Doors Open by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

there with Laura in mind. He’d been thinking of that opal around her neck, imagining her wearing something different, something unusual.

    Something bought by him.

    But though Joe was a master of his craft - Mike had a pocket watch back home to prove it - he hadn’t managed to work his charms this time. Mainly because it had suddenly dawned on Mike: what the hell am I doing? Would Laura thank him for the gesture? What exactly would she read into it? Did she even like amethysts and rubies and sapphires?

    ‘Call again, Mr Mackenzie,’ Bonnar had said, opening the door for him. ‘It’s been too long.’

    So: no shirts and no jewellery. One o’clock had found him on Princes Street, not quite hungry enough for lunch and within a stone’s throw of the National Gallery. His mind felt clogged; hard to say why he’d been drawn to the place. There were some nice pieces - he’d be the first to acknowledge as much - but it was all a bit stuffy and reverential. ‘Art is good for you,’ the collection seemed to be saying. ‘Here, have some.’

    The past few days, he’d been mulling over Professor Gissing’s argument about art as collateral. He wondered what percentage of the world’s art was actually kept in bank vaults and the like. Like unread books and unplayed music, did it matter that art went unseen? In a generation’s time, it would still be there, awaiting rediscovery. And was he himself any better? He’d visited regional galleries and viewed their collections, knowing he had better examples of some of the artists hanging on his walls at home. Wasn’t each home and living room a private gallery of sorts?

    Help some of those poor imprisoned paintings to escape .

    Not from public galleries, of course, but from wall safes and bank vaults and the unvisited rooms and corridors of all those corporate buyers. First Caledonian Bank, for example, had a portfolio running into the tens of millions - most of the usual suspects (they even boasted an early Bacon), plus the cream of new talent, snapped up at all those annual degree shows around the UK by the bank’s portfolio curator. Other companies in Edinburgh owned their own hauls and were sitting tight on them, the way a miser would sit on a mattress filled with cash.

    Mike was wondering: maybe if he made a gesture. Opened a gallery and placed his own collection there . . . could he persuade others to join him? Talk to First Caly and all the other big players. Make a thing of it. Maybe that was why he’d felt drawn to the National Gallery - the perfect place to do a little more thinking on the subject. The last person he’d expected to see was Chib Calloway. And now, turning around, here was Calloway stalking towards him, smile fixed but eyes hard and unblinking.

    ‘You keeping tabs on me?’ the gangster growled.

    ‘Wouldn’t have taken you for a patron of the arts,’ was all Mike could think of by way of an answer.

    ‘Free country, isn’t it?’ Calloway bristled.

    Mike flinched. ‘Sorry, that came out all wrong. My name’s Mike Mackenzie, by the way.’ The two men shook hands.

    ‘Charlie Calloway.’

    ‘But most people call you Chib, right?’

    ‘You know who I am, then?’ Calloway considered for a moment and then nodded slowly. ‘I remember now - your pals couldn’t look at me, but you held eye contact throughout.’

    ‘And you pretended to shoot me as you drove away.’

    Calloway offered a grudging smile. ‘Least it wasn’t the real thing, eh?’

    ‘So what brings you here today, Mr Calloway?’

    ‘I was just remembering that book of paintings, the one you lot were poring over in the bar. I take it you know about art, Mike?’

    ‘I’m learning.’

    ‘So . . . this one we’re standing beside . . .’ Calloway took a step back. ‘Guy on a horse, so far as I can see. Not a bad likeness.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘How much would it fetch?’

    ‘Unlikely it would ever come to auction.’ Mike gave a shrug.