‘You’ve got a one-track mind, Ransome.’
‘That’s what makes me such a good copper. So . . . do you have any names for me?’
‘Names?’
‘Art-lovers who might put a gang together.’
‘This is Edinburgh, Ransome.’
He’d agreed that this much was true. He’d then thrown Robert Gissing’s name into the pot and asked if she could give him any more background.
‘Why?’
‘Just wondering how much of an expert he is.’
‘Expert enough,’ she’d told him, yawning.
‘You didn’t seem so sure earlier . . .’
‘I’m sure now.’
‘Funny, though, isn’t it - the gallery’s own expert getting himself mugged the night before he’s needed?’
‘What are you getting at, Ransome?’
‘Just keep me posted, will you, Laura?’
He’d hung up, and gone back to sipping his tea - Rooibos, Sandra’s idea. Good for the digestion, apparently . . .
Standing in the warehouse now, mouth dry and stomach unsettled, he watched the curators. They wore thin white cotton gloves. They all seemed to be wearing them, didn’t matter if they were dressed in suit and tie or blue overalls. The cops meantime wore latex, if they wore anything. Alasdair Noone was there, still fraught after the best part of a day. He looked like he’d got by on about fifteen minutes’ sleep. His museums counterpart, Donald Farmer, was present, too, but altogether calmer. Seemed to Ransome that nothing from the museum overflow had been touched, as intimated by Farmer on TV the previous night. The look on the man’s face had bordered on smug then, and bordered on smug now. There were guards standing on sentry duty inside the loading bay doors, as clear a case as Ransome had ever seen of shutting the stable door - and typical of Hendricks, who had almost certainly ordered it. It would look good if the brass came calling - they liked things busy but controlled. There was, as yet, no sign of Hendricks himself. Ransome doubted he was having a lie-in. Maybe he was in the guardroom, or conducting interviews back at the station. Ransome didn’t take any chances, and made his way quickly into one of the aisles between the high, groaning shelves. Last thing he wanted was his colleague-cum-adversary challenging him as to what the hell he was doing here. Any lie would do, of course, but Ransome doubted Hendricks would swallow any of them.
I’m walking all over your case, he said to himself. And when it’s done and dusted, I’ll be right and you’ll be wrong . . . and I’ll be the one staring promotion in the face.
The three unlocked vaults were still open, or had been reopened this morning to allow the forensic team further access. There were plenty of paintings left inside. The ones the gang had taken would be allowed home only after their examination was complete. They’d already been declared unharmed and genuine - verifications made by Professor Robert Gissing - but they would still be checked for fingerprints and fibres. The journalist on TV last night had talked of the ‘relief felt by the arts community here in Scotland, and doubtless further afield as well’. Fine, but why abandon the van? Media speculation had been brief - the gang had been disturbed and had panicked. They’d been unloading the paintings, probably transferring them to another vehicle. A member of the public had become suspicious and had called it in. (Ransome had already asked his pal at Hendricks’ station for news of the caller’s identity - seemed no name had been given, and the caller’s number had yet to be traced.) The alarm, of course, had already been raised by the guard at the gatehouse - he’d provided a description of the van along with its licence number. (Stolen a couple of days previously from a street in Broxburn.) The licence plate was fake but the owner, a painter-and-decorator, had ID’d the van, annoyed to find that the tools of his trade had been ditched somewhere along the way.
So: a successful heist, followed by a botched transfer and the abandonment of the treasure. To Hendricks, this all made sense . . . but not to Ransome. Abandoning the van? Yes, maybe. But why not take at least a few of the paintings? The reckoning was that between six and ten men must have been involved, and only eight paintings recovered, the largest measuring five feet by four, even framed. Why leave them? After all that meticulous planning and the perfect execution . . . Were these the sorts of men likely to be spooked by a passing motorist or dog-walker? They were toting guns, for Christ’s sake - what could they possibly have had to fear?
The more Ransome thought about it - and he didn’t think he’d managed much more sleep than Alasdair Noone over the past twenty-odd hours - the less sense it made. His conclusions were simple: maybe it was an inside job and maybe not, but there’d been no cause for panic on the part of the thieves.
So here he was, giving up his Sunday morning to examine the scene and possibly ask a few questions and glean a few more facts of his own. He looked into all three unlocked vaults. The paintings were stored in racks, sideways on, with brown cardboard tags, which identified them only by numbers. Another reason for the inside job theory - if the art had been stolen to order, someone had known what they were getting. Who would have access to the numbering system, besides the staff? His pal back at Hendricks’ station hadn’t been able to answer that. The same SOCO Ransome had spoken to at Marine Drive yesterday had just finished running some sort of torch over the floor in one of the vaults.
‘Anything?’ Ransome asked.
‘A few fibres . . . half a footprint. Probably won’t mean much.’
‘They’ll have dumped the clothing?’ Ransome speculated.
The SOCO nodded. ‘So far, the only strands of hair we’ve found are synthetic.’
‘Wigs?’ Ransome reasoned, receiving another dispirited nod.
‘I’ve got a caseload piling up while I waste my time here.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Ransome turned away and headed back towards the guardroom. During the heist, the guards and visitors had been herded inside and made to crouch on the floor. They hadn’t seen anything useful, so far as Ransome was aware. Nor had they heard anything. Their captors had communicated by means of grunts. One thing the curator in charge of the tour had pointed out - the men who’d held them had seemed younger than the ones doing the actual thieving. Glenn’s words came back to Ransome: Four or five schemies with pool cues . . . Glenn had been thinking of the lads as a gang to intimidate Hate. But maybe he’d been wrong. The younger thieves hadn’t worn much by way of disguise either - just baseball caps pulled low and scarves muffling mouth and nose. Ransome couldn’t see anyone in the guardroom, so stepped inside. There were TV screens, working again now and showing interior and exterior views of the warehouse. Coverage of the gatehouse was hopeless - the camera was trained on the vehicle barrier. You could make out half the gatehouse but nothing of the pedestrian walkway beyond it. He knew that Hendricks had already complained to the galleries boss about this. Ransome sat himself down at the desk and peered through the window into the warehouse proper. You couldn’t see the relevant vaults from here in any case. The warehouse and its contents were sitting targets - amazing no one had thought to turn the place over sooner . . .
There was a knock at the open door. Ransome turned his head sharply, fully expecting to see his nemesis, but it was someone else - someone he recognised. Professor Robert Gissing.
‘Oh,’ the academic began, clearly flustered. ‘I was looking for DI Hendricks . . .’
Ransome was on his feet, taking a step forwards. ‘He’s not here,’ he ventured, offering his hand. ‘I’m a colleague, DI Ransome.’
‘Yes, I saw you at Marine Drive.’
‘Did you?’
‘What about Alasdair Noone?’ Gissing was staring down at his shoes.
‘He’s around somewhere.’
‘Thank you.’ Eyes still directed floorwards. ‘I’d better have a word with him.’
But Ransome wasn’t about to let him go without a fight. ‘Professor?’
Gissing hesitated. ‘Yes?’ Eventually raising his eyes to meet the detective’s gaze.
&
nbsp; Ransome was right in his face now. Gissing was a good inch and a half taller than him, but that meant nothing. ‘Just wondered if I could have your take on things, sir. Bungled robbery - someone on the inside - is that your reading of it?’
Gissing folded his arms - defensive again - then gave a pout and looked thoughtful. ‘I dare say more fanciful scenarios exist - I’ve seen them in today’s newspapers. But my job’s not to make wild guesses, Inspector.’
‘That’s right, sir. Your job was to verify the paintings - but you did that yesterday . . . so what brings you here this morning?’
Gissing straightened his back. ‘My attendance was requested by Alasdair Noone. He seems to think I may be able to pinpoint any gaps in the holdings of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Scottish art.’
‘Because that’s what the thieves took?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Pretty specialised market, would you say, sir?’
‘Hardly - there are collectors from Canada to Shanghai.’
‘Your field of expertise, though?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Well, I’d better let you get on - inventory’s well underway already. ’
For the first time, Gissing seemed to notice the activity going on around them.
‘Due to happen in a few weeks anyway, wasn’t it?’ Ransome added. ‘Robbery just speeded it up.’
‘Look, Inspector, I’m not sure how any of this can be of benefit to your investigation.’
‘Oh, it’s not my investigation, Professor Gissing - I’m just curious, that’s all.’ Ransome paused, watching Gissing try to take this in. ‘Shame about Mr Allison, wasn’t it?’
The question threw the academic.
‘Him being the resident expert and all,’ Ransome pressed on. ‘Do you know him, sir? I believe he’s pretty badly shaken . . .’
‘Terrible business,’ Gissing seemed to agree.
‘Still, silver linings and all that, eh?’
‘I’m not sure I get your meaning.’
Ransome gave a shrug. ‘I’m just saying, it’s lucky you were on hand to step into the breach, so to speak.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Gissing, having nothing to add, was again about to leave.
‘See much of Chib Calloway these days?’
Gissing kept his back to the detective for several seconds, then half turned his head. ‘Sorry - what was that name again?’
Ransome just smiled and winked.
22
The two paintings were still propped up on one of the sofas in Mike Mackenzie’s penthouse. So far today Mike hadn’t been able to spend as much time as he would have liked with Lady Monboddo. He’d had to surf the web, checking the level of interest - national and international - in the heist. Either the National Galleries had been ‘spectacularly lucky’ or else the robbers had been ‘spectacularly inept’.
‘Cack-handed, they called it in my day,’ Allan Cruikshank had offered when he arrived at the flat. He’d also warned that Mike should be thinking of a hiding place for the two paintings.
‘What have you done with yours?’ Mike asked in return.
‘Under the desk in my study.’
‘Reckon there’s a chance the cops will miss them if they come looking?’
‘What the hell else can I do? Stick them in the bank for safe keeping?’
Mike just shrugged. Allan was looking awful. He kept wandering over to the window and staring down towards the car park, as if fearing the imminent arrival of blue flashing lights. The pair of them had stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, Mike trying to push away the thought that his friend might be about to jump, but glad all the same when they retreated indoors. Mike had made peppermint tea, which Allan said he couldn’t remember asking for. He held the mug cupped in both hands.
‘Help you relax,’ Mike offered.
‘Relax?’ Allan hooted, rolling his eyes.
‘How much sleep did you get last night?’
‘Not much,’ Allan conceded. ‘Tell me, have you ever read any Edgar Allan Poe? “The Tell-Tale Heart”?’
‘We just have to hold our nerve, Allan. A few days of fuss and it’ll all die down - you’ll see.’
‘How can you say that?’ A splash of tea had spilled on to the wooden floor, but Allan seemed not to have noticed. ‘We still know what we did!’
‘Why not shout a bit louder? I’m sure the neighbours will be thrilled.’
Allan’s eyes widened. He removed one hand from the mug so he could clamp it over his mouth. Mike didn’t bother saying he’d been exaggerating for effect - the flat was pretty well soundproofed. When he’d first moved in, he’d cranked up the hi-fi then gone downstairs to ask the couple - he a restaurateur; she an interior designer - if they could hear it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Allan was muttering now from behind his fingers. He went to sit down, but his eyes fell on the paintings again. ‘You really should hide those,’ he advised, voice quavering.
‘If anyone asks, they’re copies,’ Mike explained soothingly. ‘You could do the same - stick them on a wall where you can see them . . . maybe the Coultons will calm you down where mere mortals like myself can’t.’
‘They’re better than any of the ones First Caly has,’ Allan intoned.
‘Yes, they are,’ Mike agreed. ‘Look, the whole point of this exercise - if you cast your mind back - was the pleasure of owning a masterpiece or two. The professor’s already convinced everyone they’ve got their paintings back. Today at the warehouse, he’ll reinforce that - nothing missing, everything accounted for. After that, the media interest will disappear in a puff of smoke.’
‘I wish I could disappear in a puff of smoke.’ Allan bounded to his feet again and made for the window. ‘What about this cop you mentioned?’
‘I wish to God I hadn’t,’ Mike muttered to himself. Having told Gissing not to say anything, he’d decided Allan actually did need to know about Ransome. They were a team, after all, and they were still mates. You didn’t keep stuff hidden from your mates. But when Mike had called him to explain, Allan had said he was coming straight over.
‘He’s already on our trail,’ Allan persisted.
‘He’s got nothing. Even if he thinks something fishy’s going on, how’s he going to prove it?’
But Allan was not to be consoled. ‘What if I give mine back? Or just abandon them somewhere?’
‘Good thinking . . .’ Mike bore down on his friend. ‘Then they’ll know the ones they found in the van are copies and start wondering why the esteemed professor didn’t say anything.’
Allan gritted his teeth in frustration. ‘You take them, then. I’ll give them to you. I can’t get to sleep with them in the house!’
Mike considered his options, and placed a hand on Allan’s shoulder. ‘Okay, how about this - we’ll bring them here, and I’ll look after them for a few days . . . maybe even a week or two, just until you start to feel good about them.’
Allan thought for a moment, and then nodded slowly.
‘As long as we’re agreed,’ Mike persisted. ‘I’m holding them for you, not taking them from you. Is it a deal?’ He waited until Allan started nodding again. ‘And we don’t tell anyone else,’ he added. ‘It’s our little secret.’
Mike did not want anyone knowing that Allan was getting the shakes - least of all Chib Calloway. He was hoping it was just shock, meaning it would wear off. On those occasions when he’d been able to study the portrait of Monboddo’s wife, he’d been unable not to see another face there - not Laura’s this time, but the man called Hate. Something told Mike that even if he were never again to be in the same room as him, he’d still be haunted by the face and figure.
The face, the figure, and those hellish tattoos.
It was, of course, no business of Mike’s who Chib chose to give his painting to, but it was dangerous. At the heist’s conception, there had only been the three friends - Mike, Allan and Gissing. Westie had been added as a necessity, but now Westie’s girlf
riend was a player, too. And Chib . . . Chib had been Mike’s idea. It would be his fault if things started to go wrong. Chib, Chib’s four lads, and now Hate. And who knew where Hate would lead . . .
‘What’s on your mind?’ Allan was asking.
‘Nothing,’ Mike stated. I’m lying to him. And keeping things from him, too . . .
‘I’d never blurt anything out, Mike . . . you know that, right? I mean, we’re mates, always will be. That’s the truth of it.’
‘Of course it is.’
Allan attempted something like a grin. His face was pasty, coated with perspiration. ‘You’re so in control, Mike. Always got the answers up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘You got a real buzz out of yesterday, didn’t you?’