‘Heartburn,’ he explained, accepting the drink.
‘Did Alasdair say how Mr Allison was doing?’ Mike enquired.
Gissing chomped down on both tablets. ‘He’s out of hospital but there’s concussion and bruising.’ He glared at Mike. ‘I think maybe your friend went a wee bit far.’
‘Just far enough to stop his services being called for,’ Mike answered. ‘When you’re finished at Marine Drive, get a cab to bring you here and either Allan or me will run you home.’ His own mobile was sounding. Not a call as such: a text message from Chib Calloway.
HERD MY BOIZ DID GUD! NEED COLLATERAL ASAP. R U NEAR A TV?
Mike decided to ignore it. Collateral: the very word Chib had used when taking that phone call.
Good honest collateral
. . . The news had shifted to the aftermath of some flooding in England. The journalist at the scene said something about the locals fearing they’d ‘got in too deep’. Gissing was popping a third tablet, hands unsteady, while Allan rubbed at the pulse in his eyelid and hopped from one foot to the other like a hyperactive kid.
In too deep? Nobody knew the half of it . . .
19
DI Ransome was seated at his desk in the empty CID suite when he heard the news. The radio had been providing him with background music and blather. It was some local station, mixing golden oldies with traffic and weather. Ransome had been in the office for a solid two hours, clearing an inch from his in-tray. He was due to appear in court three times over the next two weeks, and needed to bone up on his evidence. The amount of time cops - uniform and CID - wasted in the city’s sheriff and high courts was a scandal, and often, at the last minute, some plea deal was done, meaning they didn’t have to go into the witness box anyway. One officer he knew had earned himself an Open University degree, doing most of his studying and essay-writing while seated outside various courtrooms waiting to say his piece.
Ransome was spending an idle minute wondering what subject he would study, given the chance, when the radio DJ announced a ‘break-in at an industrial site in Granton’. Ransome had started to tune out until he heard the words ‘valuable artworks’. What the hell were those doing in a warehouse in Granton of all places? Holdings belonging to several city-based museums . . . staff and visitors threatened with guns . . . not known as yet which items are missing . . .
Artworks and guns.
Guns and artworks.
Ransome phoned Laura at the auction house, but there was no answer. Same story with her mobile. Cursing under his breath, he headed out to the car park. It took him only twenty minutes to reach Marine Drive. It was one of the things he liked about the city: nowhere was more than half an hour from anywhere else. Felt more like a village sometimes, which was why his mind was already turning. A warehouse heist, artworks stolen . . . and Edinburgh’s premier gangster having so recently started showing an interest in paintings. He remembered Calloway that day in the National Gallery, drinking tea with his old school pal Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie the computer wizard, the art collector. They made an odd couple and no mistake . . .
The white Transit had been cordoned off with blue-and-white-striped crime-scene tape. Uniformed officers were diverting what traffic there was away from the immediate vicinity. A forensics team was busy at work, dusting surfaces, taking photos. A detective inspector called Hendricks seemed to be calling the shots, causing Ransome to wince a little as he got out of his car. He considered Hendricks a serious rival in the promotion stakes - same sort of age; good track record; personable and presenting himself well to public and top brass alike. He’d been in the same intake as Ransome at Tulliallan Police College, more years ago now than Ransome cared to calculate. There had been a special challenge for all new recruits - raising money for charity. Despite Ransome’s best endeavours, Hendricks had won by a country mile, hosting a sportsmen’s dinner in Stirling and attracting a couple of high-profile footballers to the event as speakers. Only later did Ransome discover that Hendricks’ uncle was chairman of a Premier League club. Strings had obviously been pulled . . .
There was never any animosity between the two men - Ransome knew better than to get on his rival’s wrong side. In public, there were displays of professional courtesy and even occasional collaboration. Besides, with Ransome stationed at West End and Hendricks across town at Gayfield Square, they met only infrequently. Ransome wondered now whether Hendricks had been on call or had barged his way on to the inquiry. He was dressed in a sharp suit with a new-looking shirt and tie. Maybe he’d been doing the same as Ransome - working unpaid hours behind his desk in the hope of snaring something interesting.
A TV crew was already
in situ
, along with radio and print journalists. Dog-walkers had come up from the beach to spectate. The media were in a sort of scrum, comparing notes. One of them recognised Ransome and came bounding over, asking if there was anything he could add to the story. Ransome just shook his head. High-profile case . . . and it just
had
to fall into Hendricks’ lap.
‘Ransome? What are you doing here?’ Hendricks was trying to make the query sound matey. He’d slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and was coming towards Ransome with a spring in his step. Neat hair, trimmed moustache, but the slip-on shoes looked cheap. Ransome consoled himself with that.
‘I’m nosy, Gavin. You know me. How are things at Gayfield Square?’
‘A damn sight quieter since you-know-who retired. Look, good to see you and all that, but I’d better . . .’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. Busy man, lots to do.
Important man.
Ransome nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t mind me, Gavin.’
‘Just don’t get in the way, okay?’ Adding a little laugh at the end, as though he meant it as a joke when in fact he was being deadly serious. Which left Ransome bristling and trying to think of a comeback as Hendricks moved away again. He took a couple of steps closer to the action. The van doors were wide open, and one of the paintings lay on the ground. It had come loose from its wrapping, and Ransome could make out an ornate gold-coloured frame. He kept staring at it as one of the scene-of-crime officers took a few more snaps.
‘I hear tell,’ the SOCO commented, ‘it’s by someone called Utterson.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘It’s signed in the bottom corner. One of the reporters says it’s worth a couple of hundred grand. My house didn’t cost half that.’
From what little Ransome could see, it was a bleak country landscape, maybe thirty inches by twenty. He’d seen better stuff on the walls of his local pub. ‘Who’s that Hendricks is talking to?’ he asked.
The SOCO looked over towards where Hendricks was in close conversation with a short, bald, worried-looking man. He shrugged and shook his head, so Ransome wandered back towards the reporter who’d recognised him and asked the same question.
‘You’re not in the loop, then?’ the reporter teased. Ransome just stared him out. ‘He’s head of the National Galleries,’ the man eventually admitted. ‘And the guy just turning up . . .’ Ransome followed the direction of the pointed finger. A black cab had drawn up, its passenger emerging. ‘He runs the city’s museums. And that’s one you owe me, Inspector.’
Ransome ignored this, focusing instead on the new arrival. He was taller and a bit calmer or more resolute than the galleries boss, whose hand he shook before giving a consoling pat on the shoulder. Ransome edged forward until he was within eavesdropping range.
‘We think they must have been making the transfer,’ Hendricks was explaining for the benefit of the newcomer. ‘A member of the public phoned it in - he probably disturbed them, they lost their bottle and fled the scene in a hurry.’
‘Luckily for you, Alasdair,’ the museums boss told his colleague with another apparently sympathetic pat. Alasdair seemed to resent this and shuffled half a yard further away from his tormentor.
‘We can’t be sure yet if everything’s been recovered,’ Alasdair said, rubbing a hand across his forehead.
‘Witnesses say there were only about three or four of them doing the actual taking,’ Hendricks offered. ‘The others were holding the hostages. Whole thing was over in ten or fifteen minutes. They can’t have got away with much . . .’
‘Full inventory needed?’ the museums boss was asking Alasdair. ‘Wasn’t one about to happen anyway?’
‘You’re not off the hook, Donald,’ Alasdair snapped back. ‘They could have walked off with
anything
. Most of the paintings are kept in the vaults, but the majority of
your
stuff is just lying there on the open shelves - especially with the influx from the Chambers Street refit.’
The look on Donald’s face seemed to cheer Alasdair up a little. It was as if a load had been lifted.
Not just colleagues, Ransome thought to himself, but rivals, too . . .
‘It’s a good point, sir,’ Hendricks was telling Donald. ‘The sooner we get that inventory underway the better. Meantime, can I ask how many people knew about the warehouse and its contents?’
‘The whole bloody city,’ the man called Donald grumbled. ‘This is Doors Open Day, remember? Only day of the year they could just waltz in and take whatever they liked.’ He stabbed a finger towards the contents of the van. ‘But mostly paintings, from what I can see - vaults or no vaults.’
It looked as though Alasdair was about to remonstrate, but their attention was diverted by the diesel chugging of yet another taxi as it arrived on the scene.
‘Ah,’ said Alasdair, ‘here comes our resident expert.’ He strode towards the cab and yanked open its back door. Handshakes were exchanged, after which he led the distinguished-looking gentleman towards the small group. In the interim, Hendricks had noticed Ransome again and given him the benefit of a practised glower. But Ransome didn’t think his colleague would want to cause a scene - not in front of the Edinburgh establishment (Donald was even wearing a New Club tie) - so he held his ground.
‘Our chief curator was the victim of a street attack near his home last night,’ Alasdair was explaining. ‘But we’re grateful that Professor Gissing, head of the College of Art and no mean expert himself, has made his services available.’
‘Thought you’d retired, Robert,’ Donald was saying, shaking hands. Gissing said nothing by way of reply, but allowed himself to be introduced to DI Hendricks. As the conversation continued, Gissing seemed to realise he was the object of scrutiny from beyond the immediate circle. He gave a surreptitious glance in Ransome’s direction, Ransome turning away a moment too late.
‘I was sorry to hear about Jimmy,’ the professor was saying. Ransome remembered hearing about the mugging - guy down by the canal. Turned out the victim was an art expert. Well, well, well. And now here was Gissing . . . Professor Robert Gissing . . . friend to Michael Mackenzie . . . one of Laura’s ‘Three Musketeers’. He’d been at the auction house the same day as Calloway. And all of them had ended up in the wine bar just along the street.
Oh, it was a small city, all right, was Edinburgh. Staring at Hendricks’ back, Ransome knew he was going to keep it all to himself, all the various connections and coincidences, the personalities, permutations and probabilities. Alasdair was explaining to Gissing that they needed to verify the identities and authenticity of the abandoned paintings and also ensure they were undamaged.
‘But we’ll need to dust them for prints, too,’ Hendricks was saying. ‘The thieves may have got careless.’
‘Not a chance,’ the friendly SOCO next to Ransome muttered for his benefit. ‘That van’s as clean as a whistle.’
‘Have you ID’d it yet?’ Ransome asked in an undertone. The SOCO shook his head.
‘It’ll have been stolen to order, though, you mark my words - probably changed the plates and all . . .’
Ransome nodded in agreement, his gaze fixing once again on Professor Gissing. The man’s arms were folded as he listened to Hendricks. Might just have been concentrating, but to Ransome the body language was all about defensiveness. Maybe they’d fail to find any fingerprints - he’d seldom known the SOCOs to be wrong - but something was whispering a name into his ear.
The name of Charles ‘Chib’ Calloway . . .
20
‘Not too many snooker halls left,’ Calloway was telling Mike Mackenzie. ‘I mean
proper
ones, full-sized slate tables. Know how much they weigh? You need to check that your floor can stand up to them.’ The gangster was switching on some of the lights in the cavernous yet musty-smelling room. Mike could make out six tables, but none of them in the best of health. Two were covered with gashed and stained dust sheets while the remaining four had suffered nicks, rips and rudimentary repairs to their green baize. A game seemed to have been abandoned on one of them, Mike rolling the pink ball towards the centre pocket.
‘Why’s this one shut on a Saturday evening?’ he asked.
‘Overheads,’ Chib explained. ‘Costs me more to run than I get back. I could always put pool tables in instead, maybe a few slot machines . . .’ He wrinkled his pugnacious face. ‘But I’ll probably end up selling it. Some developer can turn it into apartments or one of those huge super-pubs.’