Doors Open by Ian Rankin Page B

Allan felt no need to study them further - they had already chosen a couple of favourites apiece, as had Gissing himself. But they needed to be confident that the young artist would cope with the different styles and periods.

    ‘Now, how would you begin here?’ Gissing asked, not for the first time. Westie’s mouth twitched and he began drawing shapes in the air as he explained.

    ‘Monboddo’s actually pretty straightforward if you’ve studied the Scottish Colourists - nice big flat brush, laying the oil on in thick swirls. He’ll go over one colour with another, and then another after that so you’re left with hints of what was there before. Bit like pouring cream on to coffee where you can still glimpse the black through the white. He’s after harmony rather than contrast.’

    ‘That sounds like a quote,’ Gissing commented.

    Westie nodded. ‘It’s George Leslie Hunter - from your lecture on Bergson.’

    ‘Would you need special brushes, then?’ Mike interrupted.

    ‘Depends how thorough you want me to be.’

    ‘You need to defeat the naked eye, the gifted amateur . . .’

    ‘But not the forensic specialist?’ Westie checked.

    ‘That’s not an immediate concern,’ Gissing reassured him.

    ‘It would be nice if we had access to the right papers and ages of canvas . . . brand new canvas looks just that - brand new.’

    ‘But you have ways . . . ?’

    Westie gave a grin and a wink at Mike’s question. ‘Look, if an expert comes along, they’ll spot the difference in a few minutes. Even an exact copy isn’t an exact copy.’

    ‘A point well made,’ Gissing muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

    ‘Yet some forgers get away with it for years,’ Mike offered.

    Westie shrugged his agreement. ‘But these days, with carbon dating and Christ alone knows what else waiting in the wings . . . don’t tell me you’ve not watched an episode of CSI ?’

    ‘The thing we need to keep reminding ourselves, gentlemen,’ Gissing said, removing the hand from his forehead, ‘is that nothing is going to be missing, meaning there’s no reason for any of these boffins to become involved.’

    Westie chuckled, not for the first time. ‘Got to say it again, Professor - it’s mad but brilliant.’

    Mike was forced to agree: walk into the warehouse on Doors Open Day and replace the real paintings with Westie’s carefully crafted copies. It sounded simple, but he knew it would be anything but. There was a lot of planning still ahead of them . . .

    And plenty of time to pull out.

    ‘We’re like the A-Team for unloved artworks,’ Westie was saying. He had calmed a little - only one knee was pumping as he drained the can of cola - but was no longer concentrating on the slideshow. He turned in his chair to face Mike. ‘Look, none of this is really going to happen, right? It’s like Radiohead might say - a nice dream. No disrespect, but you three are what I’d call establishment guys of a certain age and cut. You’re suits and ties and corduroy, nights at the theatre and supper afterwards.’ He leaned back in his chair and crossed one busy leg over the other, concentrating on the wagging motion of a paint-spattered trainer. ‘You’re not master criminal material, and no way can you pull off something like this without a bit more firepower.’

    Secretly, Mike had been thinking the selfsame thing, but he didn’t let it show. ‘That’s our problem, not yours,’ he said instead. Westie nodded slowly.

    ‘But here’s your other problem . . . I want in.’

    ‘In?’ Allan echoed, his first contribution for some considerable time. Westie switched his attention to him.

    ‘I don’t just want to be the grafter who churns out a few copies for you. I’m on the team. You want six paintings, why not make it seven?’ He folded his arms as if it was a done deal.

    ‘You understand,’ Mike asked slowly, ‘that if you take a painting, you’re as deep in this as any of the rest of us -