‘Thank you,’ Mike replied, heading out on to George Street. ‘I’m not at all sure that I will…’

Glenn Burns had been working for Chib Calloway these past four and a half years, and was certain of only two things: his boss was in trouble, and overall, in the scheme of things as it were, and with everything taken into account, he could do a far better job. Chib, no offence, had terrible people skills, lacked vision, and seemed to bounce from crisis to crisis. Glenn knew this because he’d been studying business textbooks in his spare time. One lesson he’d taken to heart was Always Sleep With The Enemy. Not that he’d actually climbed into bed with DI Ransome, but he’d whispered sweet nothings into the copper’s ear, hoping Chib’s decline and fall would prove both swift and bloodless. So far it hadn’t panned out, yet here he was, meeting Ransome again, and this time the man had photos to show him.

‘Yeah, I know them,’ Glenn admitted. ‘I mean, I don’t really know them, but Chib put the frighteners on them one time in a bar.’

‘The Shining Star?’

‘That’s the one. Then he insisted on going to that boring sodding auction and they were there, too. We went back to the Shining Star again and there they all were, seated in the selfsame booth as before. This one…’ Glenn tapped one of the photos. It was a cutting from a magazine. ‘He’s the one who went to school with Chib – or so Chib says.’

‘It’s true; I’ve checked.’

‘Anyway, that day at the Shining Star, once the other two have left, the school pal comes over and has a chat with Chib.’

‘What about?’ Ransome was gazing at something on the other side of his windshield. They were parked atop Calton Hill, just to the east of Princes Street. Great views of Edinburgh, if you could be bothered to look. So far all Glenn had done was climb out of his own car and into the detective’s. It smelt of leather. Nothing in the ashtray till Glenn deposited a wad of gum there, nicely souring the look on Ransome’s face.

‘They were gassing about the auction – who was going up and down in value, who wasn’t selling at all. I zoned out, to be honest – boring as all-get-out. Chib wanted to know about bidding and paying and did they take cash and this guy was telling him… Name’s Mike, right?’

‘Mike Mackenzie,’ Ransome confirmed. He might not have liked the gum in his ashtray, but when Glenn unwrapped a fresh stick and offered him one, he was quick enough to take it, chewing it like it was chateaubriand flavour. ‘The other two are called Gissing and Cruikshank,’ he continued. ‘One works at the art college, the other at First Caledonian Bank. But it’s Mike your boss seems to know best, right?’

‘Right. They met again another time – we picked Mike up in the Grassmarket, just outside the Last Drop pub. But Chib kicked me and Johnno out of the car, so Christ knows where they went or what they talked about… Who is he anyway, this Mike?’

‘Just some sod who got lucky and made a fortune from computers… lives in some swanky penthouse in Murrayfield.’

‘That’s a coincidence…’ Glenn furrowed his brow.

‘What is?’

‘We were out there first thing this morning. Some fancy address called Henderland Heights. Chib wouldn’t say why…’ Glenn broke off talking, stunned into silence by something he thought he would never see.

Detective Inspector Ransome trying to grin and whistle at the same time.

Ransome knew what he should do. He should take what he knew – his suspicions, evidence and conclusions – to the Chief. But then the Chief would say, ‘Why didn’t you tell Hendricks any of this? He’s the officer in charge of the case.’ And it would all filter back to Hendricks anyway. His collar. His glory. Wouldn’t matter that the donkey work had been done by Ransome.

He needed more.

Needed the proof that would lead to arrests for armed robbery. Mackenzie and the others, they’d conspired in some way to help Calloway pull off the heist – there was precious little doubt in Ransome’s mind that Chib was behind it. He’d been scouring the city for muscle to help him – Glenn had been clear on that. Or maybe it was this character Hate, leading a team of Hell’s Angels: the very people who’d have access to sawn-offs and the like. But it couldn’t have happened without inside info, which was where the ‘Three Musketeers’ came in. Rank amateurs, probably, cajoled or threatened until they were in way over their heads. It would be easy to break them – easier by far than confronting Chib himself. And when they broke, he would have the gangster where he wanted him.

And Hendricks, too, come to that. Hendricks had given him an earful on the phone. Somehow he’d got to hear that Ransome had visited the warehouse. Stay the fuck away, those had been Hendricks’ instructions. Ransome had come back with a few choice words of his own before ending the call and refusing to answer when Hendricks rang back. Sod him. Sod the lot of them. A bit more hard evidence was needed, that or a confession. Evidence would be difficult without search warrants, and his various hunches and titbits of surveillance were never going to secure any of those. Not even his covert source could connect Calloway to the heist in any way other than tangentially.

He really needed more.

Hard evidence or a confession…

And suddenly, Ransome knew exactly what to do. And who to do it to.

Tuesday morning, just gone eleven, Westie was working on his degree show. He was stuck in the basement of the College of Art, which meant no windows, no natural light. Westie’s solution was a series of striplights, standing at angles against the walls so that any paintings hung nearby would throw jagged shadows across sections of the room. The problem was, it was hard to see the paintings themselves. Added to which, the floor had become treacherous, snaking coils of electrical flex leading from the lights to an overloaded junction box. He’d been told by the janitor that there were Health and Safety issues and by one of his tutors that the ‘art of display’ was part and parcel of the exhibition. In other words, if Westie couldn’t provide proper lighting and an environment that wasn’t a potential deathtrap, he might be marked down.

Not that Westie needed to worry, of course. He was whistling a happy tune – ‘So What?’ by Miles Davis – as he worked, safe in the knowledge that his extra-curricular activities on behalf of Professor Gissing and his friends had already secured him a high pass… maybe even a distinction.

‘Doesn’t mean you can slack,’ Gissing had warned him. ‘Your show has to exhibit a basic level of competence, otherwise the mark’s going to look overly suspicious.’

Westie reckoned he could do ‘competence’. And he was proud of his seven chosen canvases, pastiches of Runciman, Nasmyth, Raeburn (twice), Wilkie, Hornel and Peploe. The Peploe was a particular favourite: a still life featuring potted plant, fruit bowl, and, at the very edge of the canvas, ketchup bottle. Gissing, a fan of Peploe, hated it, which was why it was going to be Westie’s centrepiece. He wanted to hear the professor praise it to the other assessors, albeit through gritted teeth.

The fresh injection of cash into Westie’s bank account had meant he could go to town on his frames – no trawling the junk shops and skips. He had bought from an architectural reclamation specialist in Leith. The frames were gilded, ornate, original, and immaculate. He’d spent some more of the money on a couple of meals out and was thinking of renting a proper studio so that Alice could have her living room back.

‘That’s going to eat into my film studies funding,’ she had complained. ‘Unless we do something about it.’

It had taken a lot of talking to persuade her not to go asking Mike for any more cash. But then she’d started saying they should sell the DeRasse and pocket what they could.