Which was all to the good: Chib liked a man with money.
Mike could solve the Westie problem by throwing cash at it, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come back wanting more – might happen next week or next year, but it would happen. Come to think of it, Mike could solve Chib’s own cash-flow problem, too, if the Vikings decided they didn’t want to go with the painting. The planning… the clandestine meetings… car manoeuvres to lose any tail… the handover of the shooters… all these things had kindled something in Mike Mackenzie. He’d been growing to like it. Introducing him to Hate, however, might have been a mistake – Mike hadn’t been ready for that. Hate had scared him good and proper, and he had yet to recover his early confidence. Still, he’d held up pretty well this morning.
How did you get this address?
Chib had to smile at that – it had been as easy as asking an estate agent. They all knew ‘the Mackenzie pad’, could reel off the magazines and supplements it had appeared in. Another good reason, Chib told himself, for not being flashy with your cash and your choice of residence. Didn’t want every fucker knowing your business or that you might be worth a visit.
‘Where to, boss?’ Glenn was asking from the driver’s seat.
‘Home,’ Chib said. The other text message had been from ‘Laura’. When Chib had noted her resemblance to the portrait, Mike had been all casual – Laura Stanton, you mean? But the pair of them were close. She sent him texts, used only her first name, and sounded keen to see her millionaire businessman friend. Chib would have to consider the ramifications of this, too. But for now, one of his own mobiles was trilling. He recognised the number and considered not answering, then told Glenn to pull over. Chib was pushing open the door before the BMW was fully stationary. He’d taken a deep breath and flipped the phone open.
‘Calloway?’ came the quiet voice.
‘Hiya, Edvard.’ The only name Chib had for the man: Edvard. Boss Hogg of a Hell’s Angels chapter in the wilds of Norway. They ran drugs from all over: Denmark to Sweden; Russia to Finland; Norway to the UK. ‘Happy with the collateral?’ Chib noticed that he was standing beside some railings. Behind them was a patch of churned-up grass, some kids having a kickabout.
A quarter-century back, that was me. Nobody would dare take the ball away once I had it…
‘Well,’ Edvard was saying, ‘that’s why I wanted to talk with you.’ The voice was cultured, never threatening. Chib had been informed early on in the relationship that he would never meet its owner. Probably not even Hate had got to meet Edvard…
‘I hope there’s not a problem.’ Chib was staring at the game without really seeing it. A dog was barking. It had been tied to one of the goalposts.
‘No problems as yet – in fact, quite the contrary. You will know, of course, that collateral such as yours can make for a reliable form of currency?’
‘The one you’ve got isn’t even posted as missing.’ Turning towards the car, Chib noticed that the passenger-side window was down, meaning Glenn and Johnno were listening. Of course they were. Chib knew he had to keep from saying anything meaningful. He walked further down the pavement.
‘That’s good, that’s very good.’ Edvard’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. ‘So then, to cut the story short, perhaps more of our business could be transacted in similar fashion in future?’
Chib doubted it.
‘Sure,’ he agreed, sounding enthusiastic. ‘No problem at all, Edvard. You like your art, huh? Me, too.’
‘I like money better, Mr Calloway.’ The voice had turned cold. ‘And what I’m really passionate about just now is the money you still owe me.’
‘It’s coming, Edvard…’
‘I’m happy to hear that. I’ll be in touch soon about further transactions. ’
The phone went dead – Edvard never stayed on too long, just in case. Chib snapped the phone shut and tapped it against his teeth. He was replaying the conversation, and winced when he got to You like your art, huh? To anyone listening in – on a wire-tap, say – he’d just given away the nature of the bloody collateral!
Good work, Chib… Nice fucking going…
Still, Edvard wanted to do business with him. More paintings to be swapped between gangs as security on various deals. Tap, tap, tap of the phone against his teeth. The dog howling now in frustration. The BMW drawing up alongside Chib, making him realise he’d kept on walking. He was thinking about Edvard and the people Edvard did business with, hundreds and thousands of miles away from Edinburgh. How much did they know about art? About the Glasgow Boys and the Scottish Colourists? If paintings were just collateral to them, just something to be held on to while deals were being done…
Professor Robert Gissing reckoned that this kid Westie was a master forger, and Chib began to wonder about that, too. He was still thinking as he got back into the car, thinking as they pulled away from the kerb. Westie and Alice, Alice and Westie.
Westie short-changed.
‘I know how you feel, pal,’ Chib said out loud.
‘Boss?’ Glenn asked from the driving seat.
‘Nothing.’
‘Who was on the phone? Was it Hate?’
Chib sat forward in his seat until his face was almost level with Glenn’s. ‘Any more sticking your big pointy nose in, you’ll have my hands around your throat – understood?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Glenn said, sounding suitably chastened. ‘It’s just that…’ He swallowed hard, as if fearing his boss’s hands. ‘If you’re in trouble, me and Johnno want to help.’
‘What we’re here for,’ Johnno piped up.
‘Well, isn’t that touching?’ Chib crooned.
‘We feel maybe you don’t trust us the way you used to,’ Glenn persisted.
‘Oh aye? And who are you going to complain to – your shop steward? Get a grip, Glenn. Some of my business you’re better off not knowing. I’m taking more than my share of flak, just to keep you two off the radar, know what I mean?’
‘Not really, boss,’ Johnno eventually admitted. Chib just groaned and slouched back again. Mackenzie’s coffee was giving him a headache. Had to be the coffee. Either that or brain cancer from the mobile phone. One or the other.
What else could it be?
There was a restaurant next to the auction house. It had been a bank at one time, and still boasted a rococo interior of vast fluted columns and intricate cornicing. In the morning the tables were kept empty, ready for the lunchtime rush, but breakfast could be had at one of the booths by the window. Laura was stirring a foamy cappuccino when Mike arrived. He pecked her on both cheeks and ordered water – frizzante – from the waiter before sliding on to the bench across from her.
‘No coffee?’ she asked. There was a plate in front of her, showing leftover crumbs from a croissant. Little pots of jam and pats of butter sat untouched.
‘Already had my share of jolts this morning,’ he explained. ‘I haven’t seen you since the day of the auction – how did it go?’
‘Not quite record-breaking.’ She was stirring her spoon slowly around the remains of her drink. ‘Did you hear about the warehouse? ’ She seemed to be studying him as he adjusted his shirt cuffs.
‘Yes,’ he said, eyes widening. ‘Wasn’t that extraordinary?’
‘Extraordinary,’ she echoed.
‘You probably know the people at the National Gallery – they must have had a fit.’
‘I’d imagine so.’
‘Bloody lucky the gang didn’t get away with it.’
‘Lucky, yes…’ Her voice drifted away, though her eyes stayed locked on him.