One bonus: the chippie van was locked tight for the weekend - one potential witness out of the running . . .
‘That’s the first two arriving now,’ Allan piped up.
Mike’s heart was pumping; he could hear the blood singing in his ears. He saw that Westie had clamped his hands between his knees, as if to stop them shaking. He’d done well, though. The van’s first stop had been his flat, where they’d loaded the fakes into the back, Gissing giving each of the eight a final once-over before declaring them ‘first class’, adding that this was also the mark Westie could be confident of getting for his degree show. This had probably been meant to relax the student, but it had the opposite effect on Mike - Chib’s lot, seated in the van as the paintings were loaded and inspected, now knew they had a student in their midst, and probably someone who taught him, too. Westie had declared himself ‘shattered’ by the experience, and he really didn’t look too good: pale and pasty and with eyelids drooping towards sleep. Mike had the feeling only caffeine was keeping him going. Last thing they needed was one of the team nodding off or losing his concentration during the actual heist.
Heist: the very word made Mike’s nerve endings jangle.
But here they were, ready and waiting.
‘Two more,’ Allan said. ‘Only one to come . . .’
There had been no sign of Alice in Westie’s flat. Mike had come across with the money she’d asked for, confirming that it was by way of an advance rather than extra cash, and had then driven his Maserati forwards and backwards over the video camera until it was flattened. He’d been sure to scatter its constituent parts around the city, leaving nothing to chance. But who was he kidding? There were plenty of loose ends already, with more to come. He stared down at the pile of unframed paintings on the floor of the van. As they were leaving Westie’s, he’d pleaded that no one accidentally put a foot through one of them.
‘You’ll have me to answer to if you do,’ Westie had snapped, at which Chib’s crew had just smiled to themselves. The morning had gone well so far. Mike had rendezvoused with Allan on Marine Drive at seven, leaving the Audi and travelling back to the penthouse in the Maserati. They’d toyed with their bacon sandwiches, but managed orange juice and coffee before donning their disguises - Mike had burst out laughing when Allan had walked into the living room wearing the wig, and with contact lenses in place of spectacles.
‘Got it in a junk shop,’ Allan had said of the wig. ‘Feels a bit itchy . . .’
At Gracemount, Gissing had been waiting, looking agitated and failing to blend in with his surroundings as he paced up and down. Mike had parked the Maserati, hoping no one would take a shine - or a dislike - to it. Five minutes later the van had arrived, with its crew of four but no sign of Calloway. Mike had exhaled in relief. He’d half expected the gangster to want to come along for the ride. He’d tried a bit of chat with the teenagers, hoping maybe to break the ice, until told that ‘Mr Calloway’ had said they should do what they were told but otherwise keep their ‘gubs’ shut.
‘Nae offence,’ one of them had added, before clambering into the back of the van. Since when it had been grunts and gutturals and a steady stream of nicotine. Which, now Mike came to think of it, was illegal, smoking having been banned in all Scottish workplaces - vans included.
Tut-tut, he thought to himself. Breaking the law. He rubbed a hand across his face. Like everyone else he was wearing latex gloves, bought from a chemist’s shop in Bruntsfield.
‘That’s the last one going in now,’ Allan suddenly piped up, voice half an octave higher than previously.
‘Two-minute countdown,’ Mike stated, lifting his watch to his eyes. Normally he wore a Cartier; other times he carried the antique pocket watch from Bonnar’s. But Allan had suggested something not quite so showy. It had cost less than a tenner from the same chemist’s shop as the gloves, but still seemed to work, though the second hand was now appearing to crawl around the dial. Could the battery be dying on him?
‘Ninety seconds . . .’
He was trusting Allan’s head count. Didn’t want any other visitors arriving after them . . .
‘Sixty . . .’
No backing out now. He found himself glancing in Westie’s direction. Westie was staring back at him, grim-faced or maybe just zonked. His disguise: sunglasses and a woolly hat. The sunglasses were just going on now.
‘Thirty . . .’
‘Awright, lads, nae fuck-ups,’ one of Chib’s kids was telling the rest of them. Nods and yet more grunts. Adjusting their baseball caps and scarves. Even Gissing was nodding his agreement, hands welded to the steering wheel.
‘Coast clear?’ Mike asked, hoping his voice sounded okay.
‘Clear,’ Allan confirmed.
Mike took a deep breath but couldn’t bring himself to bark the command. Gissing, half turning, seemed to sense this and did it for him.
‘Go!’
The van doors opened with a creak, seven of them moving briskly, turning the corner, coming into the gatehouse guard’s line of sight. Should have staggered it, Mike thought - we look like a gang. One of Chib’s crew was at the front, doing everything but breaking into a jog. Mike had visualised their walk as something like the start of
Reservoir Dogs
- calm, collected, going to work. But his knees were only just locking. The guard didn’t seem too concerned, however. He had risen from his comfy little chair, sliding open his window and reaching for his clipboard. There was a peaked cap he usually wore, but not today.
‘You’re late,’ he started chiding them. ‘If I can just have your names . . .’
Turning his head at the sound of his door being opened; brought up short by the sight of the sawn-off appearing from under a jacket; bundled back on to his chair by one of Chib’s lads. The rest of them didn’t pause, kept walking down the path towards the warehouse door. It was to the side of the main loading bay. One of the museum’s vans was parked up, but there was space to squeeze a new arrival next to it. Mike could hear a motorised click behind him and knew it would be the barrier starting to rise.
‘This is it,’ he said, hand gripping the door handle.
‘Let’s do it then,’ he was told.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was just as expected - a warehouse. Plenty of shelving; lots of items smothered in hessian and bubble wrap. Guardroom to the right. The five on-time visitors were being addressed by a member of the gallery’s staff - maybe it was his van outside. He wore a suit and tie and had a name badge on his lapel. One of Chib’s crew was already heading for the guardroom. He walked straight in before lifting out his gun. There were two guards inside, seated at a bank of CCTV screens. Mike watched through the window as their hands went up, eyes fixed on the firearm.
Drawing his own gun, Mike realised it was his turn to speak. Probably only ten or fifteen seconds had passed since he’d opened the door, but it felt like minutes. He had rehearsed the words, rehearsed the voice he would use - gruffer than his own, an instant snarl. Harking back to his roots.
‘Up against that wall, all of you!’
The visitors hesitated, thinking maybe some tasteless practical joke was being played. The staff member had begun to remonstrate, but one of Chib’s remaining two boys stuck the revolver’s barrel against his ear.
‘D’you want your brains splattering the bastardin’ floor?’
The curator didn’t think so. He lifted his hands in surrender and started backing towards the wall, the tour party following his lead.
Mike realised that Allan and Westie were already on the move, striding into the warehouse proper. Mike walked into the guardroom, ignoring the hostage situation, and removed from an already open wall-mounted box the keys he would need. He had memorised the numbers, helped by Professor Gissing, who had also explained that the box was normally kept locked.
But not for Doors Open
.
There was a split second where one of the numbers escaped him, but he remembered it. Christ, Mike, he told himself, how hard can it be? Only three bloody numbers . . .
Three vaults. Well, not really ‘vaults’ - Gissing had explained that they were more like walk-in cupboards, but with metal walls. Exiting the guardroom, Mike gave a nod, and the visitors and their guide were marched inside. It would be snug in there. The surveillance cameras were being switched off, the blinds closed. No one would see what was happening - less chance of disguises being noted, physical descriptions tucked away for future reference.
It took Mike longer than expected to find Westie. He thought he knew the layout, but they had reckoned without the additional overflow from the museum on Chambers Street. Some of the pieces were huge, and necessitated detours. Westie rolled his eyes when he saw him. Mike didn’t bother apologising, just tossed him the key, then went in search of Allan. He tried to stay focused - difficult when surrounded by so many treasures. Shelf upon shelf of artefacts, only a few of which were identifiable. Celtic, Mayan, Greek, Roman . . . no telling just how many cultures and periods were represented. He passed a penny-farthing bicycle and a vast swaddled shape that could have been an elephant. You could spend weeks in here, just as Gissing said, and not have exhausted your sense of wonder. Mike had a sudden thought: this was his first and last visit . . . he would never be able to come here again. Indeed, it was doubtful the place would ever again open its doors to the general public . . .
Allan was grinning through a sheen of sweat, and had removed his wig to claw his fingers through his hair.
‘So far so good?’ he asked. Mike felt that the wrong answer would turn his friend to dust. He nodded and handed over the key, while Allan replaced the wig.
‘Did you spot anyone you know in the tour group?’ Mike remembered to ask.
Allan shook his head, dislodging the hairpiece again. ‘Wasn’t really paying attention,’ he apologised.
‘Same here,’ Mike confided, turning in search of his own vault.
It was number 37. The key had a little tag to that effect. Gissing had warned him that the strong rooms were not sequential. To one side of the warehouse lay the even numbers, with the odd numbers on the opposite wall. Crossing the floor at a gap in the shelves, Mike worked his way down the numbered row, tucking his pistol back into his waistband. There were no other guards; no stray visitors. Plenty of cameras, but hopefully turned off. What if Chib’s crew missed one? Allan with his wig off, clawing at his scalp. Too late to be worrying about that. Vault 37. He turned his key in the lock and pulled the heavy door open. It creaked on its hinges only slightly. There was an overhead light inside, just as Gissing had promised. Framed canvases - dozens of them. He knew which numbers he was looking for. The paintings were stored side-on, cocooned in two layers - bubble wrap and cloth - with labels hanging from them. He slid out both paintings and tucked one under each arm before heading back the way he’d come. Lord alone knew what he was leaving behind. Given time, maybe he would have chosen differently. He could feel the Monboddo - it was the smaller of the two. If he had to sprint, he knew which one he’d drop first . . .
All was quiet behind the closed door of the guardroom. He hoped Chib’s lads were behaving themselves. One of them had opened the loading bay doors, bringing natural light into the warehouse and the taste of fresh air and freedom. Mike could see that the van was waiting. Gissing had backed it into position and the rear doors were already standing open. Gissing was now in the back of the van. He looked relieved at Mike’s arrival, causing Mike to wonder if there was a problem with Allan and Westie. Where the hell were they? He handed Gissing the first painting - a Cadell - which the professor unwrapped while Mike lifted its duplicate from the van floor. Gissing eased the canvas away from its frame. His hands were practised and it took him only half a minute. Wooden wedges had been used to take up any slack, and he removed these first, his fingers strong and seemingly steady.
Mike held his breath as the original frame was then placed around Westie’s forgery. It was a perfect fit, and he let out a little hiss of satisfaction. Gissing pushed the wooden pieces back into place, and examined the back of the original canvas, seeking identifying marks on both it and its stretcher. They couldn’t hope to copy any he found, not with any great skill. They had only so much time. But Gissing pronounced it ‘clean’. As he had predicted, the markings and labels tended to appear on the frame rather than the actual artwork. This was another reason why they’d opted for smaller canvases: less chance of cross-bracing, which meant one surface fewer that could hold identifying details . . .
‘Get it wrapped,’ Gissing growled, already starting work on the second masterpiece - the Monboddo portrait. Mike heard a noise and turned round to see Allan and Westie emerging from the warehouse, toting three paintings apiece. How could he have been so stupid?
That
was why they’d taken longer than him! Three each to his two.
‘No trouble?’ he asked, voice fluttering slightly.
‘No trouble,’ Allan confirmed, sweat dripping from his chin. Mike entertained a wild thought: could forensics take DNA from sweat? He didn’t think now was the time to ask. Westie was already starting work unwrapping one of his own canvases. Like Gissing, he knew exactly what he was doing; knew, too, that time was against them. No telling how early the next party of visitors might be. Mike glanced around the side of the van towards the gatehouse. There was no sign of the guard - he must be crouched on the floor. In his place sat Chib’s kid, and he was wearing the peaked cap - a nice touch, but Mike doubted it would fool anyone close up, not with the scarf still in place across the bottom half of the teenager’s face.