Mike was alone in his flat. He’d put some music on, without really caring what it was. Allan’s Coultons were on a chair next to the fireplace – Mike had never really been a fan of the man’s abstracts. Great whooshes of colour and little doodles that were ‘symbolic, like cartouches’ according to Allan. Mike had poured himself a malt and was savouring it as he studied Monboddo’s wife. Light seemed to pour from the canvas. He put down his tumbler and picked up the portrait, pressing his lips to those of the gently smiling woman. Close up, the surface of the paint was criss-crossed with hairline fractures. Too bad: he could hardly call in a restorer. Monboddo hadn’t signed the work; he seldom signed his name to anything. The show Mike had been at, the one where he’d first set eyes on the painting he was holding right now, plenty of the work on display had been given the wrong provenance until scholarship had improved. Even so, a few of the works were ‘attributed to’ or ‘school of ’. But not the wife. The wife was one hundred per cent genuine. Her name… He went to a shelf and took down a biography of the artist. Her name was Beatrice. The painting bore the title A Reflective Pose, but the sitter was definitely Beatrice – she appeared in at least four other works by Monboddo. The biographer stated his belief that the artist had painted her in as flattering a light as possible, ‘probably to make up for some transgression notably more heinous than the norm’.

Transgression.

Heinous.

Mike’s stomach did a little flip and he decided he’d had enough whisky. Gissing still hadn’t called. But then they’d sort of agreed – contact was to be kept to a minimum. Let the dust settle. Mike placed the Monboddo back on the sofa and reached for his mobile anyway – couldn’t do any harm to send the prof a text. Keep it short and offhand, just the sort of casual enquiry any friend might send – How are you? Let’s have a drink soon. Any news your end? He turned the phone over in his hand, and almost dropped it when it buzzed. Incoming message. It was from Gissing. Mike felt his hand starting to shake as he pressed the tiny button to accept the text.

Subject of photo is probing. Let’s give him nothing to work with.

It was nicely vague – even though Mike knew what it meant, few others would. Calloway had put a name to the cop in the photo. DI Ransome. Ransome was working the heist, and there was a history between Calloway and him. It was far from perfect, but they could ride it. Of course they could.

What the hell else could they do?

Mike found that he had refilled his tumbler without meaning to. He went into the kitchen and poured it down the sink. Last thing he needed was a hangover. Well… actually there were a lot of things he needed less than a hangover. In fact, right now, it wouldn’t even make his top five. Having rinsed the glass and left it to drain, he walked back into the living area and flopped on to the sofa, so that he sat flanked by his two paintings. He hadn’t given the other one much thought. It was an early Cadell, a beach scene. Westie had been dismissive: plenty of impasto and sharp angles. Could do it in my sleep. Mike wanted to call Gissing, wanted to hear him say reassuring things. Wanted to share with him the story of Calloway’s ‘collateral’. A text message wasn’t going to cover any of it. He turned the phone over and over again in his hand. Took a deep breath. Punched in the professor’s number and listened to the ring tone. Gissing would have caller ID – had to know who was calling. But nobody was answering. It went to the messaging service, a pleasantly robotic female voice, but Mike decided to ring off instead.

Tomorrow: it could wait till tomorrow. He’d go surf the net one final time for news, then call it a night.

He carried Beatrice with him under his arm…

‘How did you get this address?’

Monday morning. Mike hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and here he was opening his door to Chib Calloway. The gangster brushed past him, not even waiting for an invite.

‘Nice place,’ he was saying as he walked into the open-plan living area. ‘Great outlook, too. Always fancied living somewhere with a view of the Castle…’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Mike said sternly.

Chib turned towards him. ‘No secrets between us, Mikey. Any time you want to see my place, you only have to ask. Is that coffee I can smell?’

‘I was just brewing some.’

‘Milk and one sugar,’ Chib told him. Mike hesitated, then headed for the kitchen.

‘What did you make of Mr Hate?’ Chib called out to him.

Mike was still half asleep, but adrenalin was making itself felt. What the hell was Calloway doing here?

‘Have you heard from him?’ he called back over his shoulder. He had a view of half the living area, but Calloway was out of sight.

‘Not yet. Lot of art on your walls, Mike. I’ve been doing a bit more digging on you – from what I can tell, you’re absolutely minted. Makes me wonder…’

‘What?’

‘Why nick paintings when you can afford to buy them?’

‘Sometimes the ones you want never come on the open market.’ Mike carried through two rushed mugs of coffee and saw that Chib had been busy snooping. The gangster was smiling as he gestured behind one of the room’s cream leather sofas.

‘Not much of a hiding place, Michael. Anyone would think you want to get caught.’

‘I didn’t have much time,’ Mike said by way of excuse. ‘They were on the sofa when you rang the bell.’

‘Mind if I take a peek?’ Chib didn’t wait for assent. He was already easing out the paintings. ‘Four?’ he said.

‘Two belong to Allan – I’m keeping them for him.’

‘Mind if I ask why?’

‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ Mike answered, hiding his mouth behind the coffee mug. ‘Knows a bit about art, so he doesn’t want her seeing them.’ He was hoping Chib would accept the lie.

‘So which two are yours?’

‘The portrait and the landscape.’

‘Glad to hear it – Allan’s two look like something from playschool.’ Chib studied the Monboddo and the Cadell. ‘Nice,’ he decided. ‘Are they worth the same as mine?’

‘Roughly – probably a little less, actually.’

‘But then I only got the one, and here you are with four of the little beauties.’

‘One was all you wanted.’

Chib kept nodding, still appearing to be making an appraisal of the paintings. ‘The portrait looks a bit like that bird from the auctioneer’s.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Mike stated. Eventually, Calloway accepted the proffered mug with a grunt of thanks.

‘Definitely a resemblance,’ he mused, his eyes on Beatrice, concentrating on the swell of her cleavage. ‘Think she’d like me any better if she knew I own an Utterson?’

‘Laura Stanton, you mean? More likely she’d turn you in.’

‘True…’ Calloway gave a dismissive sniff, then took a slurp of the coffee. ‘The reason I’m here is, I’ve been thinking about that bawbag of a copper.’

‘Ransome?’

‘That’s the one – you heard any more from the prof?’

‘Just a text to say everything’s fine.’ Again, Mike hid behind the mug he was holding. ‘The media say it’s someone called Hendricks who’s in charge of the investigation…’

‘Gav Hendricks is a featherweight; it’s Ransome we need to keep an eye on.’ Chib had taken a step towards Mike. ‘Say he takes your friend Allan in for questioning…’

‘Allan’s fine.’

‘He better be.’

Mike didn’t want Calloway coming any closer, so made a show of wandering over towards the window, realising too late that it might make him appear nervous: hadn’t Allan done the selfsame thing? He found himself staring out of the window anyway, and could make out the roof of Chib’s black BMW 5-Series. Two men were resting against the car, one of them smoking a cigarette, the other checking his phone for messages.