‘Ever handled a gun before, Mike?’
‘Not since I was a kid. They tended to be made of plastic and fired caps…’ Mike felt the heft of the handgun. It had a dark sheen to it, and an oily smell.
‘It’s a Browning,’ Chib explained. ‘Best of the bunch, so I hope you like it.’
They were in the workshop of an MOT garage in Gorgie, not far from where they’d both grown up, walking distance to their old school. There was a rusty-looking Sierra sitting in the only bay, cranked up above the examination pit. Wheel hubs and tyres were scattered around the place, corroded exhausts, headlamps with wires curling from them. A couple of venerable topless calendars on the wall above the workbench. The mechanics had clocked off for the night. The forecourt had been in darkness as Mike walked across it. He’d felt it as he approached the door – last chance to back out with a few shreds of dignity intact. Moment he went in and accepted a gun, that was it.
Chib had been waiting for him, arms folded and a smile scratched across his face. Knew you’d be game, the look seemed to say.
The other guns were in a flimsy-looking cardboard box that had once contained forty bags of prawn cocktail crisps. While Mike got used to the feel of the Browning, Chib brought out the sawn-off shotgun.
‘Bit rusty,’ he commented, ‘but good for the fear factor.’ He pointed it at Mike and chuckled. Mike pointed the Browning back at him. Chib cocked the gun and angled it upwards before pressing the trigger. There was a damp-sounding click. ‘Decommissioned, as promised. Normally they’d cost you a double ton a day.’
‘I’m good for it,’ Mike stated.
‘Oh, I know you are, Mike. Makes me wonder what this is all about… I’m guessing you can afford to buy near as dammit anything that takes your fancy.’
‘But what if it’s not for sale?’
‘Like that, is it?’ Chib was watching Mike switch hands with the Browning. ‘Tuck it in the back of your waistband, see how it feels.’
Mike did as he was told. ‘I can tell it’s there.’
‘Me, too – that’s a problem. Might want to think about a longer jacket, and something a good bit more roomy. There’s a couple of starting pistols. They’ve got blanks in them, just in case you need to make some noise. Plus a replica of your Browning and some old piece of junk from the Falklands or Iraq or somewhere.’
‘It’s a revolver,’ Mike said, lifting the gun in his right hand. ‘I didn’t know the army still used them.’
Chib just shrugged. ‘The student and your pal Allan should get some practice in. They’ve got to look comfortable when they go crashing through that door.’
Mike nodded. ‘And the rest of the crew?’
‘My lads will have handled shooters before, don’t worry about them.’
Mike placed the revolver back in the box, keeping the Browning tucked in against the small of his back. He tried the shotgun next. It felt awkwardly heavy and lacked balance. He shook his head and handed it back. ‘When do we meet your “lads”?’
‘On the day itself. They’ll be primed, and they’ll be under orders to do everything you tell them to.’
Mike nodded. ‘And the van?’
‘Nicked this very evening. It’s safely garaged – fake number plates are probably being installed as we speak.’
‘Not here, though?’
Chib shook his head. ‘I’ve got a few places like this dotted around the city. So if you ever need an MOT on a dodgy motor…’
Mike managed a smile. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You need to tell your crew that there’ll be disguises to wear. And we don’t want them toting any flashy jewellery, anything that could get them recognised. ’
‘Listen to the resident expert,’ Chib said with another low chuckle. ‘Is that us, then? All set?’
Mike nodded slowly. ‘Day after tomorrow. I just hope the paint’s dry on the fakes.’ Chib’s phone sounded and the gangster lifted it from his pocket, checking the number on the screen.
‘Got to take this,’ he said by way of apology, turning away from Mike as he answered. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone AWOL…’ Mike pretended to be checking the guns again as he listened. ‘He’s going to go for it?’ Chib was saying, head angled downwards, as if studying his shoes. ‘That’s good… Definitely no funny business, believe me… just good honest collateral… Two or three days tops… Cheers, then.’ He ended the call and turned back towards Mike with a wide smile.
‘Collateral?’ Mike echoed. Chib just shook his head.
‘Is that us, then? he repeated, keen to wrap things up.
‘I suppose so…’ But then Mike gave a little wince. ‘No, not quite, actually – there’s something I forgot…’
‘Spit it out.’
Mike slipped his hands into his pockets, as though wishing to make the request seem more casual.
‘There’s this mugging victim…’
Chib’s eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed as if in comprehension. ‘You want me to find out who did it, have them made an example of?’
‘Not exactly.’ Mike paused for effect. ‘You see, this particular mugging hasn’t actually happened yet.’
Chib’s eyes narrowed again. ‘I don’t get it,’ he conceded.
‘Keep listening,’ Mike advised, ‘and you soon will…’
14
‘Chib was disappointed,’ Mike said, ‘when I told him the National Collection doesn’t stretch to a Vettriano.’
Gissing snorted into his drink. The two men were seated in an anonymous bar near the railway station. It was a no-nonsense place, meant for drinkers only: no TV or jukebox and only crisps to stave off any hunger pangs. Not having indulged in the best part of a decade, Mike had found himself ordering two packets of prawn cocktail, thinking of the box of guns that was hidden, for want of a better place, in the boot of his car. Three old-timers were seated on stools at the bar itself and had ignored Mike completely as he ordered the drinks and snacks. Gissing had chosen the table furthest from the door. He wrinkled his nose at the crisps and stuck to alternating between sips of malt and gulps of IPA.
‘Vettriano isn’t universally admired,’ he commented, wiping foam from around his mouth.
‘Popular, though,’ Mike countered, knowing full well the professor’s views on the subject. Gissing decided not to rise to the bait.
‘So what exactly is our gangland friend settling for?’
‘An Utterson.’
‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor?’
‘That’s the one. Westie didn’t think he’d have any trouble painting it.’
‘You showed a picture of it to Calloway?’
‘I did.’
‘And he liked it?’
‘He asked what it was worth.’
Gissing rolled his eyes. ‘Well, good riddance to it, I suppose.’ He took another swallow of beer, and Mike realised how nervous the professor was, while Mike himself was growing calmer with each passing hour. From the internet, he had printed off an aerial map of the streets around the warehouse, charting the best route for the van. He’d arranged with Chib where to pick up the four extra crew, and where to drop them afterwards. The crew would take the guns and dispose of them. Looking at Gissing, he felt glad the old boy wouldn’t be storming the warehouse, firearm at the ready: the hand reaching for the whisky glass was trembling.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Mike assured him.
‘My dear chap, of course it will. You don’t think I’m having doubts?’
‘A lot could still go wrong.’
‘You’ll handle it, Mike.’ The professor gave a tired smile. ‘You seem to have developed a taste for all of this.’
‘Maybe a little,’ Mike conceded. ‘But it was your idea, remember.’
‘Still, I won’t be sorry when it’s done and dusted, while I have the sneaking suspicion you just might be.’
‘So long as we don’t end up in jail. Christ, imagine it – with Chib Calloway as our disgruntled cellmate.’