‘A piece of shit worth around two hundred K on the open market,’ Mike stated.
Hate gave a snort and picked up the Utterson – none too gently. Mike feared the stretcher might snap. The big man turned it over, examining it.
Collateral, Mike was thinking. He’d suspected as much, and this had to be the ‘Viking’ Johnno had mentioned that day in the car. Calloway had no interest in the painting. Not really. Instead, he was about to hand it over to this monster, a monster who now had Mike’s name and would forever link him to the painting. If it turned out not to be worth the figure quoted, would things turn nasty? He knew now that this was why Chib had made sure Hate knew his name… why the gangster had wanted Mike here when the deal went down. We’re connected now. Hadn’t Chib said so himself? And if flak was coming, Chib wanted Mike as his human shield.
Mike Mackenzie, what the hell have you got yourself into?
Hate meantime was sniffing the surface of the painting – actually sniffing it!
‘Doesn’t smell so old,’ he commented.
‘None of that,’ Chib chided him with a wag of the finger. ‘You think I’d try to pull a cheap stunt? Get someone to verify it if you don’t believe me – Mike here knows someone at the College of Art.
Christ, now he’s trying to drop the professor in it, too!
Mike held up a warning hand. ‘The painting is stolen – I’m sure you know that already. Watch tonight’s news if you need persuading. But the only way anyone – anyone – will find out is if it starts to be seen by people.’
‘So I am supposed to trust you?’ Hate’s eyes were milky blue, the pupils tiny shards of darkness.
‘You could go online,’ Mike found himself suggesting. ‘Check other works by the artist – he’s pretty famous. Find out what they’ve been fetching recently at auction. Samuel Utterson – there’ve been exhibitions, books about him…’
Hate looked from one man to the other. ‘Two hundred thousand pounds,’ he intoned slowly.
‘Don’t go getting any ideas,’ Chib said, wagging his finger again and forcing out a short laugh. ‘It’s just temporary security – the cash is coming.’
Hate fixed him with a gaze. ‘You’ve still got your men out looking for me, haven’t you? Otherwise you’d be a fool. But they won’t find me, Mr Calloway. And if they did, they’d soon wish they hadn’t.’
‘Understood,’ Chib said.
Hate turned his attention back to the painting he was still grasping, and Mike feared he was about to punch a hole through it. But he placed it back on the table instead – actually with a reasonable attempt at gentleness, which told Mike the man was at least halfway convinced – and started to wrap the brown paper around it.
‘So we’re cool?’ Chib asked. It was only because of the relief evident in his voice that Mike realised how nervous the gangster had been ever since Hate’s arrival.
‘That is something I will need to ask my client.’ Hate was tucking the package beneath his arm.
‘No way I can let you walk out of here if we don’t have an understanding. ’ Chib’s relief, it seemed to Mike, had quickly turned to bravado.
Hate just stared him out. ‘Then you’ll have to stop me,’ he offered, heading for the door. Chib looked around him, his eyes alighting on the rack of snooker cues. But when he glanced in Mike’s direction, Mike gave a shake of the head before calling out a question towards the giant’s back.
‘Why English?’
The man stopped and half turned his head.
‘Your tattoos – the word “Hate”,’ Mike explained. ‘Why English?’
The only reply was a shrug of the shoulders before the door was yanked open and slammed shut again. Mike waited for the echo to die, then nodded towards the snooker cues.
‘Maybe if they’d been nine-millimetre.’
‘I wouldn’t trust a nine-mil to stop that fucker.’ Chib rubbed a hand down his face.
‘In your line of work, you do meet the most congenial people.’
‘Not much worse than the ones you meet in any other business.’
‘That may be true,’ Mike conceded, and both men laughed, releasing the tension in the room. ‘By the way,’ Mike added, ‘whatever it is – I don’t want to know.’
‘Clever sod like you, Mike, my guess is you’ve already worked it out. I owe some money on a deal – the Utterson buys me time.’
‘I know it happens with the mafia and Old Masters.’
‘Well, now it happens in Edinburgh, too. You want a drink?’ There was a bar area in one corner. Chib unlocked one of the cupboards and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whisky and two tumblers. Mike brushed dust from a stool with the palm of his hand before sitting down.
‘In a funny way,’ he offered, ‘it actually makes sense.’
Chib drained his glass and exhaled. ‘What does?’
‘If the painting’s not in your hands, the police haven’t a chance of finding it in your possession.’
‘That’s true – maybe they’ll try running Hate in instead.’ Chib gave a snort and poured himself another. ‘Sure you don’t want to swap professions?’
‘I don’t have a profession.’
‘That’s right – you’re a man of leisure. Unless you fancy “gentleman thief” on your passport instead.’
‘This was strictly a one-shot deal, Chib.’ Mike’s mobile was vibrating. He lifted it from his pocket and checked the screen – it was Robert Gissing.
‘The prof,’ he explained to Chib, answering the call. ‘How did it go, Robert?’
‘I’m only just finishing up.’ Gissing was keeping his voice low – obviously there were people in the vicinity.
‘Remember,’ Mike said, ‘when you order a cab, make sure you give your home address as the destination – just in case anyone’s listening. Once you’re on your way, you can tell the driver you’re headed to mine instead.’
‘I’m not a fool, Mike!’
‘What’s wrong?’ Mike had sensed something in the professor’s voice. The whisky froze halfway to Chib Calloway’s mouth.
‘Are you with our friend?’ Gissing was asking.
‘As arranged. He’s happy with the goods.’
‘Never mind that – I’m sending you a snap. Bloody amazing things, these camera phones. I think I got it without him knowing.’
‘Got what?’ Mike asked, eyes narrowing.
‘The photo – your phone does accept photos?’
‘What’s this all about, Robert?’
‘I just want to know if we’ve got a problem.’ Chib was by Mike’s side now, listening in. He smelled faintly of sweat beneath the aftershave and the whisky. ‘I didn’t like the way he was looking at me,’ Gissing was saying. ‘Get back to me in five.’
The call ended. Mike stared at his phone’s blank screen.
‘Is that meant to be a dig at me?’ Chib asked.
‘What?’
‘“I didn’t like the way he…”’
‘Hell, no. It’s just that he has something he wants us to see.’
‘Don’t tell me the paint’s still wet on your student pal’s efforts.’
Mike’s phone trilled: a photo was coming through. Chib peered at the screen as Mike held it in the space between them. The professor had a quality mobile – he’d used it to take pictures for a recent photography exhibition at the college. Highest possible resolution… zoom… the works. Mike’s own phone was the latest model, too, with a nice big screen. The photo itself appeared in three horizontal chunks of download. It showed the profile of a man, taken from the waist up. He’d been shot from some distance and using the full extent of the zoom, meaning the picture was slightly blurred. All the same, Chib let out a hiss of air.
‘That’s Ransome,’ he growled. ‘He’s CID, been chasing me all across town since way back.’
‘Is he the one you thought was following you the day we went to Arthur’s Seat?’ Mike watched Chib Calloway nod slowly. ‘Well, he’s now showing an unhealthy interest in Professor Gissing.’ Mike gnawed at his bottom lip for the best part of a minute, while Chib explained that Ransome had tailed him on and off for a while… reason he always took evasive action when driving anywhere in the city… thought by now maybe the detective had given up the fight, been a while since Chib had clocked him… but then again…