Doors Open by Ian Rankin

cover the more interesting smells.’

    Gissing was sniffing the air. ‘It’s not turpentine I’m detecting, Mr Westwater, it’s something much more akin to our old friend Cannabis sativa .’

    ‘Guilty as charged,’ Westie said. ‘Helps my brain to get moving.’

    The three visitors nodded slowly, and silence descended. Westie interrupted with a cough. ‘I’d offer tea or something,’ he apologised, ‘but we’re all out of milk.’

    Gissing waved this aside, then rubbed his hands together, making eye contact with the classier-looking of the two strangers. It was this man who eventually spoke.

    ‘What we’d like to do,’ he said, ‘is help you buy yourself a new sofa - and maybe a few other bits and pieces besides.’ He hadn’t sat down, and was inspecting some of Westie’s work instead. The accent was local and hadn’t travelled too far from the tenements.

    ‘You’re in the market for a painting?’ Westie shifted a little. ‘I didn’t think the professor was my biggest fan.’

    ‘I can see you have a talent,’ Gissing objected with a thin smile. ‘And I’m enough of a “fan” to ensure that you pass the course with distinction. You know what that would mean - a real chance of being accepted for something in the postgraduate line.’

    ‘Is this some sort of . . . what do you call it . . . ?’

    ‘Faustian pact?’ Gissing offered. ‘Not a bit of it.’

    ‘Though there would be that cash incentive,’ the stranger reminded him.

    ‘As head of the College of Art,’ Gissing added, ‘I’ve taken a look at your file, Westie. Each year you’ve applied for every bursary and hardship grant going.’

    ‘And been turned down for all of them,’ the student reminded him.

    ‘So what’s your debt up to now? Five figures, I’m guessing . . . Fresh start, clean slate - that’s what’s on offer here.’

    ‘Well, I’d be happy to show you some of my work . . .’

    ‘I’m looking at your work, Mr Westwater,’ the talkative stranger said.

    ‘Everyone calls me Westie.’

    The man nodded. ‘I’m pretty impressed.’ He had picked up the Stubbs horse. Its coat shone like a freshly peeled chestnut. ‘You’ve an eye for colour. Besides which, we already have it on the professor’s authority that you know what you’re doing when it comes to copies. But we wouldn’t be buying off the peg, Westie . . .’

    ‘A commission?’ Westie was almost bouncing on the spot, even though he still didn’t feel comfortable. Why didn’t the other stranger say anything? He just kept checking his phone for text messages.

    ‘A secret commission,’ Gissing was correcting him. ‘No questions asked.’

    But now the talkative stranger was looking at the professor. ‘Thing is, Robert, I can see that Westie here’s not stupid - he’s suspicious, and rightly so. We can hardly keep the project a secret from him, can we? He’ll find out eventually.’ He was homing in on Westie now, still holding the Stubbs in one hand as he walked to within a foot of the student. But when he spoke, Gissing still seemed his target. ‘We need Westie to be part of it, and that means trusting him.’ He smiled for the young man’s benefit. ‘The professor tells me you have an anarchic streak - you like to poke fun at the art establishment. Is that right?’

    Westie didn’t know which answer would serve him best, so he just shrugged instead. The man who had yet to talk made a show of clearing his throat. He had finished with his phone and was holding up a used stencil, which had been teased out from below the sofa.

    ‘I’ve seen these around town,’ he said - posh Edinburgh tones - keeping his voice low as if fearing being told off.

    The other stranger examined the stencil, and his smile broadened. ‘You want to be the next Banksy?’

    ‘There was a story in the papers,’ the second stranger said. ‘Police seemed very keen to talk to the artist responsible . . .’

    ‘That’s the