Mike wasn’t sure why Allan had said so little back in Westie’s flat – cold feet, perhaps, or maybe it was because Mike had already stated his intention to bankroll the operation. Stood to reason they’d need funds, and Mike was the one with cash to spare. For a start, he was sure Westie would need paying – payment for his silence, as well as his expertise.
At this stage, of course, it was still a game they were playing. Making the copies didn’t mean they had to take the scheme any further. Allan had seemed to accept this, but maybe also thought that Mike, being willing to pay for the privilege, should be the one to do the talking.
‘Whatever I end up forking out, I might still be getting a masterpiece on the cheap,’ Mike had assured him.
‘Not that we’re doing this for the money,’ Gissing had growled.
The professor’s room was chaotic. He had already cleared some of his bookshelves into boxes in preparation for retirement. There was a stack of mail on his desk, along with a computer and an old golfball-style typewriter. More books were heaped either side of the desk, and piles of art magazines were threatening to topple. The walls were cluttered with prints by Giotto, Rubens, Goya and Brueghel the Elder – these were the ones Mike recognised. There was a dusty CD player on one shelf and half a dozen classical titles. Von Karajan seemed to be the conductor of choice.
The blinds had been closed, leaving the room in semi-darkness. A screen had been pulled down from the ceiling immediately in front of the bookcases, so that Gissing could show them a wide selection of slides from the collection of the National Galleries, everything from Old Masters to Cubism and beyond. On the way over, Mike had explained a little more of the plan to Westie, who had slapped his knees, laughing with glee. Maybe it was just the dope kicking in.
‘If I can help, count me in,’ he’d said between gulps of air.
‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Mike had cautioned. ‘You need to think things through.’
‘After which, if you still want in,’ Gissing had added, ‘you’ll have to start taking it a bit more seriously.’
Now, as they looked at the slides, Westie slurped cola from a vending machine can. He sat forward in his chair, both knees pumping.
‘I could do that,’ was his refrain as the slides came and went.
Gissing, Allan and Mike had already pored over the slides, all of them showing items held in the overflow warehouse. Where possible, Gissing had found reproductions on paper to accompany them. These sat on the various desks, but Mike and Allan felt no need to study them further – they had already chosen a couple of favourites apiece, as had Gissing himself. But they needed to be confident that the young artist would cope with the different styles and periods.
‘Now, how would you begin here?’ Gissing asked, not for the first time. Westie’s mouth twitched and he began drawing shapes in the air as he explained.
‘Monboddo’s actually pretty straightforward if you’ve studied the Scottish Colourists – nice big flat brush, laying the oil on in thick swirls. He’ll go over one colour with another, and then another after that so you’re left with hints of what was there before. Bit like pouring cream on to coffee where you can still glimpse the black through the white. He’s after harmony rather than contrast.’
‘That sounds like a quote,’ Gissing commented.
Westie nodded. ‘It’s George Leslie Hunter – from your lecture on Bergson.’
‘Would you need special brushes, then?’ Mike interrupted.
‘Depends how thorough you want me to be.’
‘You need to defeat the naked eye, the gifted amateur…’
‘But not the forensic specialist?’ Westie checked.
‘That’s not an immediate concern,’ Gissing reassured him.
‘It would be nice if we had access to the right papers and ages of canvas… brand new canvas looks just that – brand new.’
‘But you have ways…?’
Westie gave a grin and a wink at Mike’s question. ‘Look, if an expert comes along, they’ll spot the difference in a few minutes. Even an exact copy isn’t an exact copy.’
‘A point well made,’ Gissing muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead.
‘Yet some forgers get away with it for years,’ Mike offered.
Westie shrugged his agreement. ‘But these days, with carbon dating and Christ alone knows what else waiting in the wings… don’t tell me you’ve not watched an episode of CSI?’
‘The thing we need to keep reminding ourselves, gentlemen,’ Gissing said, removing the hand from his forehead, ‘is that nothing is going to be missing, meaning there’s no reason for any of these boffins to become involved.’
Westie chuckled, not for the first time. ‘Got to say it again, Professor – it’s mad but brilliant.’
Mike was forced to agree: walk into the warehouse on Doors Open Day and replace the real paintings with Westie’s carefully crafted copies. It sounded simple, but he knew it would be anything but. There was a lot of planning still ahead of them…
And plenty of time to pull out.
‘We’re like the A-Team for unloved artworks,’ Westie was saying. He had calmed a little – only one knee was pumping as he drained the can of cola – but was no longer concentrating on the slideshow. He turned in his chair to face Mike. ‘Look, none of this is really going to happen, right? It’s like Radiohead might say – a nice dream. No disrespect, but you three are what I’d call establishment guys of a certain age and cut. You’re suits and ties and corduroy, nights at the theatre and supper afterwards.’ He leaned back in his chair and crossed one busy leg over the other, concentrating on the wagging motion of a paint-spattered trainer. ‘You’re not master criminal material, and no way can you pull off something like this without a bit more firepower.’
Secretly, Mike had been thinking the selfsame thing, but he didn’t let it show. ‘That’s our problem, not yours,’ he said instead. Westie nodded slowly.
‘But here’s your other problem… I want in.’
‘In?’ Allan echoed, his first contribution for some considerable time. Westie switched his attention to him.
‘I don’t just want to be the grafter who churns out a few copies for you. I’m on the team. You want six paintings, why not make it seven?’ He folded his arms as if it was a done deal.
‘You understand,’ Mike asked slowly, ‘that if you take a painting, you’re as deep in this as any of the rest of us – you’re not just a paid employee any longer?’
‘Understood.’
‘And we’re not selling the paintings on – they can never, ever hit the open market?’ Westie was still nodding. ‘And if it ever got out that we’d…’
‘I’m not going to grass you up – isn’t that actually another incentive? With me on board, I’ve got as much to lose as anyone.’ Westie opened his arms to reinforce the point. ‘I totally agree with the whole crazed concept. It’s just that I want to be more than a brush for hire.’
‘In return for which, we hand you a painting?’ Mike asked.
‘I’ll earn my painting, Mikey-boy. I’ll also earn all that cash you’re going to pay me.’
‘We’ve not talked sums yet,’ Allan ventured, ever the banker.
Westie pursed his lips and leaned forward again in his chair. ‘I’m not greedy,’ he stated. ‘I only want enough to see a friend of mine through film school…’
When Westie left, there was silence in Gissing’s office for a couple of minutes. The professor kept the slideshow coming, seemingly for his own amusement, while Mike stared at the torn page from the catalogue showing Monboddo’s portrait of his wife. Allan Cruikshank was the first to speak.