Doors Open by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

same year, actually.’

    ‘Is that a fact? Can’t say I remember you.’

    ‘I was never on your radar, but I recall that you more or less ran the place, even told the teachers what they could and couldn’t do.’

    Calloway shook his head, but seemed flattered nonetheless. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Mind you, I was a tearaway back then.’ He eyes lost focus, and Mike knew he was thinking back to those days. ‘A solitary O-Grade, I ended up with - metalwork or something.’

    ‘One project, we made screwdrivers,’ Mike reminded him. ‘You put yours to good use . . .’

    ‘Persuading the nippers to hand over their cash,’ Chib agreed. ‘You’ve got a good memory. So how did you get into computers?’

    ‘I stayed on for Highers, then college after that.’

    ‘Our paths diverged,’ Chib said, nodding to himself. Then he stretched his arms out. ‘Yet here we are, meeting up after all these years, proper grown-ups and no damage done.’

    ‘Speaking of damage . . . what happened to Donny Devlin?’

    Chip’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you?’

    ‘Nothing at all . . . just curious.’

    Chib pondered for a moment before replying. ‘He got out of the city. Paid me back first, mind. D’you keep up with anyone from the old days?’

    ‘Nobody,’ Mike admitted. ‘Took a look at Friends Reunited once, but there wasn’t anyone I particularly missed.’

    ‘Sounds like you were a loner.’

    ‘I spent a lot of time in the library.’

    ‘Might explain why I don’t remember you - I only went there the one time, took out The Godfather .’

    ‘Was that for recreational purposes or for training?’

    Chib’s face darkened again, but only for a second. Then he burst out laughing, acknowledging the joke.

    And so the conversation continued - fluidly; light-heartedly - neither man aware of the figure who twice passed by the window.

    The figure of Detective Inspector Ransome.

5

    Mike was standing at the very back of the saleroom, just inside the doorway. Laura Stanton had taken her place at the lectern and was checking that her microphone was working. She was flanked by plasma screens on which images of the lots would be shown, while the genuine articles were placed on an easel or pointed to (if they happened to be hanging on one of the walls) by a team of well-rehearsed staff. Mike could tell that Laura was nervous. This was, after all, only her second sale, and so far her performance had been judged ‘solid’ at best. No real treasures had been unearthed, no records smashed. As Allan Cruikshank had observed, the art market could go that way for months or even years at a stretch. This was Edinburgh, after all - not London or New York. The focus was on Scottish works.

    ‘You’re not going to be offered a Freud or a Bacon,’ Allan had said. Mike could see him now, seated two rows from the back, not in the market to buy anything, just keen for a final glance at each painting before it vanished into private hands or some corporate portfolio. From where Mike stood, he could take in the whole room. There was whispered anticipation. Catalogues were browsed one last time. Staff from the auction house were seated at their telephones, ready to hook up with distant bidders. It intrigued Mike: who were those people on the other end of the line? Were they Hong Kong-based financiers? Manhattan Celts with a penchant for Highland scenes of kilted shepherds? Rock stars or movie actors? He imagined them being given manicures or massages as they yelled their bids into the receiver, or pushing weights in their home gym, or seated aboard private jets. Somehow he always imagined them as being more glamorous than anyone who actually took the trouble to attend an auction. He’d asked Laura once for some gen on the telephone bidders but she’d just tapped the side of her nose, letting him know there were secrets she couldn’t share.

    He knew probably half the people on view: dealers for the most part, who