Doors Open by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

‘Couple of million?’ he guessed.

    ‘Hell’s teeth.’ Calloway moved along to the next painting. ‘And this one here?’

    ‘Well, that’s a Rembrandt . . . tens of millions.’

    ‘ Tens! ’

    Mike looked around. A couple of the liveried custodians were beginning to take an interest. He gave them his most winning smile and started to move away in the opposite direction, Calloway catching him up only after a few more seconds of staring at the Rembrandt self-portrait.

    ‘It’s not really about the money, though, is it?’ Mike heard himself say, even though he knew only a part of him really believed that.

    ‘Isn’t it?’

    ‘What would you rather look at - a work of art, or a framed selection of banknotes?’

    Calloway had retrieved one of his hands from its pocket, and he was now rubbing the underside of his chin. ‘I’ll tell you what, Mike - ten million in cash wouldn’t be on the wall long enough to find out.’

    They shared a laugh and Calloway ran his free hand across the top of his head. Mike began to wonder about the other hand - the one in the pocket. Was it holding a gun? A knife? Had Calloway come in here with something other than browsing in mind?

    ‘So what is it all about then,’ the gangster was asking, ‘if not the money?’

    ‘Money plays a big part,’ Mike was forced to admit. He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there’s a café downstairs . . . do you fancy a quick coffee?’

    ‘I’ve had a stomachful,’ Calloway said with a shake of the head. ‘Might manage a cup of tea, though.’

    ‘My treat, Mr Calloway.’

    ‘Call me Chib.’

    So they headed down the winding staircase, Calloway enquiring about prices, Mike explaining that he’d only been interested in art for a year or two and wasn’t exactly an expert. One thing he didn’t want Calloway to know was that he had a collection of his own, a collection some would doubtless term ‘extensive’. But as they queued at the service counter, Calloway asked him what he did for a living.

    ‘Software design,’ Mike said, deciding that he would elaborate as little as possible.

    ‘Cut-throat business, is it?’

    ‘It’s high pressure, if that’s what you mean.’

    Calloway gave a twitch of the mouth, then got into a discussion with the girl behind the counter about which of the many teas on offer - Lapsang, green, gunpowder or orange pekoe - tasted most like actual tea. After which, they took their table, with its views on to Princes Street Gardens and the Scott Monument.

    ‘Ever been to the top of the Monument?’ Mike asked.

    ‘Mum took me up there when I was a kid. Scared me stupid. That’s probably why, a few years back, I dragged Donny Devlin up there and threatened to sling him off - owed me money, you see.’ Calloway had his nose in the teapot. ‘Smells a bit weird, this.’ But he poured some all the same, while Mike stirred his own cappuccino, wondering how to respond to such a warped confession. The gangster didn’t seem to realise that he’d said anything at all out of the ordinary. The memory of his mother had segued seamlessly into a momentary depiction of horror. Mike couldn’t tell if Calloway had set out to shock him; maybe it wasn’t even true - the Scott Monument was a stupidly public place for such a scene. Allan Cruikshank had hinted that Calloway had engineered the First Caly heist. Difficult now to envisage him as a criminal mastermind . . .

    ‘Anyone ever tried breaking into this place?’ Calloway asked at last, studying his surroundings.

    ‘Not that I know of.’

    Calloway wrinkled his nose. ‘Paintings are too bloody big anyway - where would you stash them?’

    ‘A warehouse, maybe?’ Mike suggested. ‘Art gets stolen all the time - a couple of men in workmen’s uniforms walked out of the Burrell collection with a tapestry a few years back.’

    ‘Really?’ This seemed to tickle the gangster. Mike cleared his throat.

    ‘We were at the same school, you and me -