‘I’ve just had a thought,’ Allan said. ‘What if somebody got there first? To Marine Drive, I mean… What if they walked off with an armful of Westie’s beautiful forgeries?’
‘Then the cops’ll pick them up and think they’ve got their thief,’ Mike answered.
‘True,’ Allan seemed to agree. His flute was empty but Mike had decided one bottle of champagne was enough – there was the journey home to consider, at least as far as Allan was concerned. The professor would need a lift, too, at some point – no way Mike was calling him a taxi, not when the passenger would be carrying an expensive-looking painting under his arm…
The words BREAKING NEWS had begun scrolling along the foot of the screen. Above the newsreader’s shoulder there was an old photo of Edinburgh Castle. This changed into a map of the city, zeroing in on the Granton area.
‘Here we go,’ Mike muttered to himself. ‘Now the fun and games really begin.’ He started to turn up the volume, but a mobile phone was ringing. It was Gissing’s, so Mike switched the TV to mute instead. When Gissing offered him a smile, Mike nodded back. They knew who it would be… at least, they knew who they hoped it would be. Gissing placed a finger to his lips in warning, then answered the call.
‘Professor Robert Gissing,’ he intoned by way of introduction. Then, after a few seconds: ‘Yes, I’m watching it now on my TV at home… absolutely shocking. Did they take anything?’ A slightly longer pause, during which he made eye contact only with the window and the darkening view beyond it. ‘I see… But how can I help? Jimmy Allison’s your man for…’ Gissing’s flow was interrupted. He made a show of raising an eyebrow as he listened. ‘How awful! Nobody’s safe on the streets these days, Alasdair.’
Confirmation, as far as Mike was concerned, that Gissing was in conversation with the head of the National Galleries of Scotland, Alasdair Noone.
‘Yes, of course,’ Gissing was saying now. ‘Soon as I can, Alasdair. No, I’ll make my own way there… Half an hour?’
Mike did a swift calculation – yes, from the professor’s home to Marine Drive was just about feasible in thirty minutes.
‘Oh, did you?’ Gissing glanced in Mike’s direction. ‘Well, I’ve been having some problems with it. Or maybe I had the TV up too loud. Sorry about that. Yes, yes, I’m on my way, Alasdair. Bye.’
Gissing ended the call and his eyes met Mike’s again.
‘He tried your landline,’ Mike guessed. ‘You didn’t answer, so he called your mobile. But then you went and told him you were at home…’
‘He won’t make anything of it,’ Gissing assured him.
‘But the police might,’ Allan commented. ‘Tiny details, inconsistencies…’
‘He’s got enough on his plate,’ Gissing persisted. ‘I’d lay a hundred pounds it’s already forgotten.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way.’
‘Give it a few minutes,’ Mike warned him. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes by taxi to Marine Drive from here.’
‘Good point,’ the professor conceded.
‘And you need to relax a little.’
‘Maybe a small whisky…’
‘Don’t want them smelling hooch on their expert’s breath – I’ll fetch you some water.’ Mike walked into the kitchen, Allan following close on his heels.
‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Allan asked, placing his empty flute on the spotless worktop. Mike didn’t think it was the last time he would hear this question from his friend.
‘So far, there hasn’t been a hitch. That’s down to good planning. The rest is all about holding our nerve.’ Mike offered a wink and poured the water into a tall glass, which he carried back into the living room. Gissing was popping two square tablets from their foil packaging.
‘Heartburn,’ he explained, accepting the drink.
‘Did Alasdair say how Mr Allison was doing?’ Mike enquired.
Gissing chomped down on both tablets. ‘He’s out of hospital but there’s concussion and bruising.’ He glared at Mike. ‘I think maybe your friend went a wee bit far.’
‘Just far enough to stop his services being called for,’ Mike answered. ‘When you’re finished at Marine Drive, get a cab to bring you here and either Allan or me will run you home.’ His own mobile was sounding. Not a call as such: a text message from Chib Calloway.
HERD MY BOIZ DID GUD! NEED COLLATERAL ASAP. R U NEAR A TV?
Mike decided to ignore it. Collateraclass="underline" the very word Chib had used when taking that phone call. Good honest collateral… The news had shifted to the aftermath of some flooding in England. The journalist at the scene said something about the locals fearing they’d ‘got in too deep’. Gissing was popping a third tablet, hands unsteady, while Allan rubbed at the pulse in his eyelid and hopped from one foot to the other like a hyperactive kid.
In too deep? Nobody knew the half of it…
19
DI Ransome was seated at his desk in the empty CID suite when he heard the news. The radio had been providing him with background music and blather. It was some local station, mixing golden oldies with traffic and weather. Ransome had been in the office for a solid two hours, clearing an inch from his in-tray. He was due to appear in court three times over the next two weeks, and needed to bone up on his evidence. The amount of time cops – uniform and CID – wasted in the city’s sheriff and high courts was a scandal, and often, at the last minute, some plea deal was done, meaning they didn’t have to go into the witness box anyway. One officer he knew had earned himself an Open University degree, doing most of his studying and essay-writing while seated outside various courtrooms waiting to say his piece.
Ransome was spending an idle minute wondering what subject he would study, given the chance, when the radio DJ announced a ‘break-in at an industrial site in Granton’. Ransome had started to tune out until he heard the words ‘valuable artworks’. What the hell were those doing in a warehouse in Granton of all places? Holdings belonging to several city-based museums… staff and visitors threatened with guns… not known as yet which items are missing…
Artworks and guns.
Guns and artworks.
Ransome phoned Laura at the auction house, but there was no answer. Same story with her mobile. Cursing under his breath, he headed out to the car park. It took him only twenty minutes to reach Marine Drive. It was one of the things he liked about the city: nowhere was more than half an hour from anywhere else. Felt more like a village sometimes, which was why his mind was already turning. A warehouse heist, artworks stolen… and Edinburgh’s premier gangster having so recently started showing an interest in paintings. He remembered Calloway that day in the National Gallery, drinking tea with his old school pal Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie the computer wizard, the art collector. They made an odd couple and no mistake…
The white Transit had been cordoned off with blue-and-white-striped crime-scene tape. Uniformed officers were diverting what traffic there was away from the immediate vicinity. A forensics team was busy at work, dusting surfaces, taking photos. A detective inspector called Hendricks seemed to be calling the shots, causing Ransome to wince a little as he got out of his car. He considered Hendricks a serious rival in the promotion stakes – same sort of age; good track record; personable and presenting himself well to public and top brass alike. He’d been in the same intake as Ransome at Tulliallan Police College, more years ago now than Ransome cared to calculate. There had been a special challenge for all new recruits – raising money for charity. Despite Ransome’s best endeavours, Hendricks had won by a country mile, hosting a sportsmen’s dinner in Stirling and attracting a couple of high-profile footballers to the event as speakers. Only later did Ransome discover that Hendricks’ uncle was chairman of a Premier League club. Strings had obviously been pulled…