Mike cleared his throat. ‘You sure about the west coast? A while back, I thought you said you’d be heading for Spain.’
‘Man’s entitled to change his mind,’ Gissing barked. ‘Anywhere except this bloody city . . .’
Soon they were on Inverleith Row, passing the Botanic Gardens, and then Ferry Road, glimpsing the Firth of Forth in front of them. As they headed along Starbank Road, Allan asked if Mike was sure this would be the quickest route in the morning.
‘Maybe not the quickest, but definitely the easiest.’
Google Earth had given Mike an aerial printout of the area around the warehouse. The trading estate would be near deserted at weekends, but was busy with lorries and vans this Friday as lunchtime approached. The drivers, Mike guessed, would be thinking about a trip to the pub after work, and maybe the football or shopping tomorrow and a lie-in on Sunday. He got the sudden and outrageous notion that maybe there was another would-be heist crew out there, who had figured out what Gissing had figured out and were making their own plans. But as they drove at a measured pace past the gatehouse, the cars parked kerbside were empty, awaiting their owners at workday’s end. The only van was selling hot food to a small, orderly queue. The men smoked and joked and shuffled their feet. Mike had a craving for a cigarette - only his second of the day. Allan pulled the Audi into the nearest available space and stopped the engine. Mike asked him to turn the key again so the electrics were working, then slid down the back window and lit a cigarette. Allan took one and slid his own window down.
‘Can we stretch our legs or are you worried CCTV might snap us?’ Mike asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Allan conceded. ‘There are cameras . . .’ He gestured in their direction. ‘But they’re pointed at gates and inner compounds. I doubt any are picking us up, but all the same . . .’
‘You’ve been here before?’ Gissing asked.
‘More than once, I’m guessing,’ Mike offered, before opening his door and getting out. After a moment’s thought, Allan followed, but Gissing stayed where he was. Mike leaned down and spoke to him through the window.
‘Not joining us?’
‘You forget, Michael - I’m a weel-kent face in these parts. If one of the security men should decide he needs a burger or a bacon roll, I might be recognised.’
Mike nodded his agreement. While smoking, Allan was pretending not to be studying the building they’d just passed. ‘Looks anonymous enough, doesn’t it?’ he commented.
There were certainly no signs posted, nothing to alert passers-by to the multimillion-pound contents of the grey concrete warehouse. The guard in the gatehouse was reading a newspaper and snacking on a chocolate bar. The fence was high and in good repair, topped with razor wire. But then the same could be said of all the other compounds in the vicinity, one of which advertised itself as a double-glazing showroom. A sign on the fence warned of twenty-four-hour security and guard dogs. Mike caught Allan’s eye.
‘Guard dogs?’
‘On the night shift only. A bloke in a van does the rounds.’
Mike nodded and concentrated on his cigarette again.
‘Feeling peckish?’ he asked Allan.
‘Do we really want Greasy Joe to be able to give CID our description? ’
Mike shrugged his acceptance of this. All the same, he had sudden hunger pangs. How exquisite to walk over there and strike up a conversation, pistol tucked into waistband and criminal intent in one’s mind. It was almost unbearable, irresistible.
And outrageously stupid.
Another car - a Rover - had pulled into a gap four cars ahead of the Audi. The man who emerged was overweight and wearing a pinstripe suit which, like its owner, had seen better days. He locked up and was heading for the van, which meant passing the two smokers. He offered a nod of greeting, and kept going, but then paused and turned around.
‘Nice motor, chief.’
‘Thanks,’ Allan replied.
As the suit headed towards the snack van, Allan could see that the men in the queue were interested in the car now, too. He flicked his half-finished cigarette into the gutter. ‘Thank Christ we didn’t bring the Maserati,’ he commented. Having said which, he got back in behind the steering wheel. Mike stood his ground, however, finishing the length of his own cigarette before stubbing it underfoot. Only then did he slide on to the Audi’s back seat.
‘Reckon the mobile chippie will be there on a Saturday?’ he asked.
‘Doubtful,’ Allan reasoned, starting the engine. ‘Not enough workers around here at the weekend to make it worth his while.’ He moved off and turned the first available corner, then braked again. ‘This is the spot for tomorrow,’ he said.
‘We can see the gates, but the guard can’t see us,’ Gissing confirmed.
‘So we can watch the punters come and go,’ Mike added.
Allan executed a three-point turn and paused again at the chosen location, facing the warehouse now, making sure his instinct was right. Any cameras trained on the roadway? None. The route was a dead end, meaning no passing traffic. At the same time, they had a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the compound. It was about as perfect as they were going to get.
‘So you’re parked here, Robert,’ he intoned. ‘We go in, and you give it a couple of minutes, then start moving.’
Mike took up the commentary. ‘One of Chib’s lads will be in the gatehouse by then. He’ll lift the barrier for you.’
‘And I reverse up to the loading bay,’ Gissing recited.
‘After which?’ Mike tested him.
‘I wait,’ came the response.
‘And if we don’t start coming out within the quarter-hour?’
‘I drive off and leave you to your fates.’ Gissing gave a cold smile. ‘But do I need to pick up the gatehouse felon or do I abandon him, too?’
‘That’ll be your call,’ Mike decided. ‘Everybody happy with things as they stand?’
‘I have a couple of concerns,’ Allan piped up from the driving seat. ‘Chib’s guys are going to come to this cold.’
‘So long as
we
know what we’re doing, that shouldn’t be a problem. It actually works in our favour if they don’t know too much.’ Mike paused. ‘Next concern, please.’
‘Why isn’t Westie with us? He’ll be here tomorrow, too.’
‘He’s got his hands full finishing the Utterson copy,’ Mike said. ‘But I’ll go over it with him later, don’t worry.’
Allan was nodding, apparently satisfied, but Mike held eye contact with him in the rearview mirror, until he was happy that his friend really was reassured.
‘I still can’t believe we’re giving that bloody thug a painting,’ Gissing muttered.
‘Well, we are,’ Mike snapped back, ‘so get over it.’ There was silence after that, the three men staring at the warehouse, their thoughts kept to themselves. ‘Okay,’ Mike said eventually. ‘The only thing now is the getaway car. I was planning to leave the Maserati on Marine Drive, but I’m not so sure . . .’
‘The Audi’s a safer bet,’ Allan agreed. ‘It won’t pick up half the attention.’
‘And you’re willing to risk leaving it on Marine Drive for a few hours?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘I’m assuming it’s not going to die on us?’
‘It’s only just been serviced.’ Allan rubbed his hands down the steering wheel as if to assuage his car’s feelings.
‘Why don’t we just rent some cars?’ Gissing asked.
‘Best not to,’ Mike cautioned. ‘Means leaving a paper trail.’
‘Is that what your friend Calloway told you?’
Mike ignored this. Instead, he had another question for Allan. ‘You boot’s big enough to take the paintings?’
‘Check for yourself.’
‘Do you want to park it overnight or first thing in the morning?’
‘Early morning,’ Allan decided. ‘Forecast’s for rain, so even the dog-walkers may be dissuaded.’
‘I’ll meet you there, then. We can do breakfast at my place and then head to Gracemount.’
‘Is it best if I meet up with you at Gracemount?’ Gissing asked.
‘Up to you, Professor,’ Mike told him.
‘I’ll probably do that then - I’ll order a mini-cab.’
‘In which case, pay cash,’ Allan interjected. ‘Don’t use an account or anything that would leave one of those paper trails we’ve been talking about.’
‘In fact,’ Mike added, ‘best take a bus into town and then transfer to a cab.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Gissing grumbled, ‘you both sound like the real thing.’
‘That’s because we are the real thing,’ Allan reminded him. ‘Now fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen. It’s a short hop to Marine Drive, but I don’t want us getting pulled over by the traffic cops . . .’
16
Westie was a wreck, but he was enjoying the challenge. He’d complained to Alice about the lack of food in the fridge and booze in the cupboard. She’d reminded him that the nearest shop was only a two-minute walk.
‘Do I look like I can afford two minutes?’ he’d screamed at her.
‘If you stopped rolling joints every quarter-hour, you could take the whole sodding afternoon off,’ she’d snapped back.
‘I’m doing this for
you
, remember.’
‘Yeah, sure . . .’
With which, she had flounced out of the studio, kicking an empty pizza box out of her way. But the box had rattled, meaning it wasn’t quite empty. Two crusts with a trace of tomato paste on each - a feast, under the circumstances. Westie worked with music in the background - Bob Marley, John Zorn, Jacques Brel, P.J. Harvey. The Brel had been turned into an accidental drinks coaster at a party a while back, as a result of which it skipped on some tracks; not that Westie minded - he didn’t speak French anyway. The singer’s passion was what he wanted. Passion, elegance and striving.
‘Same wavelength,’ he cooed to himself, picking up yet another paintbrush, grinding its hardened bristles against the edge of the easel. Then he had a smile to himself as he remembered his little secret. If he looked closely, he would see it staring back at him. Westie placed a finger to his lips.
‘Sshhh,’ he said.
And with a quiet chuckle, he popped the last morsel of pizza crust into his mouth, lit what remained of his previous spliff, and got back into the swing.
Ransome was reminded of the old cliché: things were quiet; too quiet.
He’d tried tracking down the man called Hate, with no luck whatsoever. Nor had Glenn fared any better, despite every ne’er-do-well in the city having been alerted to the search. Hate had to be staying somewhere outside Edinburgh, which was why Ransome had widened the net to West and East Lothian and even over the Forth Bridge to Fife Constabulary - all to no effect.
Plenty of campsites and caravan parks, but so far Ransome had drawn a blank there, too. He’d then decided to start at the other end, so to speak. There had been a slight frisson in contacting Interpol - he was ashamed to admit it, but it was true nevertheless. Full description . . . possible Hell’s Angel affiliation . . . Scandinavian. How much more did they need?
Well, a name for a start, one of his email respondents had joked. As a last resort, Ransome had contacted a mate at the Scottish Criminal Records Office, though he doubted Hate would have form in the UK.
‘I share your scepticism,’ the mate had said, ‘but I can run it through a few databases here and there.’
Ransome had also gone into the Shining Star and asked staff there about Chib Calloway and Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie they barely knew, and Calloway they were unwilling to discuss.
‘Never causes us any trouble,’ the manager had opined.
‘He will,’ Ransome had warned her. Liked the line so much, he’d repeated it to Ben Brewster back at the station. Ben had given a half-hearted laugh, his eyes on the paperwork piling up on his colleague’s desk.
‘I’ll get round to it,’ Ransome had chided him.
But Calloway was consuming too many of his waking hours, along with some of his sleep. In his dreams, he was chasing the gangster on foot through the streets of a sprawling city. His prey seemed to know the place better than him, and would lead him a merry dance through hotels and office blocks and factories. At one point, Ransome had been chatting up a good-looking woman in a hallway, while slowly becoming aware that Calloway had squeezed himself into a cupboard right next to them and was eavesdropping on the seduction.
Jesus, he needed a drink. He’d tried calling Laura to see if she might be free after work. So far he’d left three messages. He was seated at his desk in the CID unit at Torphichen Place and finding it hard to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the place. He’d been to the toilets, splashed water on his face. Too much coffee, he told himself. Too much stress. His wife Sandra had been studying cookery at night school - Thai, Chinese, Kashmiri, fusion. The nightly assaults of spiced concoctions previously unknown to him were playing havoc with Ransome’s digestion. Not that he could say as much to Sandra’s face. He kept a supply of Rennies in his desk drawer, but the indigestion tablets could do nothing about the pungent sweats he broke into occasionally.