31
Mike had been dreaming about trouble at sea. For some reason, he had dismissed his crew and set sail alone on a long voyage, only to find himself unable to steer the craft. There were too many buttons and switches and levers. The maps made little sense, though he had marked his destination – Sydney – with a large X. Before long, he had found himself in the middle of a storm and taking on water. The spray stung his face, and he realized he was soaked to the skin. He awoke to find that his face really was wet. Someone was standing over him, holding an empty glass. He sat bolt upright and wiped at his eyes with one hand as he reached with the other for the light switch. When the bedside lamp came on, he saw that it was Chib Calloway holding the glass. Behind him stood two more men, one of whom seemed to be at the mercy of the other.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Mike spluttered, blinking. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘My friend Hate seems to have a way with locks,’ Chib explained. ‘Don’t go thinking you’re the only one it’s happened to. Now get yourself dressed.’
Still disorientated, his mind a jumble of questions, Mike swung his legs from under the duvet but didn’t rise to his feet.
‘A little bit of privacy?’ he requested, but Chib shook his head slowly, then startled Mike further by dropping to all fours. Tutting, Chib reached beneath the bed and slid out the four paintings.
‘Still haven’t learned, have you? I half expected to find them behind the sofa. Christ, we could have been in and out of here with them while you were fast asleep.’ Chib rose to his feet again and tossed Mike’s trousers to him. ‘No time for modesty, Michael,’ he warned him.
With a sigh, Mike got into his denims, then reached for the T-SHIRT draped over the back of his chair. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked, pulling it over his head.
‘Know who this is?’ Chib asked. Mike didn’t think he meant Hate, though he’d recognized him almost immediately. As for the man Hate was holding upright, the man with the pulverized face and blood-soaked shirt, well, Mike had been trying not to look at him at all. He sat back down on the bed and slipped his feet into his shoes.
‘Not a clue,’ he said, lifting his watch from the bedside table.
‘That’s nice,’ Hate said, meaning the watch. ‘Cartier – the Santos 100.’ Even Chib turned to stare at him. ‘I’ve got one at home,’ Hate explained. Then, to Mike: ‘I looked you up on the web, Mr Mackenzie. You’re a wealthy man. That’s lucky… means we can work something out, perhaps.’
‘First things first, eh?’ Chib reminded him. Then, turning to Mike: ‘I was asking if you knew Hate’s friend there… His name’s Jimmy Allison – ring any bells?’
Mike’s eyes widened. ‘The specialist?’
‘And now the recipient of two beatings, which I think you’ll agree is a mite unfair.’ Chib paused for effect. ‘Especially when nobody’s laid a hand on you. Now get into that fucking living room. We’re going to have words, you and me.’ He scooped up all four paintings and marched towards the door. Hate waited for Mike to follow, then brought up the rear with Mr Allison. Mike was still avoiding eye contact. The mugging might have been Gissing’s idea, but he’d gone along with it. In fact, he’d told the professor it was ‘genius’. Hard now to justify his elation – consequences had been missing almost entirely from the plot. And what the hell was Hate doing with Allison anyway? Mike didn’t doubt that the answers were waiting for him in the living room, but feared what else might be there.
Hate dumped the curator on one of the chairs. The man’s hands were tied behind him, his mouth covered with tape. Mike thought about pouring himself a drink, but wasn’t sure his hand would be steady enough. Besides which, the parched-looking Allison might see it as yet another small torture.
‘See this?’ Chib was saying. He’d placed the paintings on the coffee table and was pointing towards the sofa. There was another picture displayed there.
‘It’s your Utterson,’ Mike told him. ‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor.’
‘That’s right. And what did I do with it?’
‘You gave it to Hate.’ Mike had no idea where the conversation was going.
‘And what did Hate do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, have a think about it, shit-for-brains!’
But Hate had noticed the home cinema system. ‘Pioneer,’ he commented. ‘Good make.’
‘Jesus, will you shut up?’ Chib yelled at him.
Mike wondered which was preferable: that the soundproofing stop his neighbours downstairs hearing any of this, or that they decide to call the police to say that something bad was happening in the penthouse. Chib had turned towards him again.
‘Come to any conclusions yet?’
Mike rubbed at his eyes again and slicked back his hair. ‘At a guess, Hate decided he would verify the painting – despite my warnings. He went to Mr Allison here, who is an authority on the artist, and somehow Mr Allison had an accident and you came to me for help instead of heading for A and E.’ Mike held Chib’s stare for a full twenty seconds. With a growl, the gangster fetched the Utterson from the sofa and held it four inches from Mike’s face.
‘I’m not exactly the expert here,’ he snarled, ‘so maybe you’ll know better. When exactly was this painted?’
‘Early twentieth century…’
‘Is that so? Well, maybe you’re right. Take a closer look. In particular, tell me what’s going on in the bottom left-hand corner.’
Mike didn’t know what to expect. The artist’s signature, most probably. He saw heather and long blades of grass and a bit more heather.
‘Right at the very corner,’ Chib suggested. And then Mike did see it, and he screwed shut his eyes. ‘Well?’ the gangster prompted him.
‘Looks like there’s something lying in the grass, half-hidden,’ Mike muttered.
‘And what does it look like to you, Mike?’
‘A condom… a used condom.’
‘And can you enlighten us all – why exactly would a painter of Samuel Utterson’s reputation have felt the need to add that particular touch?’
Mike opened his eyes again. ‘It’s Westie,’ he stated. ‘It’s a sort of calling card of his. He copies famous paintings, then adds an anachronism, like an airliner or a mobile phone…’
‘Or a condom,’ Chib added. Mike nodded his agreement. ‘See, Mike, what I can’t understand here, what I’m really failing to get my head around, is why you would do this to me. You really thought I was so stupid I wouldn’t notice?’
‘In actual fact,’ Hate interrupted, ‘you did not notice.’
‘This is me talking here!’ Chib yelled at him again.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ Mike said. ‘Really I don’t.’
Chib burst out laughing. ‘You can do better than that, Mike!’
‘I promise you I can’t, because it happens to be the truth.’
‘Well, we’ll just go and ask Westie then, see what he has to say about it during his last few minutes of life. But before we do that, there’s the small matter of my fee. What I’d like from you, Mr Michael Mackenzie, software millionaire, is one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds – payable in cash. That way, Hate here can return home, job done. The amount of grief you and your lot have caused me, I should be asking for more, but let’s open proceedings at one seventy-five…’
‘One eighty,’ Hate said. Chib pointed towards him.
‘One eighty with the gentleman at the back. Do I hear any advance on one eighty? Shall we say two hundred, sir?’ Eyes boring into Mike’s. ‘Going once…’
‘Just let me fetch my wallet,’ Mike drawled, receiving a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled. He’d never felt anything like it. Brute strength, speed and accuracy. He reckoned he might just about get through the next minute without vomiting on his own floor. Breathing would be good, too…