by Ian Rankin
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 Glenn and Johnno with him, as if some deal might be about to do down. Johnno had come out for a cigarette about fifteen minutes in, looking bored, checking for texts and calls on his mobile. No chance of him spotting Ransome, who was standing eighty feet away behind one of the pillars outside the concert hall.
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.
It was another half-hour before the auction house started to empty. Ransome watched from behind his pillar as Calloway emerged, flanked by Johnno and Glen, Johnno lighting up at the first opportunity. But Calloway seemed to change his mind and darted back inside again, leaving the two goons to roll their eyes. Couldn’t be easy, working for a nutter like Calloway. Johnno and Glenn both had form. They’d served time at Saughton Prison and further afield - casual violence; threats; intimidation. Johnno was the less predictable, the one likely to reach for the switch marked ‘berserk’; Glenn had at least a bit of sense about him. Did as he was ordered, but otherwise kept pretty quiet.
It was a couple of minutes before Calloway re-emerged. He was talking to a woman Ransome recognised. Calloway gestured along the street, suggesting a drink maybe, but she was shaking her head, trying to be polite. She accepted his handshake and headed back indoors. Johnno patted his boss on the back, as if to say: worth a try. Calloway didn’t seem to like that, snapped some remark back at him. Then the three men started making their way towards - well, well, well - the selfsame wine bar. Decision time again, and this time Ransome didn’t hesitate. He crossed the road and threshold both, smiling in the direction of the receptionist as he followed Laura Stanton into the deserted saleroom.
Not quite deserted, actually: chairs were being stacked by staff in brown overalls. Telephones were being unplugged from wall sockets. A lectern was being dismantled, plasma screens taken down. Someone had handed Laura a sheet of numbers, with a total circled in red at the foot of the page. Her face was difficult to read.
‘Hiya, Stanton,’ Ransome said. It took her a moment to place him, then a tired but genuine smile appeared.
‘Ransome, long time no see.’
The two had been in the same year at college, shared a mutual friend so tended to be at the same parties, the same nights out. They’d lost touch for over a decade, until a reunion had taken them to their alma mater. A few more reunions had followed, though they’d last bumped into one another months back at a jazz concert in the Queen’s Hall. Laura stepped forward now and pecked him on both cheeks.
‘What brings you here?’ she asked.
Ransome was making a show of studying the room and its contents. ‘I remember you saying you worked for an auction house . . . didn’t realise you actually run the show.’
‘You’re way off the mark.’ But she sounded flattered all the same.
‘If I’d arrived a bit earlier, would I have caught you in full flow?’
‘More of a constant trickle.’ She glanced at the sheet of numbers. ‘Markedly up on the winter sale, though, which is encouraging . . .’
‘I’m not interrupting?’ Ransome tried to sound concerned.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Only, I was passing and I thought I saw you enjoying a tête-à-tête with Chib Calloway.’
‘Who?’
He met her stare. ‘You know, the gorilla with the shaved head. Was he shopping for anything in particular?’
She knew who he meant now. ‘Didn’t seem to have much of a clue. He was asking at the end, how did all the bidding work?’ Her face tightened. ‘Is he in some sort of trouble?’
‘Since the day he climbed out of the cot. You’ve never heard of Chib Calloway?’
‘I’m assuming he’s not some distant relation of Cab?’
The detective reckoned this deserved a smile, but it was gone by the time he spoke. ‘Streak of violence a mile wide. Fingers in many and sundry dirty pies.’
‘Is he trying to launder money?’
Ransome’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you ask?’
She gave a shrug. ‘I know it happens . . . I mean, I’ve heard of it happening elsewhere, other auction houses. Not here, though, God forbid . . .’ Her voice drifted away.
‘It’s something I might look into.’ Ransome rubbed the underside of his jaw. ‘I’ve half a feeling one of his “associates” brought him here today.’
‘There were two of them,’ Laura started to correct him, but Ransome shook his head.
‘I’m not talking about the performing monkeys - they’re called Johnno Sparkes and Glenn Burns. They provide muscle for Calloway when he doesn’t feel like doing his own dirty work. No, I mean the tall fellow, wears a suit well, brown hair combed back from his forehead and over his ears. He left here with a big bear of a man in green corduroy and another guy, skinny, short black hair and glasses.’
She smiled at the description. ‘The Three Musketeers - that’s how I always think of them, they seem to get along so well, even though they’re different.’
Ransome nodded as though this made perfect sense to him. ‘Thing about the Three Musketeers, though . . .’
‘What?’
‘As I recall, there were four of them.’ Having said which, he took out his notebook and asked Laura for their names.
‘Wasn’t one of them Porthos?’ she teased. But the detective, her old drinking chum from college, was past jokes and attempts at humour. Anxiety flashed in Laura’s eyes. ‘There’s no way any of them would have anything to do with a character like that,’ she said defensively.
‘Meaning there’s no reason you shouldn’t give me their names.’
‘They’re potential clients, Ransome. There’s every reason I shouldn’t tell you anything.’
‘Christ, Laura, you’re not a priest or a clap-doctor.’ Ransome gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’m a detective, remember. I could stop them in the street if I liked and make them tell me. I could haul them down to the station.’ He gave this a moment to sink in. ‘And I’m sure you’re right - they’ve got nothing to do with Calloway. But this is me being nice, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. If you give me their names, I can do a quick background check without them ever knowing. Much better all round, don’t you think?’
Laura considered this. ‘I suppose so,’ she eventually conceded, winning a conciliatory smile from Ransome.
‘We’re agreed then?’ he checked. ‘This is going to be kept between us?’ As she nodded, he stood with pen poised against his notebook, and at the same time asked her how she’d been keeping of late . . .
6
Gissing seemed in no hurry to tell his story. He was swilling the malt around in its glass, nosing it now and then as if reluctant to take that first fragrant sip. It was too early in the day for Mike, and Allan was due back at the office, having lied about meeting a client for coffee. He was stirring the froth that covered his cappuccino and making regular checks of his watch and mobile phone.
‘Well?’ Mike said, for the
third or fourth time. His own drink was a double espresso. It had come with a little almond biscuit, which he’d placed to one side. The Shining Star was near empty - just a couple of women taking a break from their shopping. They were at the other end of the room, well out of earshot, purchases at their feet. Electronic music was playing through the speakers, but kept just audible.
Gissing reached across and placed his fingers around the biscuit, proceeding to dunk it in the whisky. He started sucking on it, eyes gleaming with humour.
‘I’d better get back,’ Allan started to say, shifting in his seat. They were at the same booth as a week ago. Same waitress, too, though she hadn’t seemed to remember them.
Gissing took Allan’s hint. ‘It’s actually pretty simple,’ he began, a few crumbs flying from the corners of his mouth. ‘But you head off if you like, Allan, while I tell Mike here how to steal a painting without really trying.’
Allan decided he could manage a few more minutes. Gissing, having finished the biscuit, tipped the glass to his mouth and drained it with a satisfied smack.
‘We’re listening,’ Mike told the professor.
‘All the galleries and museums in this fair city of ours . . .’ Gissing leaned over the table, resting his elbows on its surface. ‘They don’t have room to display even a tenth of their collections. Not even a tenth.’ He paused to let this sink in.
‘With you so far,’ Mike commented drily.
‘And those sad artefacts sit unloved in the dark . . . they sit there for years, Michael, and no one ever sees them.’ Gissing started to count on his fingers. ‘Paintings, drawings, etchings, jewellery, statuary, vases, pottery, carpets, books - from the Bronze Age onwards. Hundreds of thousands of items.’
‘And you’re saying we can walk off with a few of them?’
Gissing lowered his voice still further. ‘They’re stored in a huge warehouse on the waterfront at Granton. I’ve been there on several occasions, and the place is a bloody treasure trove!’
‘An itemised, inventoried treasure trove?’ Allan speculated.
‘I’ve known stuff get wrongly shelved - it can take months to track a piece down.’
‘And it’s a warehouse?’ Mike watched Gissing nod. ‘With guards, CCTV, maybe a few German Shepherds and some razor wire . . . ?’
‘It’s secure enough,’ Gissing admitted.
Mike smiled - he was enjoying this little game. The old man seemed to be enjoying it, too, and even Allan was looking intrigued.
‘So what do we do?’ Allan asked. ‘Dress up as commandos and storm the compound?’
It was Gissing’s turn to smile. ‘I think we can deploy a soupçon more subtlety, Allan, dear boy.’
Mike leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Okay, you’re the one who knows this place - how would someone get in? And even if they did, how come nothing would be noticed as having walked out with them afterwards?’
‘Two excellent questions,’ Gissing appeared to concede. ‘To answer the first - they would walk in through the front door. More than that, they would have been invited.’
‘And the second?’
Gissing held his hands out, palms showing. ‘Nothing would be missing.’
‘The one thing “missing” from all of this is any notion of reality,’ Allan complained. Gissing looked at him.
‘Tell me, Allan, does First Caledonian ever take part in Doors Open Day?’
‘Sure we do.’
‘And what can you tell me about it?’
Allan shrugged. ‘It’s exactly what it sounds like - one day a year, a lot of institutions open their doors to the general public so they can take a look around. Last year, I went to the observatory . . . year before that I think it was Freemasons’ Hall.’
‘Very good,’ Gissing said, as if to a prize pupil. Then, to Mike: ‘You’ve heard of it, too?’
‘Vaguely,’ Mike conceded.
‘Well, the Granton warehouse is another participant - I’m assured they’ll be throwing their doors open again to the masses at the end of this month . . .’
‘Okay,’ Mike said, ‘so we can just walk in as members of the public. Walking out again might be the problem.’
‘That’s true,’ Gissing agreed. ‘And I’m afraid such things as guardrooms and CCTV are outwith my area of expertise. But here’s the rub - nothing’s going to be missing. Everything will appear to be just the way it was.’
‘See, you’ve lost me again,’ Allan said, fiddling with his watch strap and starting to text his secretary.
‘There’s a painter . . .’ Gissing began, breaking off as a shadow loomed over the three of them.
‘Getting to be a regular occurrence,’ Chib Calloway said to the silenced table. When he stretched out a hand for Mike to shake, Allan visibly flinched, as though a punch were about to be thrown. ‘Has Mike here told you we were at the same school?’ Calloway had slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder. ‘We did some catching up the other day - didn’t see you at the sale, Mike . . .’
‘I was standing at the back.’
‘Should’ve come and said howdy - might’ve saved me making a prick of myself by heading up shit creek without the necessary paddle.’ The gangster laughed at his own joke. ‘What’s your poison, gents? This one’s on me.’
‘We’re fine,’ Gissing snapped. ‘Just trying to have a private conversation. ’
Calloway returned the stare. ‘That’s not very friendly now, is it?’
‘We’re fine, Chib,’ Mike said, trying to defuse whatever was threatening to start. ‘Robert’s just . . . well, he was in the middle of telling me something.’
‘So it’s sort of a business meeting?’ Calloway nodded slowly to himself and straightened up. ‘Well, head over to the bar when you’re finished, Mike. I want to pick your brains about the auction. I did try asking that tasty auctioneer, but she was too busy counting the shekels . . .’ He turned to go, but then paused. ‘And I hope the business you’re discussing is all above board - walls have ears, remember.’
He returned to the bar and his two bodyguards.
‘Mike,’ Allan said warningly, ‘suddenly you and him are buddies?’
‘Never mind about Chib,’ Mike replied quietly, eyes on Robert Gissing. ‘Tell me more about this painter.’
‘Before I do . . .’ Gissing reached into his jacket pocket for a folded sheet of paper. ‘Here’s something I thought you might like.’ Mike opened it up while Gissing spoke. It was a page torn from a catalogue. ‘Last year at the National?’ Gissing was reminding him. ‘The Monboddo exhibition - that’s where Allan introduced us, if you remember.’
‘I remember you bending my ear about Monboddo’s strengths and weaknesses.’ Mike stopped talking as he realised what he was holding.
‘This was your favourite, wasn’t it?’ Gissing was saying. Mike just nodded. It was a portrait of the artist’s wife, painted with such passion and tenderness . . . and looking uncannily like Laura Stanton. (Someone else he’d met for the first time that night.) Mike had thought he might never lay eyes on it again.
‘This is in that warehouse?’ he asked.
‘Indeed it is. Went straight back there after the retrospective. What does it measure? No more than eighteen inches by twelve, yet they can’t find regular room for it on their walls. And such an exquisite piece. You start to see what I mean, Michael? We’d be freeing them, not stealing them. We’d be doing it out of love.’
‘I really do have to get going,’ Allan said, getting to his feet. ‘Mike . . . Calloway’s part of your past, remember, and probably best kept there.’ He glanced in the direction of the bar.
‘I can look after myself, Allan.’
‘I’ve a parting gift for you, too,’ Gissing interrupted. Another page from a different catalogue was handed over. Allan Cruikshank’s mouth fell open.
‘Better than any of the Coultons in your own bank’s portfolio,’ Gissing said, reading Allan’s mind. ‘I know you’re a massive fan - and there are half a dozen other
s to choose from, if these don’t suit.’
Seeming still in a daze, Allan found himself taking his seat again.
‘Now,’ Gissing continued, satisfied with this reaction, ‘the painter I was going to tell you about . . . a young fellow of my acquaintance. He goes by the name of Westwater . . .’
7
Hugh Westwater - ‘Westie’ to those who knew him well enough - was sitting comfortably amid the chaos of his top-floor tenement flat, smoking yet another joint. The bay-windowed living room had become his studio, grubby bedsheets draped over the old sofa and chair that Westie had claimed from a skip. Canvases rested against the skirting boards, newspaper cuttings and magazine photos were taped to the walls. Greasy pizza cartons and beer cans littered the floor, some of the cans torn in half to provide makeshift ashtrays. Wonder was, Westie thought, ‘they’ still let you smoke in the comfort of your own home. These days you couldn’t smoke in pubs, clubs or restaurants, or at your place of work or even in some bus shelters. When the Rolling Stones had played a stadium gig in Glasgow and Keith had lit one up onstage, ‘they’ had considered prosecution.
