‘For both our sakes,’ Gissing had warned him, ‘but especially yours.’
The gentleman had understood and had been delighted with the purchase. That deal alone had allowed Gissing to travel in some style: France, Spain, Italy and Greece, then Africa. He had now been in Tangier for four months, but had moved his things here from storage only once he was confident that he would be staying. At the local cafés he was known as ‘the Englishman’, a misapprehension he had done nothing to correct. He had grown a beard and often wore a panama hat and sunglasses. He had also fought hard to lose three and a half stones in weight. Only on a few occasions had he wondered if it had all been worth it. He was, after all, a fugitive. He could never return to Scotland, could never see friends again or drink whisky with them in a decent pub while the drizzle fell outside. But then he would spend a while gazing at his paintings, and a slowly spreading smile would replace any lingering doubts.
The CD he had been listening to stopped abruptly at the end of its final track. Bach, played by Glenn Gould. He was working his way through the classical repertoire. The same thing went for books – he had vowed to try Proust again, and to reread Tolstoy. There was even a plan to study Latin and Greek. He reckoned he had another fifteen or twenty years in him, plenty of time to savour each morsel, each sip, each musical note, word, and stroke of the brush. Tangier was similar to Edinburgh in some ways – a village masquerading as a city. He was no longer a stranger to his neighbours and the market traders. The owner of the internet café had invited him to dine with his family. Street children liked to tease him. They tugged on his beard and pointed at the bow ties he’d taken to wearing. He would sit at outdoor tables, picking at his dinner and sometimes wafting air across his face with the brim of his hat.
It was, he had concluded, neither better nor worse than the life he’d once had in Edinburgh – it was different, that was all. He regretted the involvement of Michael and Allan, naturally he did. But Calloway had been Mike’s idea, and a very bad idea at that, though in retrospect almost perfect for Gissing’s own purposes. Of course, it hadn’t worked precisely to plan. Michael and Allan, not to mention Calloway, had been able to persuade the authorities that the missing artefacts had nothing to do with them. Gissing’s photo had been published in a great many newspapers across the globe, hence his nomadic existence. But all that was in the past now, and he could start to relax a little. The book containing the Picasso lithographs was written in Spanish – some folk tale or other. He’d vowed to teach himself Spanish also, so as to savour it all the more. His favourite painting, however, was a Peploe still life, full of glassy realism and romance. He wasn’t sure now about the one Wilkie portrait in his collection. If he ever needed additional funds, it would probably be the least painful to part with. The Saudi had said he would be interested, should future negotiations prove possible. For now, though, Gissing was quite content.
The doorbell sounded, followed by a knocking. He didn’t get up immediately, but when the knock was repeated, curiosity got the better of him. He rose with a little effort to his feet and padded barefoot across the floor. Was he expecting someone?
The answer was yes. Yes, and always. It was a couple of weeks since his last search of the internet. Anything could have happened in the interim. People could have been released from jail. All the same, once freed from custody, they would still have a job on their hands to track him down…
Before he had quite reached it, the door began to open.
‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ The voice was accented, but he couldn’t quite place it.
‘Can I help you?’ Gissing was saying as he went to meet his visitor.
Ian Rankin
