‘We Scots are bad that way,’ Chib eventually acknowledged. ‘You ever been back to the school? Have they not invited you to hand out the prizes, inspire the kids with a few words of wisdom?’

‘No.’

‘Your old college gave you an honorary degree, though – was it the cash they were after?’

‘One day, I suppose,’ Mike conceded.

‘Kid says you’re not signed up to any of those sites that put you in touch with old pals.’

‘Like I told you, that’s because I don’t have any old pals.’

‘No, me neither…’ Chib leaned forward to spit on to the surface of the pond. ‘Doubt most of the folk I was at school with would give me the time of day. They organised some anniversary do last year for kids in our year – did you get an invite to that?’

‘I think so.’

‘You should’ve gone. Rented a Roller for the night and a couple of nice-looking escorts… rubbed all their noses in it.’

‘You could’ve done that, too,’ Mike offered, causing Chib to smile.

‘Don’t go thinking it didn’t cross my mind, but in the end… Well, fuck it.’ He made a little writhing motion, as though a cold wind were blowing. Then he turned his body so he was face to face with Mike. The hands stayed in their pockets. Mike was reminded of their meeting at the gallery and his fear that the gangster carried a gun or a knife. He doubted it now. But Calloway had worries in his life – maybe to do with ‘the Viking’. And Mike had given him something to take his mind off them – a fresh challenge. ‘You’ll need to be tooled up, Mike, you do realise that? You’re going to have to put the fear of God into everybody, make them think you’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘But the gun doesn’t need to be real, right?’

Chib shook his head. ‘Just needs to look real – if that’s what you want.’

‘That’s all we’ll need.’

‘Better be sure of that – just takes one of the guards to be ex-military… you poke an airgun in his face and he’s going to know it.’

‘Replicas, then.’

‘Even better is the real thing with the firing pin out.’

‘You’re the expert, Chib.’

‘Damned right I am.’ He was silent for a few more moments. ‘Four additional crew, I reckon. One apiece for the gatehouse and guardroom and two to keep the visitors quiet. That leaves the three of you clear to do the actual finding and fetching.’

‘Quicker we’re in and out, the better for all concerned.’

‘Still can’t see it, though, Mike – you and the old professor guy and that poofy-looking pal of yours? More I think about it, more I’m convinced it’s a wind-up.’

‘You don’t think it’ll work?’

‘Actually, it sounds all right. It’s the planners rather than the plan I’m thinking of…’

‘Needn’t concern you, Chib. If it falls apart, it’s our problem – you’ll still get your fee, and so will the four crew. Have you got anyone in mind?’

‘You want them young,’ Chib stated. ‘Means they’re hungry, on top of which there’s all that testosterone… makes them even scarier.’

‘How much will they want?’

But Chib shook his head. ‘Guns and bodies aren’t a problem. Crew don’t even need to be told who they’re working for – a word from me’ll be enough. All they’ll see is a warehouse, won’t know what’s being taken.’

‘They will if they’re in the back of the van. Speaking of which…’

‘Getting a van’s easy enough – maybe with faked number plates. Something plain, something like a Transit. Nobody looks twice at blacked-out windows in the back of one of those…’

‘Fair enough. So, really, we’re back to your fee…’

‘How does a hundred and fifty thou sound?’

Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘Bit on the high side, actually,’ he was able to say eventually. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’

Chib barked out a laugh and slid a hand from his pocket so he could slap Mike on the arm with it. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered. ‘I’d be willing to take a painting off your hands, so long as it was worth that sort of money.’

‘What?’

‘Auctions don’t make much sense to me, Mike. You’re planning on lifting seven paintings… seems to me one extra won’t make much difference.’

‘You’d never be able to sell it… not on the open market.’

‘I’m not planning on selling it.’

‘If one forgery’s identified,’ Mike persisted, ‘the others won’t be far behind.’

Chib’s face hardened. ‘That’s my price, Mike. Unless you want to stump up the cash equivalent.’

Mike thought hard. ‘Our forger’s pushed as it is,’ was all he could manage.

‘Then we push him harder.’ Chib had leaned in towards Mike. Although the gangster was a good couple of inches shorter than him, Mike felt he was being towered over. The city he knew was no longer visible and the temperature had dropped. The bird-feeders had disappeared. No cars passed, no other humans within hailing distance. ‘Have we got a deal?’ Chib was intoning. ‘Or do I start to get narked again that you lied to me back in that gallery?’

One of the ducks had vanished beneath the surface of the pond. Mike was beginning to understand how it felt…

The oversized envelope had been left at reception by a courier. Allan opened it in his office, relieved afterwards that he hadn’t delegated the task to his secretary – a scale photocopy of Gissing’s drawing of the compound.

‘You silly bugger, Robert,’ Allan muttered. No forewarning; no sense of danger. And now a receipt on file at the courier company – urgent delivery of documents from Professor R. Gissing, Edinburgh College of Art, to Mr A. Cruikshank, HNW Relationship Manager, First Caledonian Bank. Allan shook his head slowly. The beginnings of a paper trail now existed where none had been necessary. Despite which, he was glad to have the plans. He would lock them in his briefcase and take them home with him at day’s end. He would close his curtains and make sure his front door was bolted. And only then would he spread them out on the table, pouring himself a glass of Rioja and commencing to study them.

Determined to prove himself.

Determined to pay his way.

He might even push the glass to one side, keeping a clear head for later, when a night-time drive down to Granton’s industrial estates and warehouses might be in order.

11

Chib was having dinner that evening with a woman who ran an escort agency. A couple of years back, he had offered to help her with the business, an offer she’d turned down out of hand. All the same, Chib had grown to like her. She was tougher than most of the men he knew, tougher certainly than Glenn and Johnno, the latter still nursing his wrist along with his wounded pride. The morning visit from the Viking seemed a lifetime ago. Chib was supposed to be talking to him tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He had the slip of paper in his pocket, but what was he supposed to say?

Chib and this woman, it wasn’t serious between them. Just dinner now and then, maybe a film or a show. They swapped news and gossip, rumours and anecdotes. Sometimes, he even let her pick up the tab. His wife had died a few years back from lung cancer. It was a terrible way to go – his own mum had been the same. He used to say to Liz, long before they were married, that he didn’t want kids, didn’t want them going through what he’d had to go through with his mum. His dad hadn’t been much use either, hitting the bottle and falling asleep in his clothes every night. Cheery bugger, aren’t you? had been Liz’s response the first time he’d told her. It’d made him angry that she made light of it, but he hadn’t done anything about it – that was how much he’d loved her.

Tonight’s venue was a newish restaurant in one of Leith’s gentrified sections. Chib remembered Leith when it had been all about the docks and the hard men, drinking dens with knocking shops upstairs and tattoo parlours along the street with wraps of speed under the counter for those in the know. There was still that side to it, but a lot of the dockside had been spruced up, style bars opening, bonded warehouses turned into flats. Chib often wondered what happened to the old-timers when these makeovers took place. All across the city, neighbourhoods were changing. Where Chib lived, there hadn’t been any houses at all until ten or twelve years back. Now it had its own railway station. Sometimes it was hard to keep up.