Doors Open by Ian Rankin Page A

anti-establishment stance I was talking about.’ The first stranger faced Westie again and waited for him to say something. This time, Westie decided to oblige.

    ‘So you want me to copy a painting?’ he blurted out.

    ‘Half a dozen, actually,’ Gissing corrected him. ‘All of them from the national collection.’

    ‘And it’s to be done without anyone knowing?’ Westie’s eyes were widening. Was he stoned and imagining this whole thing? ‘They’ve been stolen, is that it? And the gallery doesn’t want any of the public to get an inkling . . .’

    ‘I told you he was smart.’ The visitor was leaning the Stubbs back against the skirting board. ‘Now then, Westie, if we’ve whetted your appetite, maybe we can take you to the professor’s office and show you just exactly what we’re after . . .’

8

    The four of them sat at individual desks in Robert Gissing’s room. He still gave occasional tutorials, hence the chairs with writing surfaces attached. His secretary had left for the day - at Gissing’s request. Mike and Allan had eventually introduced themselves to Westie by their first names, having decided that it would be too cumbersome to use aliases. After all, it wasn’t as though Gissing could use one, and if Westie went to the police with the professor’s name, it wouldn’t take a Columbo or a Frost to connect Mike and Allan with him.

    Mike wasn’t sure why Allan had said so little back in Westie’s flat - cold feet, perhaps, or maybe it was because Mike had already stated his intention to bankroll the operation. Stood to reason they’d need funds, and Mike was the one with cash to spare. For a start, he was sure Westie would need paying - payment for his silence, as well as his expertise.

    At this stage, of course, it was still a game they were playing. Making the copies didn’t mean they had to take the scheme any further. Allan had seemed to accept this, but maybe also thought that Mike, being willing to pay for the privilege, should be the one to do the talking.

    ‘Whatever I end up forking out, I might still be getting a masterpiece on the cheap,’ Mike had assured him.

    ‘Not that we’re doing this for the money,’ Gissing had growled.

    The professor’s room was chaotic. He had already cleared some of his bookshelves into boxes in preparation for retirement. There was a stack of mail on his desk, along with a computer and an old golfball-style typewriter. More books were heaped either side of the desk, and piles of art magazines were threatening to topple. The walls were cluttered with prints by Giotto, Rubens, Goya and Brueghel the Elder - these were the ones Mike recognised. There was a dusty CD player on one shelf and half a dozen classical titles. Von Karajan seemed to be the conductor of choice.

    The blinds had been closed, leaving the room in semi-darkness. A screen had been pulled down from the ceiling immediately in front of the bookcases, so that Gissing could show them a wide selection of slides from the collection of the National Galleries, everything from Old Masters to Cubism and beyond. On the way over, Mike had explained a little more of the plan to Westie, who had slapped his knees, laughing with glee. Maybe it was just the dope kicking in.

    ‘If I can help, count me in,’ he’d said between gulps of air.

    ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Mike had cautioned. ‘You need to think things through.’

    ‘After which, if you still want in,’ Gissing had added, ‘you’ll have to start taking it a bit more seriously.’

    Now, as they looked at the slides, Westie slurped cola from a vending machine can. He sat forward in his chair, both knees pumping.

    ‘I could do that,’ was his refrain as the slides came and went.

    Gissing, Allan and Mike had already pored over the slides, all of them showing items held in the overflow warehouse. Where possible, Gissing had found reproductions on paper to accompany them. These sat on the various desks, but Mike and