‘With you so far,’ Mike commented drily.

‘And those sad artefacts sit unloved in the dark… they sit there for years, Michael, and no one ever sees them.’ Gissing started to count on his fingers. ‘Paintings, drawings, etchings, jewellery, statuary, vases, pottery, carpets, books – from the Bronze Age onwards. Hundreds of thousands of items.’

‘And you’re saying we can walk off with a few of them?’

Gissing lowered his voice still further. ‘They’re stored in a huge warehouse on the waterfront at Granton. I’ve been there on several occasions, and the place is a bloody treasure trove!’

‘An itemised, inventoried treasure trove?’ Allan speculated.

‘I’ve known stuff get wrongly shelved – it can take months to track a piece down.’

‘And it’s a warehouse?’ Mike watched Gissing nod. ‘With guards, CCTV, maybe a few German Shepherds and some razor wire…?’

‘It’s secure enough,’ Gissing admitted.

Mike smiled – he was enjoying this little game. The old man seemed to be enjoying it, too, and even Allan was looking intrigued.

‘So what do we do?’ Allan asked. ‘Dress up as commandos and storm the compound?’

It was Gissing’s turn to 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 introduced us, if you remember.’

‘I remember you bending my ear about Monboddo’s strengths and weaknesses.’ Mike stopped talking as he realised what he was holding.

‘This was your favourite, wasn’t it?’ Gissing was saying. Mike just nodded. It was a portrait of the artist’s wife, painted with such passion and tenderness… and looking uncannily like Laura Stanton. (Someone else he’d met for the first time that night.) Mike had thought he might never lay eyes on it again.

‘This is in that warehouse?’ he asked.

‘Indeed it is. Went straight back there after the retrospective. What does it measure? No more than eighteen inches by twelve, yet they can’t find regular room for it on their walls. And such an exquisite piece. You start to see what I mean, Michael? We’d be freeing them, not stealing them. We’d be doing it out of love.’

‘I really do have to get going,’ Allan said, getting to his feet. ‘Mike… Calloway’s part of your past, remember, and probably best kept there.’ He glanced in the direction of the bar.

‘I can look after myself, Allan.’

‘I’ve a parting gift for you, too,’ Gissing interrupted. Another page from a different catalogue was handed over. Allan Cruikshank’s mouth fell open.

‘Better than any of the Coultons in your own bank’s portfolio,’ Gissing said, reading Allan’s mind. ‘I know you’re a massive fan – and there are half a dozen others to choose from, if these don’t suit.’

Seeming still in a daze, Allan found himself taking his seat again.

‘Now,’ Gissing continued, satisfied with this reaction, ‘the painter I was going to tell you about… a young fellow of my acquaintance. He goes by the name of Westwater…’

7

Hugh Westwater – ‘Westie’ to those who knew him well enough – was sitting comfortably amid the chaos of his top-floor tenement flat, smoking yet another joint. The bay-windowed living room had become his studio, grubby bedsheets draped over the old sofa and chair that Westie had claimed from a skip. Canvases rested against the skirting boards, newspaper cuttings and magazine photos were taped to the walls. Greasy pizza cartons and beer cans littered the floor, some of the cans torn in half to provide makeshift ashtrays. Wonder was, Westie thought, ‘they’ still let you smoke in the comfort of your own home. These days you couldn’t smoke in pubs, clubs or restaurants, or at your place of work or even in some bus shelters. When the Rolling Stones had played a stadium gig in Glasgow and Keith had lit one up onstage, ‘they’ had considered prosecution.

Westie always thought of the authorities as ‘they’.

One of his first portfolio pieces had been a manifesto, printed in black against a glossy blood-red backing.

They Are Out To Get You

They Know What You Do

They See You As Trouble…

At the very bottom of the canvas, the printing had switched to white-on-red for Westie’s coda: But I Am Better At Art Than Them.