Hate dumped the curator on one of the chairs. The man’s hands were tied behind him, his mouth covered with tape. Mike thought about pouring himself a drink, but wasn’t sure his hand would be steady enough. Besides which, the parched-looking Allison might see it as yet another small torture.
‘See this?’ Chib was saying. He’d placed the paintings on the coffee table and was pointing towards the sofa. There was another picture displayed there.
‘It’s your Utterson,’ Mike told him. ‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor.’
‘That’s right. And what did I do with it?’
‘You gave it to Hate.’ Mike had no idea where the conversation was going.
‘And what did Hate do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, have a think about it, shit-for-brains!’
But Hate had noticed the home cinema system. ‘Pioneer,’ he commented. ‘Good make.’
‘Jesus, will you shut up?’ Chib yelled at him.
Mike wondered which was preferable: that the soundproofing stop his neighbours downstairs hearing any of this, or that they decide to call the police to say that something bad was happening in the penthouse. Chib had turned towards him again.
‘Come to any conclusions yet?’
Mike rubbed at his eyes again and slicked back his hair. ‘At a guess, Hate decided he would verify the painting – despite my warnings. He went to Mr Allison here, who is an authority on the artist, and somehow Mr Allison had an accident and you came to me for help instead of heading for A and E.’ Mike held Chib’s stare for a full twenty seconds. With a growl, the gangster fetched the Utterson from the sofa and held it four inches from Mike’s face.
‘I’m not exactly the expert here,’ he snarled, ‘so maybe you’ll know better. When exactly was this painted?’
‘Early twentieth century…’
‘Is that so? Well, maybe you’re right. Take a closer look. In particular, tell me what’s going on in the bottom left-hand corner.’
Mike didn’t know what to expect. The artist’s signature, most probably. He saw heather and long blades of grass and a bit more heather.
‘Right at the very corner,’ Chib suggested. And then Mike did see it, and he screwed shut his eyes. ‘Well?’ the gangster prompted him.
‘Looks like there’s something lying in the grass, half-hidden,’ Mike muttered.
‘And what does it look like to you, Mike?’
‘A condom… a used condom.’
‘And can you enlighten us all – why exactly would a painter of Samuel Utterson’s reputation have felt the need to add that particular touch?’
Mike opened his eyes again. ‘It’s Westie,’ he stated. ‘It’s a sort of calling card of his. He copies famous paintings, then adds an anachronism, like an airliner or a mobile phone…’
‘Or a condom,’ Chib added. Mike nodded his agreement. ‘See, Mike, what I can’t understand here, what I’m really failing to get my head around, is why you would do this to me. You really thought I was so stupid I wouldn’t notice?’
‘In actual fact,’ Hate interrupted, ‘you did not notice.’
‘This is me talking here!’ Chib yelled at him again.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ Mike said. ‘Really I don’t.’
Chib burst out laughing. ‘You can do better than that, Mike!’
‘I promise you I can’t, because it happens to be the truth.’
‘Well, we’ll just go and ask Westie then, see what he has to say about it during his last few minutes of life. But before we do that, there’s the small matter of my fee. What I’d like from you, Mr Michael Mackenzie, software millionaire, is one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds – payable in cash. That way, Hate here can return home, job done. The amount of grief you and your lot have caused me, I should be asking for more, but let’s open proceedings at one seventy-five…’
‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.
‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once…’
‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too…
Chib had hunkered down in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his face up so they were eye to eye.
‘Am I in the mood for jokes?’ the gangster spat. There were flecks of white either side of his mouth.
‘I don’t keep cash around the house,’ Mike said between gasps. ‘Never know when someone might come waltzing in. And even… even making a request to my bank… it takes time… time to arrange that sort of money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Plus, as soon as I say “cash”, alarm bells are going to ring.’
‘Money-laundering,’ Hate agreed. ‘The banks have to inform the authorities.’
‘And you’re suddenly the Bank of fucking Scotland?’ Chib roared at him.
‘Look,’ Mike said, having regained most of his breath. ‘Those four paintings are worth a lot more than the money you’re asking. Why not just take three of them? Maybe leave me one…’ He nodded towards Mr Allison. ‘We’ve got the very man here who can judge them authentic.’
Chib stared at him. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve, Mike.’ Then, over his shoulder towards Hate: ‘What do you think? Want to take your pick?’
Hate’s response was to walk over to the coffee table, lift the Cadell beach scene, and stick his fist straight through it. Calmly, the huge man then lifted the Monboddo – the glorious portrait of Beatrice – and did exactly the same thing.
‘Get the picture?’ he said.
‘I think so,’ Mike answered with a fresh groan. As Chib released his hair, he started to get to his feet, checking that his knees would lock and hold him upright. The painting… Hate had dropped it back on to the table. Was it beyond repair? No way of telling. And there sat Allan’s two ugly offerings, pristine and untroubled. ‘So what now?’ he asked to nobody in particular.
‘We wait here till morning,’ Chib replied. ‘Then a little trip to the bank, followed by a friendly visit to our art-forger-cum-dead-man.’
Mike had picked up the portrait of Beatrice. ‘They can’t all be fakes,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘All that matters is, mine was,’ Chib stated. ‘Big mistake.’
‘But not my mistake, Chib.’
The gangster shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, you’re the one with the money.’
‘Which the bank won’t just hand over!’
‘Ever heard of transfers, Mike? I’ve got accounts all over the place, in any number of names. The dough goes into one of those, I close the account pronto, and Hate here gets his share.’
Hate didn’t look thrilled by this scenario. Mike guessed the man had already been kept waiting longer than he liked.
‘Why do you think Westie did it?’ Mike asked Chib.
‘We’ll soon find out.’ Chib was studying Allan’s two paintings, one in either hand. His own worthless Utterson lay abandoned on the floor, where anyone was welcome to step on it. Chib held one of the Coultons in front of Mr Allison. ‘What do you think, Jimmy – are these the real thing for a change?’ Without waiting for a reaction, he turned towards Mike. ‘Maybe I’ll take them with me, unless you’ve got any objection?’
‘They’re Allan’s, not mine.’
‘Then you can sort it out with Allan.’
Mike’s eyes were on the curator. He needed a diversion, and poor Mr Allison was just about his only bet. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if Allison had much hearing left. ‘I mean, I’m sorry for what’s about to happen to you…’ The man was staring back at him now as best he could: nothing wrong with his ears. ‘They need me,’ Mike continued to explain, ‘at least for another day or so. I’ve got money, you see, and they want it. But you, Mr Allison… they’re just about done with you. And Hate doesn’t seem to me the type who likes loose ends. You might promise on the heads of your grandkids that you won’t go running to the cops, but Hate’s not about to take a risk like that.’