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Or perhaps Matthew had come in last night for some reason, set the alarm improperly, and then left the door ajar; he was the only other person with a key, as far as Pat knew.
But then if he had done this, why would he have forced the window?
It suddenly occurred to Pat that a break-in could be quite convenient for Matthew. He was having difficulty in selling any of his paintings; perhaps it would be easier to arrange an insurance claim.
31. The Lothian and Borders Police Art Squad A few minutes later, as promised by the calm voice on the telephone, a police car drew up outside the gallery and two uniformed officers, generously equipped with radios, handcuffs, and commodious pockets, emerged. Pat went to the front door and opened it to them.
“An art gallery?” asked one of the policemen, the younger one, as they came in.
“Well it’s not a supermarket,” said the older one. “Pretty obvious.”
Pat saw the younger policeman look down at the floor. He had been embarrassed by the put-down, but said nothing.
She showed the two men the alarm control unit, which was still flashing mutely.
“Can’t have worked properly,” said the younger policeman.
“Pretty obvious,” said the older one.
Pat said nothing. Perhaps it was the end of a long shift for them and they needed their sleep. But even if that were the case, she did not think that the young man deserved this humiliation.
She led them through to the back room and pointed at the fragments of wood on the floor. The younger policeman bent down and picked up one of the splinters.
“From the window,” he said.
80
The Lothian and Borders Police Art Squad The older policeman looked at Pat, who met his gaze briefly, and then he turned away. He peered at the window glass and shook his head.
“No prints there,” he said. “Nothing. I should think that whoever it was who wanted in was disturbed by something.
It happens all the time. These people start an entry and then something gets the wind up them and they’re offsky.”
“Offsky?” Pat asked.
“Yes,” said the policeman. “Offsky. And there’s not much we can do, although I can probably tell you who did this. All we can suggest is that you get your alarm seen to. And get a new catch – a more secure one – and put it on this window at the back. That’s about it.”
Pat listened in astonishment. “But how do you know who did it?” she asked.
The older policeman looked at her patiently. Then he raised his wrist and tapped his watch. “I retire in six hours’ time,” he said. “Thirty-six years of service. In that time, I’ve seen everything
– everything. Horrible things. Sad things. And in my time in the Art Squad, aesthetically disturbing things. And after all that time I’ve reached one conclusion. The same people do the same things all the time. That’s how people behave. House-breakers break into houses. Others break into shops. It’s no mystery. I can take you right now to the houses of the house-breakers in this city.
I can take you to their actual doors and we can knock on them and see if they’re at home. We know exactly who they are –
exactly. And we know where they live. We know all that. And so if you think I’m picking on anybody, then let me tell you this. This was probably done by a man called Jimmy Clarke
– James Wallace Clarke, to be precise. He’s the person who steals paintings in this city. That’s what he does. But of course we can’t prove it.”
Pat looked at the younger policeman, who returned her glance impassively.
“It must be frustrating for you,” she said.
The older policeman smiled. “Not really,” he said. “You get used to it. But my colleague here has it all in front of him. I’m Akrasia: The Essential Problem
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offsky this afternoon. My wife and I have bought a bed-and-breakfast in Prestonpans. That’s us fixed up.”
The younger policeman raised an eyebrow. “Will anybody want to stay in Prestonpans?”
“It gets visitors,” said the older policeman curtly.
“Why?”
The question was not answered, and they moved back into the main gallery. The older policeman walked about, looking at the paintings, leaving the younger man by Pat’s side.
“My name’s Chris,” said the policeman, his voice lowered.
Pat nodded. “Mine’s Pat.”
“He’s very cynical,” said the policeman. “You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” whispered Pat. “I do.”
“Not everyone I meet in this job knows what cynical means,”
said Chris. “It’s nice to come across somebody who does.” He paused. “Would you like to go for a drink tonight? That is, if you’re not doing anything.”
Pat was taken by surprise and it was a few moments before she answered. She was free that evening, and there was no reason why she should not meet Chris for a drink. She had only just met him, of course, but if one couldn’t trust a policeman, then whom could one trust?
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said.
He was visibly pleased with her response and he gave her the name of a wine bar off George Street. He would be there at seven o’clock, he said, adding: “Not in uniform, of course. Hah, hah!”
Pat winced. She suddenly realised that she had made a terrible mistake. She could not go out with a man who said hah, hah like that. She just could not. Offsky, she thought.
32. Akrasia: The Essential Problem Before Matthew came into Big Lou’s coffee bar that morning, full of the news of the attempted break-in at the gallery, Big Lou 82
Akrasia: The Essential Problem
had been engaged in conversation with Ronnie and Pete about the possibility of weakness of the will.
“Ak-how much?” asked Ronnie.
“Akrasia,” said Big Lou, from her accustomed position behind the counter. “It’s a Greek word. You wouldn’t know about it, of course.”
“Used in Arbroath?” asked Ronnie coolly.
Big Lou ignored this. “I’m reading about it at the moment.
A book on weakness of the will by a man called Willie Charlton, a philosopher. You won’t have heard of him.”
“From Arbroath?” asked Ronnie.
Big Lou appeared not to hear his remark. “Akrasia is weakness of the will. It means that you know what is good for you, but you can’t do it. You’re too weak.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Pete, stirring sugar into his coffee.
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “You’d know. You’re a gey fine case of weakness of the will. You know that sugar’s bad for you, but you still take it. That’s weakness of the will. That’s what philosophers all incontinence of the will.”
Pete glanced at Ronnie. “That’s something else. That’s diar-rhoea of the will.”
Big Lou sighed. “Diarrhoea and akrasia are different. But it’s useless trying to explain things to you.”
“Sorry,” said Ronnie solemnly. “You tell us about akrasia, Lou.”
Big Lou picked up a cloth and began to wipe the counter.
“The question is this. Does weakness of the will make sense?
Surely if we do something, then that means that we want to do it. And if we want to do it, then that means that must be because we think that it’s in our best interests to do it.”