Read Doors Open for Free Online Page B

success. One of Ransome’s first CID cases had been a push against Calloway, but in court the gangster’s expensive lawyer had picked apart the evidence - to the cost of the youngest member of the team of investigators.

    Detective Constable Ransome . . . you’re sure that’s your correct title? Only, I’ve known plain constables with more apparent ability . The advocate smug and ruddy-cheeked in his wig; and Chib Calloway braying in the dock, wagging a finger at Ransome as the young detective sloped from the witness box. Afterwards, his team leader had tried telling him it didn’t matter. But it had; it did; all the way down the passing years.

    The time felt right to him . . . right here, right now. Everything he knew, everything he suspected, led to one imminent prospect: Chib Calloway’s life was about to implode.

    It might well be messy, might happen without any interference from Ransome himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be there to enjoy it.

    Nor did it mean he couldn’t take the credit . . .

     
Chib Calloway waited in the foyer for a couple of minutes, but the only other arrivals were a middle-aged couple with Australian accents and leathery skin. He pretended to be studying a floor plan of the building, then gave a twitch of the mouth, signalling to the guards that he was quite satisfied with arrangements. Taking a deep breath, he walked inside.

    It was quiet in the gallery. Bloody big rooms, too, echoing with coughs and whispers. He saw the Aussies again, plus some overseas students who were being taken round by a guide. No way they were locals - too tanned, too fashion-conscious. They shuffled slowly, near-silently past the huge canvases, looking bored. Not too many guards in here. Chib craned his neck, seeking out the all-seeing CCTV cameras. They were just where he thought they’d be. No wires trailing from the paintings, though, meaning no alarms. Some of them looked fixed to the walls by screws, but by no means all of them. Even if they were, thirty seconds with a Stanley knife and you’d have what you came for . . . most of it, anyway. The canvas, if not the frame. Half a dozen pensioners in uniforms - no problem at all.

    Chib sat himself down on an upholstered bench in the middle of one of the rooms and felt his heart rate begin to slow. He pretended to be interested in the painting opposite, a landscape with mountains and temples and sunbeams. There were a few figures in the foreground, dressed in flowing white robes. He’d no idea what any of it was supposed to mean. One of the foreign students - a bronzed, Spanish-looking lad - blocked his view for a moment before moving to the side to check out the information panel on the wall, oblivious to Chib’s glare: Hey, pal, this is my painting, my city, my country . . .

    Another man walked into the room: older than the student and better dressed. A black woollen overcoat fell to just above his feet. His shoes were black, glossy and unscuffed. He carried a folded newspaper and looked like he was just killing time, cheeks puffed out. Chib gave him the stare all the same, and decided he knew the face from somewhere. His stomach clenched - was this whoever’d been tailing him? Didn’t look like a villain, but then he didn’t look much like a cop either. Where had Chib seen him before? The visitor had given the painting the briefest of glances, and was heading away, brushing past the student. He was already out of the room by the time Chib placed him.

    Chib got to his feet and made to follow.

4

    Mike Mackenzie had recognised the gangster straight away, hoping it wasn’t too obvious when he exited the room pronto. This collection wasn’t really his thing anyway; he’d only come into town to do a bit of shopping: shirts to start with (not that he’d found any he liked). Then some eau de cologne and a slight detour into Thistle Street and Joseph Bonnar’s jewellery shop. Joe specialised in nice antique pieces, and Mike had gone