‘Can I help you?’ Westie asked as the stranger chuckled at his own joke.
‘Course you can, Westie. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ The man was holding out a pudgy hand. Westie could have sworn there was scar tissue on the knuckles. ‘I’m Chib Calloway. Reckoned it was high time we had an actual face-to-face.’
‘Chib Calloway?’
The man nodded. ‘Judging by the way your jaw’s grazing the floor, I’m guessing the name means something to you. That’s good – saves lengthy explanations.’
‘I know who you are,’ Westie admitted.
‘Then you know why I’m here?’
Westie felt his knees trying to buckle. ‘N-no… I’ve no idea w-why you’re here.’
‘Has nobody bothered to tell you, Mr Westwater? Dearie me…’
‘Tell me what exactly?’
Calloway chuckled again and patted him on the shoulder. Westie’s knees almost went again under the pressure. ‘The extra guys on your team last Saturday, did you think they maybe appeared in a puff of smoke? The shooters and the van… who the hell did you think organised it all?’
‘You?’ Westie just managed to choke the question out.
‘Me,’ Chib Calloway confirmed. ‘I’m pretty impressed, actually… reckoned someone would have blabbed. Good that my name’s kept out of the spotlight. And yet I find myself having to come here…’ The gangster started tutting as he began a tour of the studio and its contents. Westie wanted to ask what was going on, but the greater part of him really didn’t want to know. Only a couple of the paintings had actually been hung, the other five resting against one of the whitewashed walls. Calloway had crouched down to flick through them, saying nothing. Eventually, he stood up again, brushing imaginary dust from his palms. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he apologised, ‘except for the noble art, of course. Know what that is, Westie?’
‘Boxing?’ Westie offered.
‘That’s it exactly – boxing.’ The gangster was walking away from Westie, heading towards the doorway. ‘Closely followed by hammering, battering, kicking, gouging, slashing, hacking and stabbing.’ He turned and gave a smile. ‘Not quite so noble by the time it gets to that stage, of course.’
‘L-look, Mr Calloway, I just did what I was told. N-nobody said you were part of the… I mean, you’ve got n-nothing to worry about, not from me.’
Calloway was advancing slowly on Westie again. ‘You saying it’s all down to your girlfriend, then? How is Alice, by the way?’
Westie’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’
Calloway took a deep breath. ‘Your dear, sweet little Alice sent a warning to my friend Mike Mackenzie. She says you want an extra twenty K on top, either that or another painting. According to her, you feel cheated. Is that right, Westie? Do you feel hard done by?’ But the student’s powers of speech had deserted him.
‘Now,’ Calloway went on, seemingly satisfied by this reaction, ‘how do you suppose she got Mike’s mobile number? Want to go fifty-fifty or ask the audience? No, because she got it from you, Westie. She got it from you…’ A forefinger stabbed Westie in the chest. It felt like the heft of a blade, the barrel of a gun. Calloway had leaned forward from the waist so he was eye to eye with the student. ‘Unless you can come up with some other highly convincing explanation.’ Spittle hit Westie’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it away until Calloway had started another circuit of the room, taking care not to trip over the various cables. ‘These are dangerous times, Pretty Boy,’ he was saying. ‘People get a bit frantic, a bit crazy.’
‘I didn’t know the silly cow had sent that text!’
‘But you knew she was thinking about it, didn’t you? You knew it was a text, even though I never mentioned the fact.’ Calloway had turned and was closing in on Westie again. His hands had emerged from his pockets. They were bunched into fists. ‘The pair of you talked it over, maybe tweaked the wording till you’d got it just right…’
‘We only thought…’
The punch hit Westie in the stomach and sent him backwards until he hit the wall, either side of a framed canvas. Calloway had followed up with a hand around the student’s throat.
‘It’s good that we’re getting to know one another,’ he spat, ‘because you’re going to do something for me. Two things, in fact. For one, persuade your bony-arsed girlfriend that nobody’s getting shafted around here except her.’
Westie, eyes bulging, had started to nod as best he could. Calloway released his grip and the young man collapsed to his knees, coughing a string of phlegm from his mouth. Calloway crouched down in front of him, a hand resting on either shoulder.
‘Is that a deal?’ he asked.
‘No bother, Mr Calloway,’ Westie managed to gasp. ‘I’m on that straight away.’ He managed to swallow. ‘And what’s the second thing?’
‘The second thing is this, Westie – we’re going to be a team, you and me.’ Calloway was nodding as if to reinforce the point.
‘A team?’ Westie’s ears were ringing and his mouth felt full of sand. There was juice in a carton on the floor next to him, but he didn’t think now was the right time for a refreshment break.
‘Looks like those forgeries of yours did the business, young Westie,’ Calloway was telling him. ‘In my book, that means you know what you’re up to. Quick turnaround, too, from what I’m told. So now you’re going to make me a few more.’
‘More copies?’
Calloway nodded again. ‘Plenty more paintings in that warehouse. ’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Don’t fret.’ The gangster offered a smile. ‘We’re not going to turn the place over again – do I really look that thick?’
‘So you want them for yourself?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
Westie felt himself relax a little. ‘Sure, Mr Calloway, I can do that. After all, what’s the difference between hanging a fake on your wall and owning the real thing?’
‘If the fake’s perfect, no difference at all.’ Calloway helped Westie back up on to his feet, brushing dust from his shoulders.
‘Do you have anything particular in mind?’ Westie asked. ‘Doesn’t have to be from the warehouse – I can do you a Mona Lisa if you like.’
‘No, Westie, not the Mona Lisa. These have to be paintings that are kept locked away from the public gaze.’
‘How many are we talking about?’
‘Couple of dozen should do it.’
Westie puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of work.’
Calloway’s face tightened. ‘You’re forgetting – you’ve a lot of making up to do after that little stunt Alice tried to pull.’
Westie raised his hands in surrender. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Not for you, Mr Calloway. I’m flattered you think I’d be good enough.’ Watching the gangster’s features relax again, he decided it was safe to ask a question. ‘By the way, which painting did you get from the raid?’
‘It’s by some guy called Utterson – Dusk on Rannoch Moor. How about you?’
‘A DeRasse,’ Westie was able to say, despite the sudden queasy surge in his gut.
‘Never heard of him.’ Calloway’s hands still rested on Westie’s shoulders. ‘Any good, is he?’
Westie cleared his throat. ‘Not bad. Experimental… style of Jasper Johns but a bit hipper… Do you want to swap?’
The gangster just laughed, as though Westie had been making a joke. Westie tried smiling back, maintaining the illusion while his brain screamed.
The Utterson! Why did it have to be the bloody Utterson?
26
Allan Cruikshank was in his office at First Caledonian Bank’s HQ on the corner of George Street and St Andrew’s Square. The building was becoming cramped, and being Grade I listed there was little way to renovate it to accommodate the twenty-first century. Allan’s office was half its original size, subdivided by means of a partition wall. The only view from his remaining window was of a ghastly seventies office block to the rear of the building. Along with everyone else at his level, Allan worked to monthly targets. His roster of High Net Worth clients had been underperforming of late, and he should have been making a few calls, maybe arranging lunches or pre-dinner drinks, the better to talk them into sticking some more of their money the bank’s way. He knew that, if asked, Mike Mackenzie would come on board as a client, but then they would cease to be just friends; the transaction would sit between them, changing everything.