smile. ‘I think we can deploy a soupçon more subtlety, Allan, dear boy.’
Mike leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Okay, you’re the one who knows this place - how would someone get in? And even if they did, how come nothing would be noticed as having walked out with them afterwards?’
‘Two excellent questions,’ Gissing appeared to concede. ‘To answer the first - they would walk in through the front door. More than that, they would have been invited .’
‘And the second?’
Gissing held his hands out, palms showing. ‘Nothing would be missing.’
‘The one thing “missing” from all of this is any notion of reality,’ Allan complained. Gissing looked at him.
‘Tell me, Allan, does First Caledonian ever take part in Doors Open Day?’
‘Sure we do.’
‘And what can you tell me about it?’
Allan shrugged. ‘It’s exactly what it sounds like - one day a year, a lot of institutions open their doors to the general public so they can take a look around. Last year, I went to the observatory . . . year before that I think it was Freemasons’ Hall.’
‘Very good,’ Gissing said, as if to a prize pupil. Then, to Mike: ‘You’ve heard of it, too?’
‘Vaguely,’ Mike conceded.
‘Well, the Granton warehouse is another participant - I’m assured they’ll be throwing their doors open again to the masses at the end of this month . . .’
‘Okay,’ Mike said, ‘so we can just walk in as members of the public. Walking out again might be the problem.’
‘That’s true,’ Gissing agreed. ‘And I’m afraid such things as guardrooms and CCTV are outwith my area of expertise. But here’s the rub - nothing’s going to be missing. Everything will appear to be just the way it was.’
‘See, you’ve lost me again,’ Allan said, fiddling with his watch strap and starting to text his secretary.
‘There’s a painter . . .’ Gissing began, breaking off as a shadow loomed over the three of them.
‘Getting to be a regular occurrence,’ Chib Calloway said to the silenced table. When he stretched out a hand for Mike to shake, Allan visibly flinched, as though a punch were about to be thrown. ‘Has Mike here told you we were at the same school?’ Calloway had slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder. ‘We did some catching up the other day - didn’t see you at the sale, Mike . . .’
‘I was standing at the back.’
‘Should’ve come and said howdy - might’ve saved me making a prick of myself by heading up shit creek without the necessary paddle.’ The gangster laughed at his own joke. ‘What’s your poison, gents? This one’s on me.’
‘We’re fine,’ Gissing snapped. ‘Just trying to have a private conversation. ’
Calloway returned the stare. ‘That’s not very friendly now, is it?’
‘We’re fine, Chib,’ Mike said, trying to defuse whatever was threatening to start. ‘Robert’s just . . . well, he was in the middle of telling me something.’
‘So it’s sort of a business meeting?’ Calloway nodded slowly to himself and straightened up. ‘Well, head over to the bar when you’re finished, Mike. I want to pick your brains about the auction. I did try asking that tasty auctioneer, but she was too busy counting the shekels . . .’ He turned to go, but then paused. ‘And I hope the business you’re discussing is all above board - walls have ears, remember.’
He returned to the bar and his two bodyguards.
‘Mike,’ Allan said warningly, ‘suddenly you and him are buddies?’
‘Never mind about Chib,’ Mike replied quietly, eyes on Robert Gissing. ‘Tell me more about this painter.’
‘Before I do . . .’ Gissing reached into his jacket pocket for a folded sheet of paper. ‘Here’s something I thought you might like.’ Mike opened it up while Gissing spoke. It was a page torn from a catalogue. ‘Last year at the National?’ Gissing was reminding him. ‘The Monboddo exhibition - that’s where Allan
Mike leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Okay, you’re the one who knows this place - how would someone get in? And even if they did, how come nothing would be noticed as having walked out with them afterwards?’
‘Two excellent questions,’ Gissing appeared to concede. ‘To answer the first - they would walk in through the front door. More than that, they would have been invited .’
‘And the second?’
Gissing held his hands out, palms showing. ‘Nothing would be missing.’
‘The one thing “missing” from all of this is any notion of reality,’ Allan complained. Gissing looked at him.
‘Tell me, Allan, does First Caledonian ever take part in Doors Open Day?’
‘Sure we do.’
‘And what can you tell me about it?’
Allan shrugged. ‘It’s exactly what it sounds like - one day a year, a lot of institutions open their doors to the general public so they can take a look around. Last year, I went to the observatory . . . year before that I think it was Freemasons’ Hall.’
‘Very good,’ Gissing said, as if to a prize pupil. Then, to Mike: ‘You’ve heard of it, too?’
‘Vaguely,’ Mike conceded.
‘Well, the Granton warehouse is another participant - I’m assured they’ll be throwing their doors open again to the masses at the end of this month . . .’
‘Okay,’ Mike said, ‘so we can just walk in as members of the public. Walking out again might be the problem.’
‘That’s true,’ Gissing agreed. ‘And I’m afraid such things as guardrooms and CCTV are outwith my area of expertise. But here’s the rub - nothing’s going to be missing. Everything will appear to be just the way it was.’
‘See, you’ve lost me again,’ Allan said, fiddling with his watch strap and starting to text his secretary.
‘There’s a painter . . .’ Gissing began, breaking off as a shadow loomed over the three of them.
‘Getting to be a regular occurrence,’ Chib Calloway said to the silenced table. When he stretched out a hand for Mike to shake, Allan visibly flinched, as though a punch were about to be thrown. ‘Has Mike here told you we were at the same school?’ Calloway had slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder. ‘We did some catching up the other day - didn’t see you at the sale, Mike . . .’
‘I was standing at the back.’
‘Should’ve come and said howdy - might’ve saved me making a prick of myself by heading up shit creek without the necessary paddle.’ The gangster laughed at his own joke. ‘What’s your poison, gents? This one’s on me.’
‘We’re fine,’ Gissing snapped. ‘Just trying to have a private conversation. ’
Calloway returned the stare. ‘That’s not very friendly now, is it?’
‘We’re fine, Chib,’ Mike said, trying to defuse whatever was threatening to start. ‘Robert’s just . . . well, he was in the middle of telling me something.’
‘So it’s sort of a business meeting?’ Calloway nodded slowly to himself and straightened up. ‘Well, head over to the bar when you’re finished, Mike. I want to pick your brains about the auction. I did try asking that tasty auctioneer, but she was too busy counting the shekels . . .’ He turned to go, but then paused. ‘And I hope the business you’re discussing is all above board - walls have ears, remember.’
He returned to the bar and his two bodyguards.
‘Mike,’ Allan said warningly, ‘suddenly you and him are buddies?’
‘Never mind about Chib,’ Mike replied quietly, eyes on Robert Gissing. ‘Tell me more about this painter.’
‘Before I do . . .’ Gissing reached into his jacket pocket for a folded sheet of paper. ‘Here’s something I thought you might like.’ Mike opened it up while Gissing spoke. It was a page torn from a catalogue. ‘Last year at the National?’ Gissing was reminding him. ‘The Monboddo exhibition - that’s where Allan
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