‘Look, Inspector, I’m not sure how any of this can be of benefit to your investigation.’
‘Oh, it’s not my investigation, Professor Gissing – I’m just curious, that’s all.’ Ransome paused, watching Gissing try to take this in. ‘Shame about Mr Allison, wasn’t it?’
The question threw the academic.
‘Him being the resident expert and all,’ Ransome pressed on. ‘Do you know him, sir? I believe he’s pretty badly shaken…’
‘Terrible business,’ Gissing seemed to agree.
‘Still, silver linings and all that, eh?’
‘I’m not sure I get your meaning.’
Ransome gave a shrug. ‘I’m just saying, it’s lucky you were on hand to step into the breach, so to speak.’
‘Yes, well…’ Gissing, having nothing to add, was again about to leave.
‘See much of Chib Calloway these days?’
Gissing kept his back to the detective for several seconds, then half turned his head. ‘Sorry – what was that name again?’
Ransome just smiled and winked.
22
The two paintings were still propped up on one of the sofas in Mike Mackenzie’s penthouse. So far today Mike hadn’t been able to spend as much time as he would have liked with Lady Monboddo. He’d had to surf the web, checking the level of interest – national and international – in the heist. Either the National Galleries had been ‘spectacularly lucky’ or else the robbers had been ‘spectacularly inept’.
‘Cack-handed, they called it in my day,’ Allan Cruikshank had offered when he arrived at the flat. He’d also warned that Mike should be thinking of a hiding place for the two paintings.
‘What have you done with yours?’ Mike asked in return.
‘Under the desk in my study.’
‘Reckon there’s a chance the cops will miss them if they come looking?’
‘What the hell else can I do? Stick them in the bank for safe keeping?’
Mike just shrugged. Allan was looking awful. He kept wandering over to the window and staring down towards the car park, as if fearing the imminent arrival of blue flashing lights. The pair of them had stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, Mike trying to push away the thought that his friend might be about to jump, but glad all the same when they retreated indoors. Mike had made peppermint tea, which Allan said he couldn’t remember asking for. He held the mug cupped in both hands.
‘Help you relax,’ Mike offered.
‘Relax?’ Allan hooted, rolling his eyes.
‘How much sleep did you get last night?’
‘Not much,’ Allan conceded. ‘Tell me, have you ever read any Edgar Allan Poe? “The Tell-Tale Heart”?’
‘We just have to hold our nerve, Allan. A few days of fuss and it’ll all die down – you’ll see.’
‘How can you say that?’ A splash of tea had spilled on to the wooden floor, but Allan seemed not to have noticed. ‘We still know what we did!’
‘Why not shout a bit louder? I’m sure the neighbours will be thrilled.’
Allan’s eyes widened. He removed one hand from the mug so he could clamp it over his mouth. Mike didn’t bother saying he’d been exaggerating for effect – the flat was pretty well soundproofed. When he’d first moved in, he’d cranked up the hi-fi then gone downstairs to ask the couple – he a restaurateur; she an interior designer – if they could hear it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Allan was muttering now from behind his fingers. He went to sit down, but his eyes fell on the paintings again. ‘You really should hide those,’ he advised, voice quavering.
‘If anyone asks, they’re copies,’ Mike explained soothingly. ‘You could do the same – stick them on a wall where you can see them… maybe the Coultons will calm you down where mere mortals like myself can’t.’
‘They’re better than any of the ones First Caly has,’ Allan intoned.
‘Yes, they are,’ Mike agreed. ‘Look, the whole point of this exercise – if you cast your mind back – was the pleasure of owning a masterpiece or two. The professor’s already convinced everyone they’ve got their paintings back. Today at the warehouse, he’ll reinforce that – nothing missing, everything accounted for. After that, the media interest will disappear in a puff of smoke.’
‘I wish I could disappear in a puff of smoke.’ Allan bounded to his feet again and made for the window. ‘What about this cop you mentioned?’
‘I wish to God I hadn’t,’ Mike muttered to himself. Having told Gissing not to say anything, he’d decided Allan actually did need to know about Ransome. They were a team, after all, and they were still mates. You didn’t keep stuff hidden from your mates. But when Mike had called him to explain, Allan had said he was coming straight over.
‘He’s already on our trail,’ Allan persisted.
‘He’s got nothing. Even if he thinks something fishy’s going on, how’s he going to prove it?’
But Allan was not to be consoled. ‘What if I give mine back? Or just abandon them somewhere?’
‘Good thinking…’ Mike bore down on his friend. ‘Then they’ll know the ones they found in the van are copies and start wondering why the esteemed professor didn’t say anything.’
Allan gritted his teeth in frustration. ‘You take them, then. I’ll give them to you. I can’t get to sleep with them in the house!’
Mike considered his options, and placed a hand on Allan’s shoulder. ‘Okay, how about this – we’ll bring them here, and I’ll look after them for a few days… maybe even a week or two, just until you start to feel good about them.’
Allan thought for a moment, and then nodded slowly.
‘As long as we’re agreed,’ Mike persisted. ‘I’m holding them for you, not taking them from you. Is it a deal?’ He waited until Allan started nodding again. ‘And we don’t tell anyone else,’ he added. ‘It’s our little secret.’
Mike did not want anyone knowing that Allan was getting the shakes – least of all Chib Calloway. He was hoping it was just shock, meaning it would wear off. On those occasions when he’d been able to study the portrait of Monboddo’s wife, he’d been unable not to see another face there – not Laura’s this time, but the man called Hate. Something told Mike that even if he were never again to be in the same room as him, he’d still be haunted by the face and figure.
The face, the figure, and those hellish tattoos.
It was, of course, no business of Mike’s who Chib chose to give his painting to, but it was dangerous. At the heist’s conception, there had only been the three friends – Mike, Allan and Gissing. Westie had been added as a necessity, but now Westie’s girlfriend was a player, too. And Chib… Chib had been Mike’s idea. It would be his fault if things started to go wrong. Chib, Chib’s four lads, and now Hate. And who knew where Hate would lead…
‘What’s on your mind?’ Allan was asking.
‘Nothing,’ Mike stated. I’m lying to him. And keeping things from him, too…
‘I’d never blurt anything out, Mike… you know that, right? I mean, we’re mates, always will be. That’s the truth of it.’
‘Of course it is.’
Allan attempted something like a grin. His face was pasty, coated with perspiration. ‘You’re so in control, Mike. Always got the answers up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘You got a real buzz out of yesterday, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ Mike confessed with a smile. But meeting the debt-collector had been another, very different kind of buzz, one that told Mike he was rubbing shoulders with the big boys in the playground now.
Playing with the bullies.
They wouldn’t play fair, wouldn’t let sentiment or emotion or friendship get in the way.
Allan had slumped back into his chair, sloshing more tea. Mates… always will be. Well, you never could tell.
‘Let’s go fetch your paintings,’ Mike offered. ‘That way you can rest easy.’
‘Some sleep would be nice,’ Allan agreed. ‘How come we haven’t heard from Robert?’