‘We were just going to have a drink,’ Gissing said. ‘And maybe a little chat.’
‘What about?’
‘Robert here,’ Mike began to explain, ‘has been stating his intention to lift some paintings from the national collection without their absence being noticed. A little retirement gift to himself.’
‘Beats a gold watch,’ Allan agreed.
‘Thing is, I think he might actually be serious.’
Allan focused his attention on Gissing, who offered a shrug.
‘Drink first, talk later,’ the professor said.
Detective Inspector Ransome watched the three men leave the auctioneer’s and head just half a block along the street to a basement wine bar called the Shining Star. He recognised one of them – the one he’d seen a few days back, drinking coffee with Chib Calloway in the National Gallery’s café. First a gallery and now an auction house. Ransome had checked the notice in the window: the sale had commenced at 10 a.m. Calloway had arrived twenty minutes early, buying a catalogue from the receptionist and being pointed in the direction of the actual saleroom. What the hell was he up to? He’d brought Glenn and Johnno with him, as if some deal might be about to do down. Johnno had come out for a cigarette about fifteen minutes in, looking bored, checking for texts and calls on his mobile. No chance of him spotting Ransome, who was standing eighty feet away behind one of the pillars outside the concert hall.
But with no clue what was going on.
He was on his own today. Ben Brewster was back at the station, working through a heaped in-tray. Ransome’s own desk wasn’t exactly empty, but the phone call tipping him off could not be ignored. And now he had two for the price of one: Calloway, and the handsome, well-dressed man. He was torn between going to the wine bar, maybe overhearing something, and staying put. He wished now he’d dragged Brewster out with him.
It was another half-hour before the auction house started to empty. Ransome watched from behind his pillar as Calloway emerged, flanked by Johnno and Glen, Johnno lighting up at the first opportunity. But Calloway seemed to change his mind and darted back inside again, leaving the two goons to roll their eyes. Couldn’t be easy, working for a nutter like Calloway. Johnno and Glenn both had form. They’d served time at Saughton Prison and further afield – casual violence; threats; intimidation. Johnno was the less predictable, the one likely to reach for the switch marked ‘berserk’; Glenn had at least a bit of sense about him. Did as he was ordered, but otherwise kept pretty quiet.
It was a couple of minutes before Calloway re-emerged. He was talking to a woman Ransome recognised. Calloway gestured along the street, suggesting a drink maybe, but she was shaking her head, trying to be polite. She accepted his handshake and headed back indoors. Johnno patted his boss on the back, as if to say: worth a try. Calloway didn’t seem to like that, snapped some remark back at him. Then the three men started making their way towards – well, well, well – the selfsame wine bar. Decision time again, and this time Ransome didn’t hesitate. He crossed the road and threshold both, smiling in the direction of the receptionist as he followed Laura Stanton into the deserted saleroom.
Not quite deserted, actually: chairs were being stacked by staff in brown overalls. Telephones were being unplugged from wall sockets. A lectern was being dismantled, plasma screens taken down. Someone had handed Laura a sheet of numbers, with a total circled in red at the foot of the page. Her face was difficult to read.
‘Hiya, Stanton,’ Ransome said. It took her a moment to place him, then a tired but genuine smile appeared.
‘Ransome, long time no see.’
The two had been in the same year at college, shared a mutual friend so tended to be at the same parties, the same nights out. They’d lost touch for over a decade, until a reunion had taken them to their alma mater. A few more reunions had followed, though they’d last bumped into one another months back at a jazz concert in the Queen’s Hall. Laura stepped forward now and pecked him on both cheeks.
‘What brings you here?’ she asked.
Ransome was making a show of studying the room and its contents. ‘I remember you saying you worked for an auction house… didn’t realise you actually run the show.’
‘You’re way off the mark.’ But she sounded flattered all the same.
‘If I’d arrived a bit earlier, would I have caught you in full flow?’
‘More of a constant trickle.’ She glanced at the sheet of numbers. ‘Markedly up on the winter sale, though, which is encouraging…’
‘I’m not interrupting?’ Ransome tried to sound concerned.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Only, I was passing and I thought I saw you enjoying a tête-à-tête with Chib Calloway.’
‘Who?’
He met her stare. ‘You know, the gorilla with the shaved head. Was he shopping for anything in particular?’
She knew who he meant now. ‘Didn’t seem to have much of a clue. He was asking at the end, how did all the bidding work?’ Her face tightened. ‘Is he in some sort of trouble?’
‘Since the day he climbed out of the cot. You’ve never heard of Chib Calloway?’
‘I’m assuming he’s not some distant relation of Cab?’
The detective reckoned this deserved a smile, but it was gone by the time he spoke. ‘Streak of violence a mile wide. Fingers in many and sundry dirty pies.’
‘Is he trying to launder money?’
Ransome’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you ask?’
She gave a shrug. ‘I know it happens… I mean, I’ve heard of it happening elsewhere, other auction houses. Not here, though, God forbid…’ Her voice drifted away.
‘It’s something I might look into.’ Ransome rubbed the underside of his jaw. ‘I’ve half a feeling one of his “associates” brought him here today.’
‘There were two of them,’ Laura started to correct him, but Ransome shook his head.
‘I’m not talking about the performing monkeys – they’re called Johnno Sparkes and Glenn Burns. They provide muscle for Calloway when he doesn’t feel like doing his own dirty work. No, I mean the tall fellow, wears a suit well, brown hair combed back from his forehead and over his ears. He left here with a big bear of a man in green corduroy and another guy, skinny, short black hair and glasses.’
She smiled at the description. ‘The Three Musketeers – that’s how I always think of them, they seem to get along so well, even though they’re different.’
Ransome nodded as though this made perfect sense to him. ‘Thing about the Three Musketeers, though…’
‘What?’
‘As I recall, there were four of them.’ Having said which, he took out his notebook and asked Laura for their names.
‘Wasn’t one of them Porthos?’ she teased. But the detective, her old drinking chum from college, was past jokes and attempts at humour. Anxiety flashed in Laura’s eyes. ‘There’s no way any of them would have anything to do with a character like that,’ she said defensively.
‘Meaning there’s no reason you shouldn’t give me their names.’
‘They’re potential clients, Ransome. There’s every reason I shouldn’t tell you anything.’
‘Christ, Laura, you’re not a priest or a clap-doctor.’ Ransome gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’m a detective, remember. I could stop them in the street if I liked and make them tell me. I could haul them down to the station.’ He gave this a moment to sink in. ‘And I’m sure you’re right – they’ve got nothing to do with Calloway. But this is me being nice, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. If you give me their names, I can do a quick background check without them ever knowing. Much better all round, don’t you think?’