’ He patted his distended stomach. ‘Do I look like I could break into a bank?’

Mike gave a little laugh. ‘This is all hypothetical, right?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Okay, then enlighten me – where are we stealing these paintings from?’

Gissing paused a moment, ru

Mike stared at him for a few seconds, then gave a snort. ‘Yeah, right, absolutely.’ He was remembering his encounter with Calloway: Anyone ever tried breaking into this place?

‘No need for sarcasm, Michael,’ Gissing was saying.

‘So we just waltz in and then out again, and no one’s any the wiser?’

‘That’s pretty much the size of it. I can explain over a drink, if you’re interested.’

The two men stared one another out. Mike was the first to blink. ‘You’ve been mulling this over for how long?’

‘Probably a year or more. I’d like to take something with me when I retire, Mike. Something no one else in the world has got.’

‘Rembrandt? Titian? El Greco…?’

Gissing just shrugged. Mike saw Allan emerging from the saleroom and waved him over.

‘Maybe that Bossun you bought wasn’t such a bad punt,’ Allan informed him with a sigh. ‘One’s just gone for thirty-eight K. This time last year he was lucky to break twenty…’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s up with you two? You look like kids who’ve been caught with their hands in the sweetie jar.’

‘We were just going to have a drink,’ Gissing said. ‘And maybe a little chat.’

‘What about?’

‘Robert here,’ Mike began to explain, ‘has been stating his intention to lift some paintings from the national collection without their absence being noticed. A little retirement gift to himself.’

‘Beats a gold watch,’ Allan agreed.

‘Thing is, I think he might actually be serious.’

Allan focused his attention on Gissing, who offered a shrug.

‘Drink first, talk later,’ the professor said.

Detective Inspector Ransome watched the three men leave the auctioneer’s and head just half a block along the street to a basement wine bar called the Shining Star. He recognised one of them – the one he’d seen a few days back, drinking coffee with Chib Calloway in the National Gallery’s café. First a gallery and now an auction house. Ransome had checked the notice in the window: the sale had commenced at 10 a.m. Calloway had arrived twenty minutes early, buying a catalogue from the receptionist and being pointed in the direction of the actual saleroom. What the hell was he up to? He’d brought Gle

But with no clue what was going on.

He was on his own today. Ben Brewster was back at the station, working through a heaped in-tray. Ransome’s own desk wasn’t exactly empty, but the phone call tipping him off could not be ignored. And now he had two for the price of one: Calloway, and the handsome, well-dressed man. He was torn between going to the wine bar, maybe overhearing something, and staying put. He wished now he’d dragged Brewster out with him.