Allan was grinning through a sheen of sweat, and had removed his wig to claw his fingers through his hair.
‘So far so good?’ he asked. Mike felt that the wrong answer would turn his friend to dust. He nodded and handed over the key, while Allan replaced the wig.
‘Did you spot anyone you know in the tour group?’ Mike remembered to ask.
Allan shook his head, dislodging the hairpiece again. ‘Wasn’t really paying attention,’ he apologised.
‘Same here,’ Mike confided, turning in search of his own vault.
It was number 37. The key had a little tag to that effect. Gissing had warned him that the strong rooms were not sequential. To one side of the warehouse lay the even numbers, with the odd numbers on the opposite wall. Crossing the floor at a gap in the shelves, Mike worked his way down the numbered row, tucking his pistol back into his waistband. There were no other guards; no stray visitors. Plenty of cameras, but hopefully turned off. What if Chib’s crew missed one? Allan with his wig off, clawing at his scalp. Too late to be worrying about that. Vault 37. He turned his key in the lock and pulled the heavy door open. It creaked on its hinges only slightly. There was an overhead light inside, just as Gissing had promised. Framed canvases – dozens of them. He knew which numbers he was looking for. The paintings were stored side-on, cocooned in two layers – bubble wrap and cloth – with labels hanging from them. He slid out both paintings and tucked one under each arm before heading back the way he’d come. Lord alone knew what he was leaving behind. Given time, maybe he would have chosen differently. He could feel the Monboddo – it was the smaller of the two. If he had to sprint, he knew which one he’d drop first…
All was quiet behind the closed door of the guardroom. He hoped Chib’s lads were behaving themselves. One of them had opened the loading bay doors, bringing natural light into the warehouse and the taste of fresh air and freedom. Mike could see that the van was waiting. Gissing had backed it into position and the rear doors were already standing open. Gissing was now in the back of the van. He looked relieved at Mike’s arrival, causing Mike to wonder if there was a problem with Allan and Westie. Where the hell were they? He handed Gissing the first painting – a Cadell – which the professor unwrapped while Mike lifted its duplicate from the van floor. Gissing eased the canvas away from its frame. His hands were practised and it took him only half a minute. Wooden wedges had been used to take up any slack, and he removed these first, his fingers strong and seemingly steady.
Mike held his breath as the original frame was then placed around Westie’s forgery. It was a perfect fit, and he let out a little hiss of satisfaction. Gissing pushed the wooden pieces back into place, and examined the back of the original canvas, seeking identifying marks on both it and its stretcher. They couldn’t hope to copy any he found, not with any great skill. They had only so much time. But Gissing pronounced it ‘clean’. As he had predicted, the markings and labels tended to appear on the frame rather than the actual artwork. This was another reason why they’d opted for smaller canvases: less chance of cross-bracing, which meant one surface fewer that could hold identifying details…
‘Get it wrapped,’ Gissing growled, already starting work on the second masterpiece – the Monboddo portrait. Mike heard a noise and turned round to see Allan and Westie emerging from the warehouse, toting three paintings apiece. How could he have been so stupid? That was why they’d taken longer than him! Three each to his two.
‘No trouble?’ he asked, voice fluttering slightly.
‘No trouble,’ Allan confirmed, sweat dripping from his chin. Mike entertained a wild thought: could forensics take DNA from sweat? He didn’t think now was the time to ask. Westie was already starting work unwrapping one of his own canvases. Like Gissing, he knew exactly what he was doing; knew, too, that time was against them. No telling how early the next party of visitors might be. Mike glanced around the side of the van towards the gatehouse. There was no sign of the guard – he must be crouched on the floor. In his place sat Chib’s kid, and he was wearing the peaked cap – a nice touch, but Mike doubted it would fool anyone close up, not with the scarf still in place across the bottom half of the teenager’s face.
Back at the van, Mike saw that Gissing was breathing hard. He still had his wits about him, however, and reminded them to make sure the labels were showing when they reswaddled their copies.
‘They’ve got to look just the same as they were…’
‘We know,’ Westie complained, adding: ‘I still say we could be doing this elsewhere.’
Mike had heard the argument before, but had sided with Allan first time round: no alarm would be raised until they were off the premises. That was when time really started to be against them. Best to make the switch now, meaning a cleaner and faster getaway later, when the cops were on to them.
‘Three down,’ Allan intoned, watching Westie and Gissing at work. Mike checked his watch again. Twelve minutes since they’d first walked into the warehouse. It was going like clockwork. No… better than that – it was going like digital. He found himself forcing a smile, and gave Allan a pat on the back.
‘Bit early for that,’ Gissing snarled, wiping perspiration from his eyes. ‘Back inside, the pair of you, and do the final check.’
Final check: vault doors left wide open and keys in locks. There would be trace evidence – Westie had said as much; knew it from all the cop shows he watched with Alice. A stray hair, maybe, or fibres from their clothing, faint prints from their shoes. But the less they left the better. Standing together in the middle of the warehouse, Mike and Allan shared a nod. Then Allan made for the van again while Mike opened the door to the guardroom. A gun was aimed straight at him, lowered once its owner recognised him. Mike held up three fingers, meaning three minutes. The ‘hostages’ were crouched on the floor, hands on their heads and eyes screwed shut. The CCTV screens were blank.
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.’