Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Corrupt bastards.’

  ‘And we’re the ones that corrupted them.’

  ‘It’s temporary.’

  ‘Everything is temporary.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Like you grieving for our son.’

  She flew at him, long finger nails like claws trying to rip at his face. ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard!’

  Finn grabbed his estranged wife by the arms and pulled her close. ‘So that’s why you’re fucking the man who killed him?’

  ‘That’s not true. He didn’t kill him – what the fuck do you know?’

  ‘I know you believe every word that comes out of that cunt’s mouth!’ He stared into her eyes. ‘I’m back, and things are going to change.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  He smiled. ‘If necessary, aye.’

  She pulled herself back from his grip, arms flailing with the effort. Her left hand caught the edge of a large ornate vase that was perched on a side table. As if in slow motion, it wobbled for a moment then toppled onto the parquet floor, where it shattered into many pieces.

  ‘That cost me over a grand!’ she yelled.

  ‘You broke it,’ said Zander Finn.

  10

  The Organised Crime Unit in Police Scotland’s Gartcosh Campus had been quiet. Now it was buzzing, as more detectives arrived.

  DCI Amelia Langley searched the faces of her staff as they took their seats in the large meeting room. They were a mix of old, dyed-in-the-wool cops and the new intake of smart young things, most of them with a university education. As head of the OCU, it was just how she’d planned it.

  ‘Okay, settle down, guys,’ she shouted above the hum of voices. ‘Sorry to have brought you in at short notice, but we’ve another gang-related incident on our hands.’ Deftly she flicked a switch on a remote control. The face of a thick-set man in his late twenties appeared on a large screen behind her. The image had been taken in a police office somewhere. His hair was tousled, expression grim – an arrest photograph.

  ‘Most of you will recognise Angus Lee – “the enforcer”, as he’s known in the shite belly of Glasgow crime.’ This elicited a thin laugh.

  ‘I arrested him when he was fourteen. He was a bad bastard even then. One of Mannion’s team,’ said a grizzled detective sitting in the front row.

  ‘Well, you won’t be arresting him again, Ally. He was discovered in the fire escape of a restaurant which leads onto Bath Lane – oh, about an hour ago,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

  ‘Big Joe won’t be happy. That’s one of his up-and-coming guys,’ said the same detective. ‘Though I can’t say I’m feeling any personal grief.’

  ‘At least we don’t have to worry about him any more,’ said Langley.

  ‘But isn’t that a concern in itself, ma’am?’ asked a young detective at the back of the room.

  ‘Yup, sure is,’ replied Langley.

  Again from the back of the room, ‘The Albanians?’

  Amelia tapped the small remote off the bottom of her chin, staring at the screen deep in thought. ‘Would you bet against it?’ To this there was a general murmur of agreement. ‘Yes, I thought you’d agree.’ Langley turned to face the room. ‘But there’s more.’ She clicked the remote again.

  On the screen was a grainy image of two men. One of them was sitting on the bonnet of a car, while another man appeared to be gesticulating in front of him. Langley clicked the remote again. This brought a gasp from some, a groan from others.

  ‘Taken earlier today outside a military hospital down south. It was flagged up via the Met’s face recognition software. They collaborate with the MOD cops. Just as well, I’d say.’

  Another click and the scene shifted to a hospital corridor.

  ‘I’ll be fucked! Pardon me, ma’am,’ said another one of the older cops.

  ‘Don’t apologise, Neil. There we have it, proof of the afterlife, if proof you so require. Malky Maloney, number two in the Paisley mob, and beside him a man who needs no introduction.’

  ‘Zander Finn.’ The reply came from a few in the room.

  ‘The very man.’ Langley picked up an iPad. ‘Last seen a few days after his son’s funeral in Paisley. We thought our friends from Eastern Europe had dealt with him, too. But it would appear we were wrong.’

  ‘Ma’am, how come it’s taken until now to pick him out?’ asked Detective Constable Shona Main from the back row.

  ‘Good question. All I can say is that this technology isn’t as widespread as people think. He entered an MOD establishment, so it was naturally flagged up.’

  ‘But he must have known he’d be exposed when he went in there, ma’am,’ said DS Neil Dickie. ‘He might be a complete bastard, but he’s a clever one.’

  ‘Indeed. I think we can take it from this image that he isn’t in hiding any longer – he’s certainly not dead. In fact, here he is again, or the car he and Maloney were travelling in. A hire vehicle from London, it would appear. This image was snapped by cameras at the Johnstone bypass – about two hours ago.’

  ‘Do you think he’s involved with Lee’s death?’ asked Dickie.

  ‘If he is, this car doesn’t show up anywhere near the city centre. And given the time he left the hospital in England and the shot taken on the bypass on the A717, he’d have been going some.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ Dickie’s expression was that of the unconvinced.

  ‘That, Neil, we will have to establish.’ Langley clicked off the screen. ‘Now, we have to get our heads together. It’s been bad enough over the last couple of years. But the return of Zander Finn can only make things worse. Do we all agree?’

  A groan of weary resignation came from the assembled police officers.

  Langley watched them trudge out, feeling a mix of emotions.

  *

  It was odd for Finn, bedding down in the large, well-appointed room after the time he’d spent in London in a cramped, damp flat. The conditions hadn’t bothered him; he’d grown up in worse. But to be back in his own home was a bit of a shock to the system.

  When he’d agreed to come back with Malky Maloney, he knew that his feelings of regret and remorse over Danny’s death would be amplified. He’d done his best to steel himself against it, but it was still hard – just as hard as he’d imagined.

  He and Senga might be sharing the same house, but they certainly weren’t sharing the same bed – not even the same floor. He realised that ship had sailed, certainly now that she was shacked up with Mannion – metaphorically, at least. Finn’s marriage had been over for some years. He’d hardly been a paragon of virtue, so it would have been hypocritical to question his wife’s morals. Rather, it was her choice of partner that infuriated him. She seemed convinced that he had nothing to do with the death of her son.

  Finn’s instinct told him otherwise. And he always trusted his instincts.

  They had parted as he had expected: her screaming at him to leave, while he refused. All of this amidst the wreckage of the expensive vase – symbolic of their union, he reasoned. Now she was in the master bedroom of their mini mansion, while he occupied a mere guest room. But this room alone was larger than his whole flat back in London.

  He knew this situation could not prevail, but he was determined that his wife wouldn’t swan around in this house while he slummed it somewhere else. No, they’d do what every other married couple in this situation were forced to do: either one buy the other out, or sell the house and share the proceeds.

  Of course, his wife would resist this vehemently, but he knew she’d be forced to agree in the end. She had no other choice.

  As far as business was concerned he would meet with his main men tomorrow. These were the guys who – in most cases – had been with him from the beginning, his lieutenants since before his father had died. He’d turned a few nightclubs and a couple of brothels into one of the best businesses in Scotland. But there were no awards for endeavour or innovation in his line of work. Yes, his wife had been runn
ing things since he bolted, but he sensed that her hold on power was a tenuous one. Probably – and he could only guess at this until he met the rest tomorrow – it was Malky Maloney who stood in the way of Senga being cast aside, or worse. That and her new relationship with Glasgow’s self-appointed crime lord Joe Mannion, of course.

  He knew the route he wanted to take, but Finn realised that he had a lot of making up to do. He wasn’t even sure if he would be accepted back into the fold, far less take charge again. But the fact that Maloney had come to London to seek him out rather flew in the face of this reasoning.

  The room was warm, the mattress was soft. He took a sip of water, set the alarm on his mobile phone and was asleep in moments. After all, it had been a tiring, emotional day.

  In his dreams, though, Zander Finn stood between his son Danny and the bullets that killed him. The same dream he’d had night after night for more than two years.

  11

  ‘Why the fuck did you send him on his own?’

  Though Sammy Sloane was bigger, younger and stronger than Joe Mannion, the former knew that any resistance would signal the end of his life.

  ‘You know big Gus, boss. He’s a loner – likes to do his own thing, so he does.’

  ‘I fucking knew him, past tense!’ Mannion, a vain bulging on his forehead, thrust his mobile in Sloane’s face. ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Well, now’s your big opportunity.’ Mannion held the phone up as the footage of the murder of Gus Lee played across the screen. Sammy Sloane’s face screwed up in disgust at the sight.

  ‘That’s fucking disgusting, big man.’

  ‘Fucking disgusting? That’s what you say when some arsehole spews in your car or a bastard steals you granny’s knickers off the washing line. Not when you’ve just seen one of our best men knifed in the throat by these bloody Albanians!’

  ‘We can go after them, so we can.’

  ‘How? Have we managed to find any of them yet?’

  ‘Not really, boss.’

  ‘What do you mean, not really?’

  ‘Well, we have had some information, like.’

  ‘What, when?’

  ‘A few days – a week ago, something like that.’

  Mannion sat heavily in the big chair behind his desk and massaged his temples. ‘And why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this?’

  Sloane shrugged. ‘I thought you’d have known.’

  ‘I spend my life in this fucking place these days, or haven’t you noticed? Your job is to get out there and do the business – be a shield so that the cops can’t pin any fucking thing on me. We said at the time: delegate, manage, make sure our hands are as clean as possible – keep your ear to the ground!’

  ‘I have been doing that, boss.’ Sloane was indignant.

  ‘That’s why I’m just about to hear something you knew about a week ago.’

  Again, a shrug from Sammy Sloane. ‘Aye, I guess so.’

  ‘You suppose so, not guess. We’re not living in Utah.’

  ‘That’s up near Twechar, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t near fucking Twechar. It’s in the USA, where they say I guess so instead of I suppose fucking so. You say that again in here and I’ll personally cut off your bollocks and post them to your good lady.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Mr Mannion.’

  Mannion lay back in his chair. ‘I’m not actually going to do that – it was an expression. Fuck, if I kill you, the way things are going it will just be me left.’

  ‘Naw, loads of good guys about, so there are.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Sloane smiled weakly.

  ‘Do you know, I picked you out because I thought you were smart – clever, you know. Didn’t you go to college?’

  ‘Aye, so I did.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Food Tech. I was studying to be a chef and that.’

  ‘Superb.’ Mannion stared into the middle distance, a look of defeat on his face. ‘Did you get the lasagne wrong and they booted you out?’

  ‘Naw, I stabbed the lecturer. Mind, I was up in the High Court? Sure I got off because he was banging that wee lassie in the class. She was only sixteen, so she was.’

  Mannion sighed again and looked right at Sloane. ‘Okay, time to tell me what you know.’

  ‘About that bastard I stabbed?’

  ‘No, about the fucking Albanians!’

  ‘Right, of course. Okay, so this lad was on the batter out in big Jamie’s bar.’

  ‘The one in Shawlands?’

  ‘The very one, boss. Anyhow, he’s got a good charge, this boy. Been on the snow and the bevvy. Big Jamie knew he was a stranger, like – because of his accent and that.’

  ‘An Albanian?’

  ‘Naw, the big guy thought he was from Aberdeen, or maybe Dundee. But this arsehole was so wrecked he told him he was from Albania. And that’s not all.’ Sloane had a wait-till-I-tell-you-this look on his face.

  ‘Please, please tell what the fuck you’re going to say before one of us dies.’

  Though his expression had changed to one of surprise, Sloane carried on. ‘This Albino tells Jamie that he was with their crew. If he has any trouble – in the pub, or that – just to come to him. Says he sorted out Danny Finn.’

  ‘And you’re just telling me this.’

  ‘Aye.’ Sloane shrugged.

  Mannion thought for a moment, then spoke calmly. ‘Right, find out where this bastard hangs out – better still, where he lives. You’ll have heard that Zander is back, eh?’

  ‘Aye, shock to the system, man.’

  ‘Well, this could be our chance to keep him on-side. Because you know what that awkward bastard is like. And how much he wants to find the folk who killed his boy.’

  Sammy looked confused. ‘I thought his missus was running it over there now?’

  ‘Now he’s back, how long do you think that will last?’

  ‘You’ll know better than me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Just that you know more about things than me. I couldn’t even peel an artichoke.’ He laughed nervously.

  Though he was making a joke of it, Joe Mannion knew that Sloane knew he was at the madam. So the guys knew that he was shagging Senga Finn – so what? ‘Just you find out what I want to know, got it?’

  ‘Aye, boss, I’m right on it.’ Sloane turned on his heels.

  ‘Hold up.’

  ‘Aye, anything else?’

  ‘Albanians and Albinos aren’t the same thing.’

  Sloane considered this new piece of information. ‘It’s kind of strange, though, eh?’

  ‘Why is it strange?’

  ‘That they’d have countries with nearly the same names.’

  ‘Sammy, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Like, Albania and Albinio. Fucking weird.’

  Mannion was about to explain just how wrong Sammy Sloane was but soon lost the will to do so. ‘Aye, it’s weird, right enough. Just you get going.’

  As he sat back and lit a cigar he heard Sloane’s heavy footsteps on the stair. Joe Mannion cursed stupid people – all of them.

  12

  The big workshop was on the edge of Paisley, not far from the M8. The steady rush of traffic from the White Cart flyover played like a familiar soundtrack, as Zander Finn left his car. He was happy to be reunited with his red Maserati. At least something comforting had been awaiting his return. When he thought about it, he was surprised Senga hadn’t sold the car; she’d never liked it. It was too fast for a nervous driver like her. She preferred the raised driving position and the feeling of security afforded by an SUV; he loved its lines, the feel of luxury, smell of the leather seats, the roar of the engine. To Finn, it fitted like a glove.

  The big roller shutter door was almost fully open, helping to ventilate those busy within. Finn was careful to shade his eyes from the flash of a welding torch, as the employees toiled away, crafting securit
y doors, fences, gates, panels – all manner of things – out of metal.

  As he walked towards the door that led to the offices, a few nodded to him and he heard shouts of ‘Okay, big man!’ Many, though, kept their nose to the grindstone – in some cases, literally. They’d all have heard by now that their missing boss had returned, but more than a few would be wondering as to the consequences for them.

  He smiled to the men and women in the main office: three clerks and an office manager. Though they too would have gossiped about his apparent return from the dead, their welcome was more fulsome.

  ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Stephanie, the office junior, with a grin. Finn smiled back. He’d played football with her father and knew the young woman well. He’d taken her on after the death of her father. He had been murdered when some of Joe Mannion’s men decided to play football with his head.

  ‘Here.’ He handed Stephanie a small curl of notes. ‘Get yourselves out for a drink tonight, on me, by way of celebration. The wicked witch isn’t dead, after all, eh?’

  Leaving the office, he hesitated at the foot of the stairs that would take him to his old office, boardroom and the few other executive nooks and crannies of Chancellor Fabrications Limited. It was a company he’d inherited from his father and was a useful income stream, as well as furnishing him with the veneer of legitimacy.

  Why he hesitated, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he’d walked up these steps thousands of times. Most of the men awaiting his arrival upstairs he’d known since childhood. But still the voice of Father Giordano sounded loud in his head.

  More death.

  Finn drew in a deep breath and took the steps two at a time.

  He knew they wouldn’t be in his big office, or the even larger boardroom. Sure enough, he could hear the murmur of voices coming from behind the door that had, in his father’s day, been a canteen and now served as a very private club with only a dozen or so members.

  They fell silent when he entered. Malky Maloney, as was his wont, stood behind the small bar they’d had installed. He served more drinks in this room than ever he did in the six pubs and two nightclubs he owned. Finn supposed it was a proprietorial thing.