Free Doors Open by Ian Rankin Page B

she’d blown up at him, accusing him of accusing her of being a leech, of bleeding her poor parents dry. Another stamp of the foot and she’d bounded out of the room, slamming the door after her and causing one of his drying canvases to fall from its easel on to the floor. He’d managed to calm her down eventually with tea and a cuddle in the flat’s cramped kitchen.

    ‘I only need to work for another ten years and I’ll have savings enough,’ she had sniffled.

    ‘Maybe I can bump up my prices at the degree show,’ Westie had offered. But they both knew this wasn’t exactly feasible - he was probably going to sell next to nothing. No matter how good his draughtsmanship, in terms of actual artistry he was still that same ‘narrow pass’, at least in the eyes of the people whose marks counted most. The head of department - old Prof Gissing - had never been a fan. Westie had looked up Gissing himself once and had found that the grumpy old sod had pretty well stopped painting in the 1970s, meaning all he’d done these past thirty years was write articles and give boring lectures. Yet people like him, they were the ones who’d give the thumbs-up or thumbs-down to Westie’s whole future as an artist. Westie, the son of a postman and a shop assistant, sometimes felt that there was a conspiracy afoot to stop the lower orders being recognised as any sort of creative force.

    Having finished the joint, Westie, arms folded, took a stroll around the room. Alice didn’t come in here very much any more. She stuck to the kitchen and bedroom. The mess irritated her, yet she was reluctant to tidy up in case it interfered with his creativity. She’d explained about a poet she’d been friendly with at college whose flatmates had done this big spring-clean of his bedroom one time and surprised him with it. He’d tried to be grateful but hadn’t been able to write poetry in there for weeks afterwards. Westie had considered this, then had asked just exactly how ‘friendly’ the two had been.

    Cue another lovers’ tiff.

    When the doorbell sounded, he realised he’d been practically asleep, staring out of the window at the passing traffic for at least a few minutes. Bed was one answer, but Alice would be expecting him to have achieved something with the day. The doorbell rang again and he considered who it might be. Did he owe money? Would Alice’s parents want a quiet word, maybe slip him a few quid to clear out? Someone rattling a tin for charity or needing to know his political leanings? Last thing he needed in his life were these constant interruptions. He was meant to be working . . . putting the finishing touches . . . surfing the junkyards and bric-a-brac merchants for cheap gilt frames into which to place his Stubbs, his Constable, his Raeburn . . .

    Instead of which, he found himself opening the door to one of those people whose marks counted most: Professor Robert Gissing, in the flesh, and apologising for the intrusion.

    ‘Looked for you in the studios, and then in your allocated exhibition space . . .’

    ‘I keep most of my paintings here, tend to work on them at night.’

    ‘Hence the bleary expression, eh?’ Gissing was smiling. ‘Would it be all right with you, Mr Westwater, if we were to come inside for a moment? Rest assured, it won’t take long.’

    ‘We’ because there were two other men with him. Gissing introduced them as ‘two friends’, but didn’t mention names, and Westie didn’t recognise their faces. Dealers, perhaps, or maybe collectors, here to make pre-emptive bids on the contents of his degree show? He didn’t think so, but he led the way into the living room. Gissing had taken charge and was gesturing for them all to be seated. One of the ‘friends’ made to remove the covering sheet from the sofa.

    ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Westie warned him. ‘Got it from a skip . . . a few interesting stains.’

    ‘And the aroma of turps,’ the visitor decided.

    ‘To