‘Then he has my blessing,’ Mike conceded.

Gissing just gave a loud sniff and went back to his studying.

From the school, they headed back into town towards Westie’s flat – they’d be picking up him and his paintings tomorrow – sat for a minute outside his tenement block, and then, when a warden started taking an interest, signalled back into traffic and made for The Mound and the New Town.

‘What are you going to do when you retire?’ Allan asked the professor.

‘Sell up and ship out,’ Gissing replied. ‘With the money I get from the house, I can buy a cottage somewhere on the west coast, fill it with books and art, and enjoy the scenery.’

‘Won’t you miss Edinburgh?’

‘I’ll be too busy enjoying walks along the beach.’

‘Got somewhere in mind?’ Mike asked.

‘I’ll put the homestead on the market first, see how much cash it’ll give me to play with.’

‘They’re going to miss you at the college,’ Allan said. Gissing’s silence did not dispute the fact.

Mike cleared his throat. ‘You sure about the west coast? A while back, I thought you said you’d be heading for Spain.’

‘Man’s entitled to change his mind,’ Gissing barked. ‘Anywhere except this bloody city…’

Soon they were on Inverleith Row, passing the Botanic Gardens, and then Ferry Road, glimpsing the Firth of Forth in front of them. As they headed along Starbank Road, Allan asked if Mike was sure this would be the quickest route in the morning.

‘Maybe not the quickest, but definitely the easiest.’

Google Earth had given Mike an aerial printout of the area around the warehouse. The trading estate would be near deserted at weekends, but was busy with lorries and vans this Friday as lunchtime approached. The drivers, Mike guessed, would be thinking about a trip to the pub after work, and maybe the football or shopping tomorrow and a lie-in on Sunday. He got the sudden and outrageous notion that maybe there was another would-be heist crew out there, who had figured out what Gissing had figured out and were making their own plans. But as they drove at a measured pace past the gatehouse, the cars parked kerbside were empty, awaiting their owners at workday’s end. The only van was selling hot food to a small, orderly queue. The men smoked and joked and shuffled their feet. Mike had a craving for a cigarette – only his second of the day. Allan pulled the Audi into the nearest available space and stopped the engine. Mike asked him to turn the key again so the electrics were working, then slid down the back window and lit a cigarette. Allan took one and slid his own window down.

‘Can we stretch our legs or are you worried CCTV might snap us?’ Mike asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Allan conceded. ‘There are cameras…’ He gestured in their direction. ‘But they’re pointed at gates and inner compounds. I doubt any are picking us up, but all the same…’

‘You’ve been here before?’ Gissing asked.

‘More than once, I’m guessing,’ Mike offered, before opening his door and getting out. After a moment’s thought, Allan followed, but Gissing stayed where he was. Mike leaned down and spoke to him through the window.

‘Not joining us?’

‘You forget, Michael – I’m a weel-kent face in these parts. If one of the security men should decide he needs a burger or a bacon roll, I might be recognised.’

Mike nodded his agreement. While smoking, Allan was pretending not to be studying the building they’d just passed. ‘Looks anonymous enough, doesn’t it?’ he commented.

There were certainly no signs posted, nothing to alert passers-by to the multimillion-pound contents of the grey concrete warehouse. The guard in the gatehouse was reading a newspaper and snacking on a chocolate bar. The fence was high and in good repair, topped with razor wire. But then the same could be said of all the other compounds in the vicinity, one of which advertised itself as a double-glazing showroom. A sign on the fence warned of twenty-four-hour security and guard dogs. Mike caught Allan’s eye.

‘Guard dogs?’

‘On the night shift only. A bloke in a van does the rounds.’

Mike nodded and concentrated on his cigarette again.

‘Feeling peckish?’ he asked Allan.

‘Do we really want Greasy Joe to be able to give CID our description? ’

Mike shrugged his acceptance of this. All the same, he had sudden hunger pangs. How exquisite to walk over there and strike up a conversation, pistol tucked into waistband and criminal intent in one’s mind. It was almost unbearable, irresistible.

And outrageously stupid.

Another car – a Rover – had pulled into a gap four cars ahead of the Audi. The man who emerged was overweight and wearing a pinstripe suit which, like its owner, had seen better days. He locked up and was heading for the van, which meant passing the two smokers. He offered a nod of greeting, and kept going, but then paused and turned around.

‘Nice motor, chief.’

‘Thanks,’ Allan replied.

As the suit headed towards the snack van, Allan could see that the men in the queue were interested in the car now, too. He flicked his half-finished cigarette into the gutter. ‘Thank Christ we didn’t bring the Maserati,’ he commented. Having said which, he got back in behind the steering wheel. Mike stood his ground, however, finishing the length of his own cigarette before stubbing it underfoot. Only then did he slide on to the Audi’s back seat.

‘Reckon the mobile chippie will be there on a Saturday?’ he asked.

‘Doubtful,’ Allan reasoned, starting the engine. ‘Not enough workers around here at the weekend to make it worth his while.’ He moved off and turned the first available corner, then braked again. ‘This is the spot for tomorrow,’ he said.

‘We can see the gates, but the guard can’t see us,’ Gissing confirmed.

‘So we can watch the punters come and go,’ Mike added.

Allan executed a three-point turn and paused again at the chosen location, facing the warehouse now, making sure his instinct was right. Any cameras trained on the roadway? None. The route was a dead end, meaning no passing traffic. At the same time, they had a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the compound. It was about as perfect as they were going to get.

‘So you’re parked here, Robert,’ he intoned. ‘We go in, and you give it a couple of minutes, then start moving.’

Mike took up the commentary. ‘One of Chib’s lads will be in the gatehouse by then. He’ll lift the barrier for you.’

‘And I reverse up to the loading bay,’ Gissing recited.

‘After which?’ Mike tested him.

‘I wait,’ came the response.

‘And if we don’t start coming out within the quarter-hour?’

‘I drive off and leave you to your fates.’ Gissing gave a cold smile. ‘But do I need to pick up the gatehouse felon or do I abandon him, too?’

‘That’ll be your call,’ Mike decided. ‘Everybody happy with things as they stand?’

‘I have a couple of concerns,’ Allan piped up from the driving seat. ‘Chib’s guys are going to come to this cold.’

‘So long as we know what we’re doing, that shouldn’t be a problem. It actually works in our favour if they don’t know too much.’ Mike paused. ‘Next concern, please.’

‘Why isn’t Westie with us? He’ll be here tomorrow, too.’

‘He’s got his hands full finishing the Utterson copy,’ Mike said. ‘But I’ll go over it with him later, don’t worry.’

Allan was nodding, apparently satisfied, but Mike held eye contact with him in the rearview mirror, until he was happy that his friend really was reassured.

‘I still can’t believe we’re giving that bloody thug a painting,’ Gissing muttered.

‘Well, we are,’ Mike snapped back, ‘so get over it.’ There was silence after that, the three men staring at the warehouse, their thoughts kept to themselves. ‘Okay,’ Mike said eventually. ‘The only thing now is the getaway car. I was planning to leave the Maserati on Marine Drive, but I’m not so sure…’