‘Who else was in the warehouse?’
‘Westie and Allan.’
‘Not the professor?’
‘He stayed in the van – couldn’t risk him being ID’d.’
Chib was by now face to face with Mike. ‘What about afterwards? ’
‘How do you mean?’
Chib rubbed his jaw. He had neglected to shave for a couple of days and there was a rasping noise as his fingers crossed the greying stubble. ‘I’ve heard of it happen – a bank gets turned over… doesn’t have to be a bank, could be a petrol station, supermarket, anywhere really… Once the thieves have hoofed it, the staff call the cops, but then they’ve got that five- or ten-minute wait… all this stuff’s still lying around the place, and whatever goes walkies will be blamed on the robbers…’
Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re saying the guards at the warehouse…? But wouldn’t the visitors see something?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’m not buying that.’
‘You’d rather convince yourself it was me?’ Mike could feel the man’s breath on his face – garlic had played some part in the previous evening’s meal. There was a hint of milky tea, too – breakfast, probably. ‘Only three of my guys,’ he went on, ‘were in the actual warehouse, meaning they must’ve taken – what? – four paintings apiece. What in God’s name were they wearing – tents?’ Chib offered a cold chuckle. ‘No, my friend, this was down to your lot, and I’m sure if I ask them nicely, Westie and Allan will spill their guts – literally, if need be.’
‘What about asking your own guys first?’
‘I don’t need to.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time a small-time crook had given in to temptation…’
Their mutual staring contest lasted twenty seconds, Chib the first to blink as he reached into his jacket for his phone. Mike concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, his demeanour solid. Not much sleep last night – too many questions. Of course he’d been turning over some of the same suspicions Chib had just voiced. Little phrases had kept recurring… no such thing as the perfect crime… honour among thieves… traitor in the ranks… Chib’s eyes were on him as he punched in some numbers. Mike knew he was right – no way those four had been hiding anything under their jackets, and nowhere in the back of the van to stash so many extra paintings, sketchpads and illustrated books. Mike needed to think, needed to talk to Allan and Westie. He’d decided not to call them straight away, see if either decided to call him first, as soon as they heard the news. Not a peep. On the other hand, maybe they were just following orders – Gissing’s orders: lie low…
‘Glenn?’ Chib was saying. ‘I want you to round up Billy, Kev, Dodds and Bellboy. Get them round to the snooker hall pronto.’ As he snapped shut his phone, Mike’s sounded. Westie’s number on the screen.
‘Mind if I take this outside?’ he asked Chib.
‘Someone I shouldn’t know about?’
‘Just personal,’ Mike said, hauling open the door. Outside on the pavement, he took a few deep gulps of air as he answered the call.
‘Hello?’ he said, wondering whether to expect Westie himself or the girlfriend, Alice.
‘Mike, is that you?’ Westie’s voice.
‘What can I do for you?’ Mike asked.
‘I just wanted to… I want to say sorry… I’d no idea Alice was going to send you that text. And it stands to reason she didn’t really mean it. We don’t… I don’t want any more money. Or a painting, come to that. I’m quite happy with everything.’
He didn’t sound it. ‘You’ve got enough paintings, then?’
‘I suppose so.’ Westie sounded confused.
‘And how many’s that, Westie?’
‘What do you mean? Just the DeRasse – you know that, Mike. So are we okay now, yeah?’
‘I’m not sure, Westie.’
‘See, I’ve got a favour to ask.’
Mike’s shoulders tensed. The street was mid-morning quiet: a newsagent’s at the corner, a second-hand shop still waiting to open. Tenements across the way, but no one at the grimy windows. ‘I might not be in the mood,’ he told Westie.
‘I can appreciate that, Mike. But I’ve apologised now, so maybe you can… you know…’
‘What?’
‘Get Calloway off my case!’ The words were just short of a scream, so that they came over in a distorted crackle.
‘I wasn’t aware he was on your case.’
‘You didn’t send him round here to scare me off?’
Mike’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s he been saying, Westie?’
‘He wants me to do more fakes for him – loads of them. And I’m scared, Mike – scared to say no, but scared of what’ll happen if I say yes.’
Mike had turned round to face the windowless snooker hall. It was called Diamond Jim’s, the paint peeling from its signage. Had there ever been a Diamond Jim? And if so, what had happened to him? ‘Why does he want them, Westie?’
‘You think I was going to ask? He’s a monster, Mike, everybody knows that. He threw a guy off the Scott Monument once.’
‘Threatened to,’ Mike corrected him. ‘Did he tell you what paintings he wants?’
‘I don’t think he knows yet. Says they’ve got to be like the ones we took – you know, unlikely to be posted missing.’
Mike found himself nodding. ‘Have you seen the news, Westie?’
‘Christ, no – has something happened to her?’
Mike wasn’t really listening. He’d spotted a bag of rubbish in the pend that separated the two tenement blocks. It had burst open and a rat was feasting on the contents, slithering over the remains of takeaway meals and beer cans. It dawned on Mike that he was a very long way from home. Westie had called Chib a monster – hard to disagree. And after all, wasn’t Edinburgh the very city that had spawned Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? Mike placed a hand against the snooker hall’s dank, defaced wall, and felt it leave a thin residue all across his palm.
A hellish spot, he thought to himself.
So why go back inside? Why not run for it and try to forget that he had once known anyone called Chib Calloway? Somehow he didn’t think it would be that simple. And the first to flee… well, they would become the prime suspect, wouldn’t they?
‘What?’ he asked into the phone. Has something happened to her? Westie had asked, and now he was saying something else.
‘Alice,’ the voice repeated, cracking with emotion. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do…’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I had a go at her last night… about her sending you that text, and Calloway and everything… She walked out, Mike. She’s been gone all night.’
Mike swore under his breath and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘You’ve got to go after her.’ He spoke quietly and calmly into the mouthpiece, despite his pounding heart. But he noticed that he was having to hold the phone in both hands to stop it being shaken out of his grip. ‘You’ve got to bring her back, sort things out between you, get her to see sense. She knows everything, Westie – and she’s got less to lose than the rest of us.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If she goes to the police, there’s practically nothing they can charge her with.’
‘She wouldn’t do that.’
‘And if she’s feeling like you’ve turned against her… well, what’s to stop her trying a spot of blackmail again?’
‘She won’t… not now she knows Calloway’s involved.’
‘She might. So here’s what you have to do, Westie – you call her, text her, go knock on her friends’ doors, any family, that cinema she works in – you track her down and then you drop to your knees and tell her you’re sorry. She’s got to come back, Westie. She’s got to.’
There was silence on the line for a moment, then the sound of sniffles being wiped away. ‘I’ll try, Mike. What about Calloway?’
‘First things first, Westie. Let me know, soon as you find her.’