One bonus: the chippie van was locked tight for the weekend – one potential witness out of the running…
‘That’s the first two arriving now,’ Allan piped up.
Mike’s heart was pumping; he could hear the blood singing in his ears. He saw that Westie had clamped his hands between his knees, as if to stop them shaking. He’d done well, though. The van’s first stop had been his flat, where they’d loaded the fakes into the back, Gissing giving each of the eight a final once-over before declaring them ‘first class’, adding that this was also the mark Westie could be confident of getting for his degree show. This had probably been meant to relax the student, but it had the opposite effect on Mike – Chib’s lot, seated in the van as the paintings were loaded and inspected, now knew they had a student in their midst, and probably someone who taught him, too. Westie had declared himself ‘shattered’ by the experience, and he really didn’t look too good: pale and pasty and with eyelids drooping towards sleep. Mike had the feeling only caffeine was keeping him going. Last thing they needed was one of the team nodding off or losing his concentration during the actual heist.
Heist: the very word made Mike’s nerve endings jangle.
But here they were, ready and waiting.
‘Two more,’ Allan said. ‘Only one to come…’
There had been no sign of Alice in Westie’s flat. Mike had come across with the money she’d asked for, confirming that it was by way of an advance rather than extra cash, and had then driven his Maserati forwards and backwards over the video camera until it was flattened. He’d been sure to scatter its constituent parts around the city, leaving nothing to chance. But who was he kidding? There were plenty of loose ends already, with more to come. He stared down at the pile of unframed paintings on the floor of the van. As they were leaving Westie’s, he’d pleaded that no one accidentally put a foot through one of them.
‘You’ll have me to answer to if you do,’ Westie had snapped, at which Chib’s crew had just smiled to themselves. The morning had gone well so far. Mike had rendezvoused with Allan on Marine Drive at seven, leaving the Audi and travelling back to the penthouse in the Maserati. They’d toyed with their bacon sandwiches, but managed orange juice and coffee before donning their disguises – Mike had burst out laughing when Allan had walked into the living room wearing the wig, and with contact lenses in place of spectacles.
‘Got it in a junk shop,’ Allan had said of the wig. ‘Feels a bit itchy…’
At Gracemount, Gissing had been waiting, looking agitated and failing to blend in with his surroundings as he paced up and down. Mike had parked the Maserati, hoping no one would take a shine – or a dislike – to it. Five minutes later the van had arrived, with its crew of four but no sign of Calloway. Mike had exhaled in relief. He’d half expected the gangster to want to come along for the ride. He’d tried a bit of chat with the teenagers, hoping maybe to break the ice, until told that ‘Mr Calloway’ had said they should do what they were told but otherwise keep their ‘gubs’ shut.
‘Nae offence,’ one of them had added, before clambering into the back of the van. Since when it had been grunts and gutturals and a steady stream of nicotine. Which, now Mike came to think of it, was illegal, smoking having been banned in all Scottish workplaces – vans included.
Tut-tut, he thought to himself. Breaking the law. He rubbed a hand across his face. Like everyone else he was wearing latex gloves, bought from a chemist’s shop in Bruntsfield.
‘That’s the last one going in now,’ Allan suddenly piped up, voice half an octave higher than previously.
‘Two-minute countdown,’ Mike stated, lifting his watch to his eyes. Normally he wore a Cartier; other times he carried the antique pocket watch from Bonnar’s. But Allan had suggested something not quite so showy. It had cost less than a tenner from the same chemist’s shop as the gloves, but still seemed to work, though the second hand was now appearing to crawl around the dial. Could the battery be dying on him?
‘Ninety seconds…’
He was trusting Allan’s head count. Didn’t want any other visitors arriving after them…
‘Sixty…’
No backing out now. He found himself glancing in Westie’s direction. Westie was staring back at him, grim-faced or maybe just zonked. His disguise: sunglasses and a woolly hat. The sunglasses were just going on now.
‘Thirty…’
‘Awright, lads, nae fuck-ups,’ one of Chib’s kids was telling the rest of them. Nods and yet more grunts. Adjusting their baseball caps and scarves. Even Gissing was nodding his agreement, hands welded to the steering wheel.
‘Coast clear?’ Mike asked, hoping his voice sounded okay.
‘Clear,’ Allan confirmed.
Mike took a deep breath but couldn’t bring himself to bark the command. Gissing, half turning, seemed to sense this and did it for him.
‘Go!’
The van doors opened with a creak, seven of them moving briskly, turning the corner, coming into the gatehouse guard’s line of sight. Should have staggered it, Mike thought – we look like a gang. One of Chib’s crew was at the front, doing everything but breaking into a jog. Mike had visualised their walk as something like the start of Reservoir Dogs – calm, collected, going to work. But his knees were only just locking. The guard didn’t seem too concerned, however. He had risen from his comfy little chair, sliding open his window and reaching for his clipboard. There was a peaked cap he usually wore, but not today.
‘You’re late,’ he started chiding them. ‘If I can just have your names…’
Turning his head at the sound of his door being opened; brought up short by the sight of the sawn-off appearing from under a jacket; bundled back on to his chair by one of Chib’s lads. The rest of them didn’t pause, kept walking down the path towards the warehouse door. It was to the side of the main loading bay. One of the museum’s vans was parked up, but there was space to squeeze a new arrival next to it. Mike could hear a motorised click behind him and knew it would be the barrier starting to rise.
‘This is it,’ he said, hand gripping the door handle.
‘Let’s do it then,’ he was told.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was just as expected – a warehouse. Plenty of shelving; lots of items smothered in hessian and bubble wrap. Guardroom to the right. The five on-time visitors were being addressed by a member of the gallery’s staff – maybe it was his van outside. He wore a suit and tie and had a name badge on his lapel. One of Chib’s crew was already heading for the guardroom. He walked straight in before lifting out his gun. There were two guards inside, seated at a bank of CCTV screens. Mike watched through the window as their hands went up, eyes fixed on the firearm.
Drawing his own gun, Mike realised it was his turn to speak. Probably only ten or fifteen seconds had passed since he’d opened the door, but it felt like minutes. He had rehearsed the words, rehearsed the voice he would use – gruffer than his own, an instant snarl. Harking back to his roots.
‘Up against that wall, all of you!’