He’d been chewing over Mike’s crazy scheme the remainder of the afternoon, to the extent that he’d lost three frames of snooker in a row, Johnno teasing him that there must be a woman behind it. There was a smell in the snooker hall; Chib wasn’t sure he’d registered it before. It was nasty and vinegary and it caught in his nostrils. Old men’s sweat and desperation; bad diet and wasted time. Nothing like that here – the chef had his first Michelin star, so Chib had been told. Seafood was cooking, and the staff were busy dicing vegetables in the kitchen – there was a window between them and the tables, so you could follow every move. Chib liked that. Back as a child, the owner of his local chip shop used to hawk into the fryer to test how hot the fat was. The thought of it now made Chib’s stomach turn.

He was early for his assignation, and had driven there himself in the Bentley. He didn’t like bringing Johnno and Glenn, even when they stayed with the car or ate at a distant table. They always made jokes next day about whether his ‘lady friend’ snored and how did she like her eggs at breakfast… When he’d told them they weren’t needed, they’d been quick to warn him again about the Viking. Questions had been asked in town, feelers were out, but no one had reported any sightings of him. Could turn up at any moment…

‘Sure you don’t want us around, boss?’

‘Positive.’

Seated at his corner table – with an uninterrupted view of the entrance area – Chib noticed that he’d been studying the art on the walls. Not even reproductions of anything worthwhile, just splotches bought as a job lot to cover the pale yellow plasterwork. He’d been reading up on the subject ever since visiting the auction house. A bookshop in town had suggested various ‘primary texts’ – the very words the assistant had used. ‘Primary’ to Chib meant junior school, so he’d started to argue that he wasn’t thick, thank you very much, until the assistant had explained what she meant, her voice shaking. After which, they’d gotten along fine. Now ‘primary’ got him thinking back to high school… funny he didn’t remember Mike. Recognised the type, though: still wanted the hard kids to notice him, even twenty-odd years on. The scheme wasn’t really that daft – he’d encountered plenty worse, and a good number of those had come off. If anything went wrong this time round, well, Chib wouldn’t be there to take any of the rap. The kids he talked into helping, they’d know better than to blab – better to spend a bit of time behind bars than have to face a grassed-up Chib Calloway. Mike and his pals might well want to cooperate with the filth, but that wouldn’t get them very far – Chib would stay at one remove. And nobody would ever be able to lay their hands on the painting…

The valuable painting… Christ, yes! Of course!

He reached into his pocket and took out one of his mobile phones, along with the slip of paper. Punched in the numbers and waited. He saw his friend walk in, and offered her a wave. She was being fussed over as usual by the maître d’, her coat removed. Now and then, a wealthy visitor to one of the city’s better restaurants might be tempted to pick the brain of the maître d’. They’d want to know where they could find a girl for the night, just someone to spend a bit of time with… And the maître d’ would know just the place – very nice girls; all very discreet. After which he’d pocket a tip from the customer, and another next day, this time from Chib’s friend. She was pressing her hand to the maître d’ right now, and Chib didn’t doubt that there was a twenty or maybe even a fifty there… His call was picked up and he moistened his lips with his tongue.

‘Is that you, Hate?’

‘Calloway?’

‘The one and only. I can’t help thinking we got off to a bad start, and I want to make it up to you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well, while I’m putting the funds together for your employers, how about a peace offering? Something you could place under the heading of collateral. Thing is, it’s going to take a few more days to organise – maybe as long as a week – so I need you to persuade your employers that it’ll be worth waiting for.’

‘You’re playing games with me.’

‘Believe me, I’m not. I’m talking about something the mafia does all time.’

‘You wish to put the head of a racehorse in my bed? Is that why you are working so hard to locate my place of residence?’

Shit, this guy is good…

‘I think I can do better than that, Hate – a whole lot better.’

‘I’m listening, Mr Calloway…’

By the time Chib’s dinner guest reached the table, the offer had been made, the phone switched off for the rest of the evening. Chib stood up to kiss her perfumed cheek.

‘You,’ he said, ‘look especially stunning tonight.’

‘And you look…’ She considered for a moment. ‘Smug’s the word that comes to mind. Like a cat that’s just got the cream.’

‘And who’s to say I haven’t?’ Chib teased, sitting down again and grabbing at his napkin before one of the waiting staff could unfurl it and start laying it across his groin.

He hated that. Really hated it.

The phone was ringing as Mike emerged from the shower. By the time he’d towelled himself dry – noting in the bathroom mirror that he needed to refresh his gym membership – the ringing had stopped. No message left, but he recognised the number. Robert Gissing, calling from home. Mike slid his feet into flip-flops and his body into a towelling robe, then pushed the buttons on his phone, exiting the bathroom and making for the balcony.

‘What’s up, Robert?’ he asked when the call was answered.

‘I was just curious – is friend Calloway on board?’

‘I think so.’

‘And how much exactly is that going to cost us?’

‘He wants a painting.’ Mike held his breath, knowing what was coming.

‘But the man’s a bloody infidel! Wouldn’t know good art if it bit him on the arse!’

‘Nevertheless…’ Mike listened as Gissing’s breathing grew less ragged. ‘I suppose it all depends on whether there’s enough time for Westie to come up with another fake.’

‘Well, I’ll leave that negotiation in your capable hands, Michael.’ Gissing still sounded irritated. ‘You seem to have the measure of students and criminals both.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’ Mike gave a little laugh, but was pleased all the same.

‘And besides,’ the professor was saying, ‘I’ve been thinking that Calloway may prove more useful to us than we first thought…’

‘How so?’ The night air was chilled; Mike retreated back inside, sliding shut the door.

‘There’s a curator at the National Gallery,’ Gissing was beginning to explain. ‘And Charles Calloway may be the very chap to deal with him…’

‘Deal with him?’ Mike’s eyes narrowed; he wondered if he’d misheard.

‘Deal with him,’ Professor Gissing confirmed.

It occurred to Allan Cruikshank that the reason he made a good banker was that he was intrinsically boring. He had barely taken a risk in his life. This meant he was cautious and prudent, and therefore good at not losing his clients’ money. But banking had also made him cynical. It was a truism that those who already had money would find it easy to increase their wealth, and they never seemed very grateful for Allan’s work on their (often unmerited) behalf. Some of the High Net Worth individuals on his books owned three or four homes, yachts, racehorses, private islands and innumerable works of art. Yet they seemed to appreciate very little, being too busy amassing yet more. He found them dull and blinkered, and wondered if they thought of him the same way. Then there were his fellow account executives at First Caledonian Bank, some of whom hardly registered his existence. The chief executive had met him a dozen times, yet never seemed to remember him from one occasion to the next. With a drink in one hand and a canapé in the other, he would regale Allan time and again with the same anecdote, while Allan smiled and tried not to scream out, You’ve told me that before, you fuckwit! He had perfected the art of looking interested, and could gasp in surprise at any and every predictable punchline.