Back at the van, Allan was in the passenger seat, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Westie was wrapping another painting. Gissing was holding a hand to his chest, but nodded to let Mike know he was all right really.
‘Just a bit breathless.’
‘Sit back,’ Mike told him. ‘I’ll drive.’ He got into the driving seat and checked the key was in the ignition.
‘How are we?’ he asked Allan.
‘It would be nice to leave right now.’
Mike heard a noise and peered into the rearview mirror: three figures emerging, jumping in the back. The van doors creaked shut and Mike gunned the engine. Something was handed to him from the back – a key.
‘Locked them all in the guardhouse,’ he was told.
‘That’s great,’ Mike said, dropping the key into the van’s ashtray. ‘But unless you took away their mobile phones, it’s not going to slow things down.’
The van juddered towards the gatehouse. ‘Not too fast,’ Gissing warned. He was right: last thing they wanted right now was to announce themselves to passing traffic or a cruising patrol car. Mike paused long enough at the gatehouse to pick up the final member. The kid had brought the peaked cap with him, causing his friends to laugh.
‘That stays in the van,’ Mike warned them.
Allan was making a show of studying him. ‘Mr Professional,’ he purred.
‘Get going!’ one of the crew yelled from the back. In the wing mirror, Mike could see the guard emerging from his lair. He stepped on the accelerator.
‘Should’ve thumped him,’ somebody was saying.
‘Couldn’t do it,’ came the reply. ‘Guy’s a Hearts fan. Calendar, fanzine, the works.’
‘He got the number plate,’ Allan commented.
‘Much good it’ll do him.’ Mike turned towards Westie. ‘That’s why we did it this way round.’
Westie just sniffed, saying nothing. They drove in silence after that, listening for sirens.
‘Should’ve brought a CB,’ one of the kids eventually piped up. ‘Could’ve tuned it to the pigs’ frequency.’
Mike and Allan shared a look – something else they hadn’t thought of. Mike’s senses seemed heightened to an incredible degree. The sound of the rutted tarmac under the van’s wheels was amplified; his nose was picking up the aroma of hops from a distant brewery. There was a tingling in his blood and a tang of adrenalin in his mouth.
This, he thought, is how it feels to be alive. It was as if his nervous system had been fitted with a supercharger.
Allan’s Audi was where they’d left it. There were no other vehicles to be seen except an antiquated Rover, its sills eaten by rust. The rain had grown heavier, dissuading the dog-walkers. The unframed paintings were transferred to the Audi’s capacious boot. One of Chib’s lads went to close the van doors, but Mike told him to leave them open.
‘We were in a hurry, remember?’ he explained.
The Rover was for the four teenagers. Its ignition key was tucked in beneath one of the front wheels. Mike held out a hand for shaking, but the four young men just stared at it. Then one of them asked for the guns. These were handed over – Mike’s with great reluctance – and placed in the Rover’s boot. Before they drove off, he checked that the peaked cap had been left, as ordered, in the van.
Allan gave a half-hearted wave. ‘Lovely bunch of lads,’ he commented, watching the car roar off. Gissing was already in the Audi, and Westie with him.
‘Let’s go,’ Gissing said.
‘Hang on,’ Mike said, heading back to the van. He lifted out one of the bundles and dropped it on the roadway. Back in the Audi, Gissing asked for an explanation.
‘The robbers panicked and fled,’ Mike obliged. ‘Just as they were starting the transfer. Adds a touch of drama, don’t you think?’
Westie was punching numbers into a mobile phone. He’d asked to be the one to make the call. The phone was a gift from Calloway. It had been in the box with the guns. Chib had promised it was untraceable and warned it only had about two minutes’ credit on it. Westie took a deep breath and gave an exaggerated wink to all around him. Then he started speaking.
‘Is that the police?’ His voice had reverted to its working-class Fife roots. ‘Listen, I’ve just seen the strangest bloody thing down by Marine Drive… some guys at the back of a white van, looked like they were dumping bodies or something. I think I spooked them, but I got the number plate…’
He reeled it off, ended the call and gave a little bow from the waist.
‘Dumping bodies?’ Mike echoed.
‘You’re not the only one who can improvise.’ Westie wound down his window and flung the mobile into a roadside ditch.
‘Hey, guys,’ Allan said. ‘Can we take these bloody things off now?’ He meant the latex gloves.
Mike nodded his agreement. They were safe. They were on their way. They’d done it.
They’d done it!
18
Seven unframed paintings sat arranged on the two sofas and two easy chairs in Mike’s living room. The three men stood gazing at them, champagne flutes in their hands. They had got rid of their disguises and had used Mike’s bathroom to freshen up, sluicing off sweat and dust and the smell from the gloves. Allan was still scratching his scalp intermittently, fearing ‘beasties’ might have relocated there from the hairpiece. The Maserati had not been vandalised during its short stay in Gracemount, but fingerprints on the windows showed where kids had been peering in at its interior. They’d dropped Westie at his flat, reminding him yet again to keep his chosen painting hidden. He’d asked Mike about the rest of his money.
‘It’ll be in your account today or tomorrow,’ Mike had assured him.
Westie had actually seemed reluctant to get out of the car, smiling and telling everyone how well it had gone.
‘Strikes me I should have held out for two,’ he’d grumbled.
‘Don’t go getting gold fever, young man,’ Gissing had growled.
Westie had raised his hands as if in surrender. ‘I was making a joke… trying for a bit of light relief. The looks on your faces, you’d think we were standing graveside.’
‘Get some sleep,’ Mike had told him. ‘And spend a quiet Sunday with Alice – no splurging, remember.’
‘No splurging,’ Westie had echoed, eventually opening his door and getting out, his painting tucked beneath his arm.
‘I like your two better,’ Allan was now telling Gissing as the two of them studied the mini-exhibition.
‘Tough,’ the professor answered with a thin smile.
‘What about Calloway’s Utterson?’ Allan asked.
‘I’ll see it gets to its new owner,’ Mike stated.
‘But can we trust him?’ Allan countered. He pressed a finger to one of his eyelids, trying to still the pulse that had started there. ‘Robert talked about gold fever… isn’t Calloway the most likely to start wanting what we’ve got?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Mike tried reassuring his friend. ‘You can leave him to me.’
‘He knows the painting has to be kept secret?’ Allan persisted.
‘He knows,’ Mike said, adding an edge to his voice. He reached down to the coffee table and picked up the TV remote, switched on the plasma screen and started flicking through the channels, looking for news.
‘May be a bit early,’ Allan said, rubbing at his reddened eyes. Although he loathed them, he was wearing disposable contact lenses – part of his disguise. Mike ignored him. Really, he wanted them all gone, so he could concentrate on the portrait of Monboddo’s wife. He’d only held it for a few moments. Gissing was making a circuit of the room. He’d hardly looked at his own picks, and was instead studying some of Mike’s saleroom purchases.