‘I checked.’
‘In one of the shops maybe, pretending to browse?’
‘I already said.’ Glenn had bristled. ‘If there’s anyone out there, they’re better than good.’
‘They don’t have to be better than good,’ Chib had snapped back. ‘Just better than you.’ Then he’d gone back to gnawing his bottom lip, the way he sometimes did when he was thinking. Until, having paid the bill, he’d come to a decision.
‘Okay then… the two of you can eff off.’
‘Boss?’ Johnno this time, trying to work out if he’d heard right.
Chib didn’t say anything, but the way he saw it was, if it was the Angels or someone like them, they’d be more likely to make their move if he was alone. And if it was the cops… well, he wasn’t sure. But at least he’d know, one way or the other. It was a plan. It was something.
The look on Glenn’s face, however, told him this didn’t mean it was necessarily better than nothing…
Chib’s idea was to hit the shopping crowds on Princes Street. Cars weren’t allowed down there, so any tail would have to come after him on foot. He could then climb the steep flight of steps at the side of the Mound and head for the quieter streets of the Old Town, streets where anyone following on foot would be easy to spot.
It was a plan.
But not much better than nothing, as he soon learned. He’d told Glenn and Johnno to stay with the car, he would call them when he needed them. Then he’d headed down Frederick Street, crossing to the quieter side of Princes Street, the side with no shops. The Castle loomed above him. He could make out the tiny shapes of tourists as they leaned over the battlements. He hadn’t been inside the Castle for years; seemed to remember a school trip there, but he’d sneaked away after twenty minutes and headed into town. A couple of years back, he’d been cornered in a bar by someone he knew. The man had confided a carefully thought-out scheme to steal the Scottish Crown Jewels, but Chib had given him a slap across the jaw for his trouble.
‘Castle’s not just for tourists,’ he’d explained to the hapless drunk. ‘It’s a working bloody garrison. How you going to sneak the jewels past that lot, eh?’
He crossed the foot of the Mound at the traffic lights and walked towards the steps. Kept stopping, casting glances back – no sign of anyone. Bloody hell, though… Peering up the incline, he realised just how steep the steps actually were. He wasn’t used to walking. The shoppers and tourists on Princes Street hadn’t helped his blood pressure. He’d broken into a sweat just dodging the buses as he crossed the road. What was the point of banning cars when the place just became a racetrack for taxi-cabs and double-deckers? He knew he couldn’t face climbing those steps, so stood his ground for a moment instead, weighing up alternatives. He could take a detour into Princes Street Gardens – couldn’t stomach the thought of Princes Street itself again. There was a big Greek-style building in front of him; two of them, actually, one behind the other. Art galleries: he knew that much. One of them, they’d wrapped its pillars last year to make them look like soup cans. Something to do with an exhibition. Chib remembered the three guys in the bar. He’d gone over to their table knowing a fifteen-second glare would put the frighteners on them, and it had. That catalogue they’d been perusing – full of paintings. Now here he was outside the National Gallery of Scotland. Yeah, why not? Sort of like a sign from above. Plus, if anyone followed him inside, he’d know for sure. As he walked up to the door, it was held open for him by one of the staff. Chib hesitated, hand in pocket.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘No charge, sir,’ the guard answered. He even gave a little bow.
Ransome watched as the door swung shut behind Chib Calloway.
‘Now I really have seen everything,’ he muttered to himself, reaching into his coat for his phone. Ransome was a detective inspector with Lothian and Borders Police. His colleague, Detective Sergeant Ben Brewster, was in an unmarked car, parked somewhere between the Mound and George Street. Brewster picked up straight away.
‘He’s gone into the National Gallery,’ Ransome explained.
‘Meeting someone?’ Brewster’s voice was tinny; it sounded like he was being beamed down from a space station somewhere.
‘Dunno, Ben. Looked to me like he was considering the Playfair Steps, but then thought better of it.’
‘Know which I’d choose.’ Brewster was chuckling.
‘Can’t say I was looking forward to hauling myself up them,’ Ransom agreed.
‘Reckon he’s spotted you?’
‘Not a chance. Where are you?’
‘Double-parked on Hanover Street and not making many friends. Are you going to follow him inside?’
‘I don’t know. More chance of him clocking me indoors than out.’
‘Well, he knows someone’s watching him – so why ditch the two stooges?’
‘That’s a good question, Ben.’ Ransome was checking his watch. Not that he needed to – a blast to his right was followed by a puff of smoke from the Castle’s ramparts: the one o’clock gun. He peered down into the Gardens. There was an exit from the gallery down there… no way he could cover both doors. ‘Stay put,’ he said into his phone. ‘I’m going to give it five or ten minutes.’
‘Your call,’ Brewster said.
‘My call,’ Ransome agreed. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gripped the railings with both hands. It all looked so orderly down in the Gardens. A train was rumbling along the railway track, making for Waverley Station. Again, all very calm and orderly – Edinburgh was that kind of city. You could live your whole life and never get any inkling of what else was going on, even when it was living next door to you. He turned his attention towards the Castle. It appeared to him sometimes like a stern parent, frowning on any impropriety below. If you looked at a map of the city, you were struck by the contrast between the New Town to the north and the Old Town to the south. The first was planned and geometric and rational, the second higgledy-piggledy and seemingly chaotic, buildings erected wherever space permitted. Story was, back in the old days they kept adding floors to the tenements until they started collapsing in on themselves. Ransome liked the feel of the Old Town even today, but he had always dreamed of living in one of the New Town’s elegant Georgian terraces. That was why he took a weekly lottery ticket – only chance he was ever going to get on a CID salary.
Chib Calloway, on the other hand, could easily afford the New Town life, but chose instead to live on a ticky-tack estate on the western outskirts of the city, only a couple of miles from where he’d grown up. There was, it seemed to Ransome, no accounting for taste.
The detective didn’t think Chib would linger in the gallery – to someone like him, surely art had to act like kryptonite. He would emerge either from the main door, or from the one in the Gardens. Ransome knew he had to make a decision. But then again… how much did it matter in the great scheme of things? The meetings Chib had arranged – the ones Ransome knew about – were no longer going to happen. No evidence would be gathered; several more hours of Ransome’s life wasted as a result. Ransome was in his early thirties, ambitious and alive to possibilities. Chib Calloway would be a trophy, no doubt about that. Not, perhaps, as much of a trophy as four or five years ago, but back then Ransome had been a lowly detective constable and unable to direct (or even suggest to his superiors) a long-term surveillance operation. Now, though, he had inside info, and that could mean the difference between failure and success. One of Ransome’s first CID cases had been a push against Calloway, but in court the gangster’s expensive lawyer had picked apart the evidence – to the cost of the youngest member of the team of investigators.
Detective Constable Ransome… you’re sure that’s your correct title? Only, I’ve known plain constables with more apparent ability. The advocate smug and ruddy-cheeked in his wig; and Chib Calloway braying in the dock, wagging a finger at Ransome as the young detective sloped from the witness box. Afterwards, his team leader had tried telling him it didn’t matter. But it had; it did; all the way down the passing years.