‘Too quiet,’ Ransome muttered to himself, finishing his pint and deciding enough was enough.
Mike was sitting on his balcony, smoking a cigarette, when the phone rang. He answered and there was a lengthy pause filled with static hiss. Then a voice he recognised.
‘Michael, you old bugger, how’s tricks?’
Mike smiled to himself and sat back down. The past few days, whenever his phone had started ringing he’d assumed the worst: Westie had exploded or Allan had gone running to the police for absolution. But this was just his old business partner, calling for a gloat.
‘Where are you?’ Mike asked.
‘Sydney, of course.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Tomorrow. Bit of a breeze out here on the deck, but balmy with it. What are you up to?’
Mike considered all the possible answers open to him. ‘Not much,’ he eventually said. ‘I’ve got half a cigarette left to smoke and then I was thinking about bed.’
‘You’re a desperate man, Michael. Isn’t it Friday night over there? Shouldn’t you be out making merry and draining the spuds? I could ship you over one of the girls I know here…’
‘I bet you could. So what have you been up to? Make me jealous…’
‘Just the usual – parties, more parties, sun, sand and surf. Chartering a boat later on today.’
‘Sounds awful.’
There was laughter on the line. ‘Yeah, well, you always did prefer the quiet life – behind the scenes, I mean.’
‘So did you, Gerry. What happened?’
‘Life happened, mate.’ It was the answer he always gave. ‘Maybe it’ll happen to you some day.’
‘In Edinburgh?’
‘Good point – you need to drag your sorry carcass down here. How many times do I have to ask?’
‘It’s on my list, Gerry.’ And why not? What exactly was keeping him in Scotland? Then again, what was waiting for him elsewhere? ‘How’s your portfolio doing?’
‘Moved out of property just in time.’ Mike could hear his friend exhale noisily. ‘Minerals and gold, plus a smattering of new technologies. ’
‘You should get back into the game, Gerry. The world needs brains like yours.’
‘Pickled, you mean?’ Mike heard a female voice. Gerry covered the mouthpiece with his hand as he answered it.
‘Who is she?’ Mike asked.
‘Just someone I met.’
‘It’s considered courteous to get a first name at the very least.’
‘Harsh, Michael.’ There was a pause. ‘But fair.’ Followed by an explosion of laughter from the other side of the world. ‘Suppose I better go see how I can keep her happy.’
‘You do that.’
‘Come visit, Mike – just picture the fun we’d have.’
‘Night, Gerry.’
‘Morning, cobber.’
Their usual sign-off routine. Mike was still smiling as he placed the phone on his lap. He took a deep breath and stared out across the city, a jagged silhouette dotted with points of light.
What happened?
Life happened…
Wasn’t that the truth of it? He knew he could have told Gerry about the heist, probably would tell him about it some day, if it turned out a success. Or even if it didn’t, come to that. Gerry would whoop and slap his thighs and shake his head in wonder, same as he had when Mike had walked into the office with news of the cash offer for their company from the consortium.
Shouldn’t you be out making merry?
Who with, now that his friends had become ‘business associates’? What would Chib Calloway be up to? Bars and nightclubs, wine, women and song? Fine and dandy, but Mike needed a clear head for the morning, needed to rehearse each and every step one final time. At what point would there be no turning back? Hadn’t that point already been reached?
What happened?
‘A door opened,’ he told himself, flicking the cigarette butt out into the night sky.
17
Saturday was Doors Open Day in Edinburgh.
There was a light drizzle and a chill breeze, but that wouldn’t deter the sightseers. For some locals, Doors Open had become as welcome a part of their year as the various festivals. They would plan an all-day itinerary, perhaps taking in the Castle or Freemasons’ Hall, the observatory or the city’s main mosque. Sometimes sandwiches and a flask of tea would be packed. The bulk of the buildings earmarked for public inspection stood in the city centre, all of it dubbed a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Others lay further afield, and included a power station and the sewage works.
Not forgetting the seafront warehouse at Granton where the national galleries and museums stored their overflow. Much of Granton had yet to succumb to the modernisation evident in neighbouring Leith. Potholed roads led past trading estates and abandoned factory units. The grey North Sea could be glimpsed now and again behind some of these fences and buildings, reminding visitors that Edinburgh had yet to make the most of its largely coastal location.
Likewise, the warehouse served as a reminder that the city’s museums and public galleries, while arguably making the most of their collections, were forced by circumstances to hide the bulk of their holdings.
‘Which is what happens,’ Professor Gissing muttered, ‘when a culture gets greedy.’
He was seated behind the steering wheel of the stolen van. His disguise comprised sunglasses, a flat tweed cap, and a check shirt.
‘No corduroy today, Robert?’ Allan Cruikshank had joked nervously when they’d rendezvoused in Gracemount. Allan himself was now wearing a brown wig beneath his blue baseball cap, and had forsaken his business suit for a pair of baggy denims and a shapeless sweatshirt. The rest of the team sat in the back of the van: Mike Mackenzie, Westie, plus the four young tearaways supplied by Chib Calloway. The teenagers had decided that the only disguise they would endure was a baseball cap with the brim tugged low over the eyes, and a Burberry-style scarf to cover the lower half of the face. All anyone had heard from them so far were grunts and guttural mutterings. No names, no pack drill.
Which was just fine by Mike. He glanced at his watch again. They were parked on the side road with the view of the gatehouse. Fifteen minutes had passed since the previous tour had made its way out of the warehouse, Allan counting twelve individuals. Forty minutes they’d been inside. Twenty-minute gaps between tours, meaning the next group would start gathering in around five minutes’ time. Limited to twelve names, pre-booked. This time round, seven of those names would be fake. Seated in the front of the van, Gissing and Allan had a much better view of the arrivals and departures. No one would contemplate coming here on foot – too far from any form of public transport. A couple of cabs had arrived to pick up prosperous-looking couples, leading Mike to wonder again what the odds were of anyone he knew turning up. The prof would stay with the van, but Mike and Allan would be in the warehouse. Most of the people who bothered with Doors Open were mildly curious, attracted by the notion of passing through doors normally kept locked to the public. But this was an extension of the National Gallery – chances were, it would be art-lovers who made the trek… the very sorts of people Mike and Allan knew from the various exhibitions and auctions they attended.
Gissing had been warned – ‘You don’t step out of the van except in the direst straits.’ But now Mike was wishing the raid could be carried out without the need for either Allan or himself saying anything. Or Westie, come to that – art-lovers usually visited all the college degree shows, and voices could be identified as readily as faces. There was a thin trickle of sweat running down Mike’s spine. All these factors they hadn’t taken into account – if Chib’s crew had been briefed sooner, they could have been the ones doing all the talking. So far, all they’d been doing was listening, and Mike was afraid that the conversation between Gissing and Allan had given too many clues. They’d talked about building projects in the city and the financing of same, Allan sounding too knowledgeable. Then Gissing had started rattling on about the various art and antiquity holdings, showing he knew a fair bit about the topic. How hard would it be for the teenagers to put two and two together? If they were arrested at any point in the future, might they try cutting a deal by telling what they knew? Was the fear of Chib Calloway enough to keep them silent in the long term?