Any further south and we’d be on the doorstep of Saughton Prison…
‘Take your time, Donny,’ Ransome muttered into the phone.
‘Here we go.’ A final flourishing of paperwork. ‘Right nasty piece of work.’
‘Who?’
‘The Viking with the tattoos – you asked me to track him down, remember?’
‘Of course I did; sorry, Donny.’
‘His name’s Arne Bodrum. Hails from Copenhagen but spends most of his time elsewhere. Served two years for what we’d probably call GBH. Ran with the Hell’s Angels and is now reckoned to be an enforcer for same, specifically a chapter whose HQ is Haugesund in Norway. It’s thought they make their dough running drugs into countries like Germany and France – not to mention the UK.’
‘That much I already know, Donny. What else have you got?’
‘More along the same lines, plus the guy’s mug shots. The whole lot’ll be on your desk in about three hours.’ Donny paused. ‘Can I go back to my pit now?’
‘Sweet dreams, Donny.’
Ransome ended the call and placed the phone on the windowsill. Hate was acting as a go-between. No… more than that… he was an enforcer. Glenn had said Calloway owed money on a drug deal, the creditors being an overseas Hell’s Angels chapter. It meant Chib was hurting, needing a quick injection of cash. And who did they both know had cash? Step forward, Mike Mackenzie. Or First Caly, come to that – and hello again, Allan Cruikshank. Ransome reckoned this was the sort of thing he could take to the Chief, ask again for a full-scale surveillance and maybe some of those search warrants. He wasn’t stepping on Hendricks’ toes – there was no need to mention the heist – so there’d be no reason to turn him down. If a budget couldn’t be found, Ransome would do the whole thing by himself, gratis and for nothing.
All he needed was permission.
He had walked away from the window and now had his back to it, which was why it took him a moment to realise his phone was vibrating. Incoming calclass="underline" had to be Donny with something else, maybe something crucial. But the sill was narrow and the phone fell to the floor just as Ransome was reaching out towards it. The casing went one way and the memory chip another and the thing went dead. Cursing under his breath, Ransome reassembled the phone, then had to switch it on again. The screen had suffered a fracture, but the LCD display behind it was readable. No messages. He went to last call, didn’t recognise the number, but then he didn’t know Donny’s mobile number, did he? Hit ‘callback’ and pressed the phone to his ear.
‘Thanks for getting back to me, Inspector. I think we were cut off…’
It wasn’t Donny’s voice. Ransome couldn’t place it at all. ‘Sorry, who is this?’ he asked.
Silence at the other end, as though options were being weighed – last chance to hang up, et cetera. And then a clearing of the throat, and when the name was announced Ransome put the face to it straight away. After all, hadn’t he just been thinking about the man? Could this really be happening? Had he dozed off and this was all some bizarrely satisfying dream? First Arne Bodrum, and now this… Ransome sat himself down and crooned his opening words into the mouthpiece.
‘Something must be troubling you, Mr Cruikshank. Why don’t you tell me all about it…?’
Nice of you to drop by,’ Chib Calloway said.
Opening his eyes, Mike knew where he was: the abandoned snooker hall. Chib was standing in front of him. Some way off, Hate was studying the positions of the balls on one of the tables. Five chairs had been arranged in a line, and Mike was seated to the far right, hands tied behind his back, feet strapped to the chair legs. He looked to his left and saw Laura next to him, similarly bound. He gave a low groan of apology in her direction, which she acknowledged with a slow blinking of the eyes. Westie was next along, his own eyes brimming with tears, then came Alice, whose sharp gaze was nothing but venom with Calloway as its target. At the furthest end of the short, unhappy row sat the hapless curator, Jimmy Allison, looking dazed and bereft, and whose only crime had been to become a recognised expert in his field.
‘Wake up, dummy,’ Calloway was telling Mike. ‘Time to get a good smacking.’
Hate had grabbed one of the reds in his paw and was making his way towards the chairs. He tossed the ball as he walked, catching it each time with a slap of his cupped palm.
‘Lots of bodies to dispose of,’ he speculated.
‘No shortage of resting places,’ Calloway assured him. ‘We’ve got the North Sea and the Pentland Hills, not to mention all those building sites around Granton…’ Then, to Mike: ‘I’ve already had a fulsome apology from Westie here.’ He made to pat the young man’s cheek, causing Westie to flinch and screw his eyes shut in expectation of something harder. At the sight of this, Calloway gave a low chuckle and turned his attention back to Mike. ‘But not much by way of explanation.’
‘You expect me to fill you in?’
‘Before we fill you in,’ Hate growled.
‘I hope there’s no extra charge for the lousy puns,’ Mike said. Hate wrapped his fingers around the snooker ball and drew back his fist.
‘I told you, Hate – he’s mine!’ Calloway snarled, stabbing a warning finger towards the Scandinavian.
‘You’re not in a position to order me around,’ Hate told the gangster.
‘My town, my rules,’ Calloway spat back. It was like watching two caged animals, feral, territorial and deadly.
Hate spat on the floor, then channelled some of his pent-up anger towards the ball, hurling it at the wall behind the chairs. When it landed – out of Mike’s sight line – it failed to roll, telling him it had split in two.
Calloway leaned down so he was level with Mike’s face.
‘My boys tell me you were quite the Sir Galahad with your lady friend… But how smart was it to go back to your damned flat?’
‘About as smart as kicking and slashing your way through half a million quid’s worth of art instead of taking it with you.’
‘The old red mist descended,’ Calloway explained. ‘Besides which, what the fuck do I want with paintings?’ He rose to his full height and walked along the line till he was in front of Westie again.
‘Leave him alone!’ Alice raged. ‘You touch him again, I’ll rip your balls off!’
Calloway gave a whoop, and even Hate offered a lopsided grin of admiration.
‘She’s a tough old broiler, Westie, isn’t she?’ Calloway asked. ‘Easy to see who wears the cock in your house…’ Then, for Mike’s benefit: ‘Westie here tells me it was Gissing’s idea to switch paintings on me. He doesn’t seem to think you knew anything about it.’
‘You’ve been to Gissing’s house?’ Mike waited for the gangster to nod. ‘Then you’ll have seen the evidence. I’m guessing he left town yesterday. Maybe even before that – explains why he couldn’t be reached on the phone. I thought he was lying low, but actually it was more like deep cover. That house of his must’ve been on the market for weeks, meaning he knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘And what was he doing, Mikey?’
‘Let the others go and I’ll tell you.’
‘Nobody goes anywhere,’ Hate interrupted, stabbing a finger in Mike’s direction. The finger was encased in sleek black leather. A driver’s glove. Hate had started to pull them on, one for each hand. Mike knew what that meant: some work – manual work – was about to be done. And no fingerprints. He focused his attention on Calloway.