Ransome ordered two officers to get the curator into an ambulance, then stopped to pick up Hate’s knife, checking it for blood. When he saw it hadn’t been used, he sliced through the tape with it, so that Laura’s hands were free. Despite Alice’s pleas, Mike was next. Ransome handed the knife to laura and asked her to do the honours. She looked towards Hate and then at the knife, but Ransome tutted.
‘Enough drama for one day,’ he chided her. ‘Leave Mr Bodrum to us.’
‘He might be Bodrum to you,’ Mike commented, ‘but he’ll always be Hate to me.’
As Laura began cutting Alice and Westie free - the latter complaining that he’d broken his arm when he fell - Ransome helped Mike rid himself of the ties around his ankles, then had to help him to his feet.
‘Better?’ the detective asked.
Mike nodded his agreement. He felt light-headed and his headache was intensifying. ‘How did you find us?’ he managed to ask.
‘Glenn Burns. But to be honest, we were already on your trail . . .’ The detective turned his head towards the doorway, Mike following suit. Allan was standing there, looking slightly sheepish. When Mike smiled and nodded, he came inside, taking in as much as he could.
‘Christ, Mike,’ he said, wrapping his arms around him. Mike whispered into his ear.
‘How much have you told him?’
When the embrace was finished, the look in Allan’s eyes was clear.
Everything
.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ Mike answered.
‘I hope it was all worth it,’ Ransome mused.
‘Ports and airports,’ Mike said, grabbing the detective by the arm. ‘You’ve got to stop Robert Gissing leaving the country.’
‘Might be a bit late for that, Mr Mackenzie. Besides, it’s not your little Ladykillers gang that concerns me - a DI called Hendricks will be wanting to speak to you about all that.’ Ransome nodded in Calloway’s direction. ‘There’s the prize I was after . . . so I suppose really I should be thanking you for delivering it.’ With a smile, he moved off, just as the paramedics arrived. Hate was on his feet and, flanked by policemen, about to be escorted outside.
‘Looks like you won’t be going home just yet,’ Mike called out to him.
‘I’m not the only one,’ the giant spat back.
‘There’s something in that,’ Laura conceded.
36
‘You
will
testify against Calloway?’ Ransome asked.
Mike was being led towards a waiting police van, Allan next to him. Handcuffs had not been thought necessary. The DI called Hendricks had turned up, looking grumpy. Mike had watched Ransome explain the situation to him, which had done little to lighten his colleague’s mood but had given an extra spring to Ransome’s own step afterwards.
Mike shrugged now. It was a good question, after all. ‘Should really be the other way round,’ he told Ransome. ‘After all,
I’m
the one who dragged him into it.’
‘But you
will
testify.’ It sounded like a statement of fact rather than any kind of question. ‘If you do, it’ll go easier for you.’
‘Meaning what?’
Ransome shrugged. ‘Six years instead of eight. You’d be out of jail inside three. I’m sure you can afford the best lawyers in the land, Mr Mackenzie, and it shouldn’t be too hard for them to paint a picture of you in court as a naïve playboy who got in with the wrong crowd. Maybe a friendly psychoanalyst can plead diminished responsibility.’
‘Meaning I’m not in my right mind?’
‘Not at the time, no.’
‘How about me?’ Allan asked. ‘Where do I figure in this?’
‘Same goes, but with the added factor that you did the right thing and turned yourself in, and in the process helped save five people from being tortured and killed.’
‘Seven, actually,’ Mike corrected the detective. ‘Hate wasn’t about to leave Chib and Johnno alive.’
‘See?’ Ransome told Allan. ‘You’re practically a hero.’
An ambulance was parked next to the police van, and Jimmy Allison was being stretchered into it, an oxygen mask tied to his face. Another stretcher would be needed for Johnno. One man required a blood transfusion and some stitches, plus a potential lifetime of psychological counselling.
The other needed a new spine.
Mike wondered again at the sheer nerve of Robert Gissing: stealing paintings for years, never detected but about to be undone by something as straightforward as an inventory. Gissing, railing against the storing from view of so many important and beautiful works, making the same argument to practically everyone he met . . . in order to seek out a few gullible souls who might be duped into doing something about it. Then seeing to it that Allison was attacked so that he himself would be on hand to verify a series of fakes.
It was sublime, but so much could have gone wrong. Nevertheless, it was the only roll of the dice left to Gissing. And against all the odds, it had worked. And now Mike would go to jail and Allan would go to jail and Westie would go to jail. Allan looked devastated, but Westie didn’t seem too bothered. Mike had heard him inside the snooker hall, explaining to Alice that prisoners got to do art classes and everything.
‘Might well make the Westie brand even more valuable when I come out. Notoriety is something you can’t just buy off the shelf . . .’
Maybe he had a point at that, but it hadn’t stopped Alice from giving him a solid punch to his damaged arm, so that he’d howled and doubled over while she turned and walked away.
She would be taken in for questioning. They would all be questioned, especially Hate, who even now was struggling against his restraints and his captors both. He was like a force of nature, and Mike was thankful the giant was being afforded a van of his very own.
‘If we all go to jail,’ Mike asked Ransome, ‘will we be in the same wing as Calloway and Hate?’
‘I doubt it. We’ll find you the softest option possible.’
‘Even so, Calloway’s bound to have friends on the inside.’
Ransome gave a little chuckle. ‘I think you’re overestimating him, Mr Mackenzie. Chib’s got more enemies than friends behind bars. You’ll be fine, trust me.’
There was a shout from nearby. It was Glenn Burns. He was being led in handcuffs to a waiting patrol car.
‘You fucking well owe me, Ransome! You owe me
everything
!’
Ransome ignored the outburst and concentrated on Mike instead. The van doors stood wide open. They led to an inner cage with two bench seats.
‘So Gissing’s got all the missing paintings?’ Ransome asked.
Mike nodded. ‘Calloway’s got a couple of the ones we swapped, if he hasn’t already trashed them.’
Ransome nodded. ‘Mr Cruikshank here told me all about them. And Westwater and his girlfriend have another?’
‘A DeRasse.’
‘And what exactly are
you
left with, Mr Mackenzie?’
Mike considered this. ‘I’ve got my health, I suppose. And a story to tell the grandkids.’ He watched as Laura was brought out of the snooker hall. ‘Incidentally, Laura’s got nothing to do with any of it. I know she’s a friend of yours . . .’
‘She’ll have to give us a statement,’ Ransome said. ‘After that, I’ll see she gets home.’
‘Thanks.’ Mike stared at the inside of the van.
‘Not easy, is it, sir?’ Ransome asked.
‘What?’
‘Being a criminal mastermind.’
‘You’ll have to ask Robert Gissing that.’
Laura had spotted them and was heading their way. She touched Ransome on his forearm. ‘Any chance of a word with the prisoner?’
Ransome seemed reluctant, but her eyes won him over and he noticed that Chib Calloway was being led out of the hall in handcuffs, having woken up to find himself surrounded by Lothian and Borders’ finest.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ Ransome warned as he headed off in Calloway’s dazed direction. Laura leaned in towards Mike and pecked him on the cheek.
‘I asked you to save the day,’ she told him, ‘and you duly obliged.’
‘You might not have noticed,’ he reminded her, ‘but really it didn’t have much to do with me.’
‘Actually,’ Allan piped up, ‘if we’re discussing life-savers . . .’
Laura beamed a smile at him and gave him a hug and a kiss, before turning back to Mike. This time when they kissed it was on the lips. Allan made a show of turning away, so they had at least the semblance of privacy. She wrapped her arms around Mike and he felt warmth flowing through him.
‘Will you be in prison for a long time?’ she asked.
‘Will you be waiting for me?’
‘I asked first.’
‘Ransome reckons three years. He also says I should get the best legal team money can buy, and a psychiatrist who’ll vouch for my insanity.’
‘So you’ll probably end up a pauper?’
‘And a lunatic - is that going to affect our relationship, do you think?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Let’s wait and see.’
Mike was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’ll have to find out how often I’m allowed visitors . . .’
‘Don’t count your chickens, Mackenzie - will jail be smelly and full of leering sex maniacs?’
‘Probably - and that’s just Allan.’
A couple of uniformed officers were approaching, ready to usher Allan and Mike into the van. Laura and Mike embraced again and shared a final, lingering kiss.
‘If I’d known,’ Mike mused, ‘that this was all a fellow had to do to win you over . . .’
‘Break it up now,’ one of the uniforms said.
‘One more thing,’ Mike told Laura as they were separated. ‘When you visit, I’ll need you to bring me stuff. Maybe I can give you a shopping list?’
‘What sort of stuff?’
He pretended to be thinking. ‘Atlases,’ he said at last. ‘World atlases . . .’ He was halfway into the back of the van. ‘Plus travel books, art books, list of museums and galleries of renown.’
‘You’re going to better yourself, is that it?’
He decided that the best thing to do was nod his agreement. She didn’t get it, not just yet. Allan did, though, and gave him a glance that said as much.
Said there was someone Mike needed to find, just as soon as they let him out . . .
Epilogue
Professor Robert Gissing was in the study of his whitewashed home in the centre of Tangier. His reverie had just been broken by the sound of a motorbike misfiring. The windows had been thrown wide open, and the sun was high overhead in a clear blue sky. He could hear the varied noises of business wafting up towards him from the market downstairs. Bartering and general gossip, plus the diesel clatter of antiquated vans and lorries. They never really disturbed him, and now the motorbike’s surly engine had been switched off, too. He could sometimes smell spices and coffee in the air, and cardamon, citrus fruits and incense. They all added to the sensations of a life being lived to the full in a world rich in everyday wonder. He was happy here, with his books and a glass of infused mint. There were fine rugs overlapping on the floor and fine paintings covering a good deal of the available space on the walls. He had no telephone and he received no mail. He had access to the internet, thanks to the café at the end of the street, but only used it once or twice a month to catch up on the news from Britain. He would do a word search, entering names such as Mackenzie and Calloway, Westwater and Ransome. He didn’t know enough about computers to be completely confident that he wasn’t leaving a trail of some kind by doing this - he remembered reading an article once about how the FBI would monitor people’s borrowings from libraries, names being flagged up if they were taking out items such as
Mein Kampf
and the
Anarchist Cookbook
. He didn’t suppose the internet would be very different, but all the same felt it a risk worth taking. Know your enemy and all that.
Of course, it was entirely possible that he’d been forgotten about, dismissed by the police as untraceable. And if
they
couldn’t catch him, what chance did amateurs like Mike and Calloway have? Okay, so Mike had some knowledge of computers, but Gissing doubted this extended to covert tracking and the like.
For the first couple of years, however, he hadn’t stayed anywhere for too long. Fake passports had been provided in a variety of names, costing him thousands but worth every penny, euro and dollar. One of the paintings that had come into his possession happened to be by an artist coveted by a Saudi businessman. Gissing had known as much when he’d taken it. The collector had paid Gissing half what the piece was worth on the open market, on the understanding that it would remain in his private gallery.
‘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.