‘It’s a revolver,’ Mike said, lifting the gun in his right hand. ‘I didn’t know the army still used them.’

Chib just shrugged. ‘The student and your pal Allan should get some practice in. They’ve got to look comfortable when they go crashing through that door.’

Mike nodded. ‘And the rest of the crew?’

‘My lads will have handled shooters before, don’t worry about them.’

Mike placed the revolver back in the box, keeping the Browning tucked in against the small of his back. He tried the shotgun next. It felt awkwardly heavy and lacked balance. He shook his head and handed it back. ‘When do we meet your “lads”?’

‘On the day itself. They’ll be primed, and they’ll be under orders to do everything you tell them to.’

Mike nodded. ‘And the van?’

‘Nicked this very evening. It’s safely garaged – fake number plates are probably being installed as we speak.’

‘Not here, though?’

Chib shook his head. ‘I’ve got a few places like this dotted around the city. So if you ever need an MOT on a dodgy motor…’

Mike managed a smile. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You need to tell your crew that there’ll be disguises to wear. And we don’t want them toting any flashy jewellery, anything that could get them recognised. ’

‘Listen to the resident expert,’ Chib said with another low chuckle. ‘Is that us, then? All set?’

Mike nodded slowly. ‘Day after tomorrow. I just hope the paint’s dry on the fakes.’ Chib’s phone sounded and the gangster lifted it from his pocket, checking the number on the screen.

‘Got to take this,’ he said by way of apology, turning away from Mike as he answered. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone AWOL…’ Mike pretended to be checking the guns again as he listened. ‘He’s going to go for it?’ Chib was saying, head angled downwards, as if studying his shoes. ‘That’s good… Definitely no funny business, believe me… just good honest collateral… Two or three days tops… Cheers, then.’ He ended the call and turned back towards Mike with a wide smile.

‘Collateral?’ Mike echoed. Chib just shook his head.

‘Is that us, then? he repeated, keen to wrap things up.

‘I suppose so…’ But then Mike gave a little wince. ‘No, not quite, actually – there’s something I forgot…’

‘Spit it out.’

Mike slipped his hands into his pockets, as though wishing to make the request seem more casual.

‘There’s this mugging victim…’

Chib’s eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed as if in comprehension. ‘You want me to find out who did it, have them made an example of?’

‘Not exactly.’ Mike paused for effect. ‘You see, this particular mugging hasn’t actually happened yet.’

Chib’s eyes narrowed again. ‘I don’t get it,’ he conceded.

‘Keep listening,’ Mike advised, ‘and you soon will…’

14

‘Chib was disappointed,’ Mike said, ‘when I told him the National Collection doesn’t stretch to a Vettriano.’

Gissing snorted into his drink. The two men were seated in an anonymous bar near the railway station. It was a no-nonsense place, meant for drinkers only: no TV or jukebox and only crisps to stave off any hunger pangs. Not having indulged in the best part of a decade, Mike had found himself ordering two packets of prawn cocktail, thinking of the box of guns that was hidden, for want of a better place, in the boot of his car. Three old-timers were seated on stools at the bar itself and had ignored Mike completely as he ordered the drinks and snacks. Gissing had chosen the table furthest from the door. He wrinkled his nose at the crisps and stuck to alternating between sips of malt and gulps of IPA.

‘Vettriano isn’t universally admired,’ he commented, wiping foam from around his mouth.

‘Popular, though,’ Mike countered, knowing full well the professor’s views on the subject. Gissing decided not to rise to the bait.

‘So what exactly is our gangland friend settling for?’

‘An Utterson.’

‘Dusk on Rannoch Moor?’

‘That’s the one. Westie didn’t think he’d have any trouble painting it.’

‘You showed a picture of it to Calloway?’

‘I did.’

‘And he liked it?’

‘He asked what it was worth.’

Gissing rolled his eyes. ‘Well, good riddance to it, I suppose.’ He took another swallow of beer, and Mike realised how nervous the professor was, while Mike himself was growing calmer with each passing hour. From the internet, he had printed off an aerial map of the streets around the warehouse, charting the best route for the van. He’d arranged with Chib where to pick up the four extra crew, and where to drop them afterwards. The crew would take the guns and dispose of them. Looking at Gissing, he felt glad the old boy wouldn’t be storming the warehouse, firearm at the ready: the hand reaching for the whisky glass was trembling.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Mike assured him.

‘My dear chap, of course it will. You don’t think I’m having doubts?’

‘A lot could still go wrong.’

‘You’ll handle it, Mike.’ The professor gave a tired smile. ‘You seem to have developed a taste for all of this.’

‘Maybe a little,’ Mike conceded. ‘But it was your idea, remember.’

‘Still, I won’t be sorry when it’s done and dusted, while I have the sneaking suspicion you just might be.’

‘So long as we don’t end up in jail. Christ, imagine it – with Chib Calloway as our disgruntled cellmate.’

Gissing raised a hand, palm out. ‘As the Americans might say, let’s not even go there.’

They shared a smile and concentrated on their drinks. Just one more day to go. Mike knew he’d have to fill tomorrow with activity, so that he didn’t start to fret. They’d gone over the plan on paper, rehearsed the details a dozen times. Allan had been through it with a fine toothcomb. They knew what they had to do, and how much time would be available. But there were factors they couldn’t determine. Mike wondered if that was why he felt so calm: a case of que sera sera. As a businessman, he’d always liked to be in charge, knowing what would happen, in control of the various sequences of events. But when he’d picked up that Browning, he’d felt a thrill of electricity. The weight of it, the machine-tooled detail. It was a work of art in itself. He’d loved playing with guns as a kid; had a huge collection of plastic soldiers, cowboys and Indians. Hell, give him a banana and he’d have been aiming it at the nearest target. An aunt had brought him back a boomerang from Australia – same thing: point, aim with one eye closed, then make that plosive sound of the bullet and its trajectory.

He remembered Chib, aiming a nonexistent pistol from the passenger seat of the 5-Series. And back at the garage, hoisting the sawn-off. Shifting against the back of his chair, he could feel the Browning tucked into his waistband. It was rash to carry it – what if anyone glimpsed it and reported him? – but he couldn’t help himself. He only had it until Saturday afternoon. He thought back to the Indian restaurant and wondered how those drunken suits would have reacted if he’d pulled a gun on them. Not in the restaurant itself – too many witnesses. But outside, waiting in the shadows for them to come reeling out…

When the door to the bar opened, Mike swivelled his eyes. Caution mingled with mistrust… but it was just another drinker. A scant week or two back, he would have paid no heed – the world ended at the length of his stretched arms – but this was different. He wondered how he could go back to his old self again, seated in his flat’s spare bedroom, the one he kept all his computer stuff in, staring at the monitor or checking the shelves for signs of his relevance – the business initiative awards and framed citations (Outstanding Achiever; Creative Spirit; Scottish Entrepreneur…). What did any of it mean?

The drinker had joined his friends at the bar. The door was swinging shut again, reminding Mike of that day at the auction house.