Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

He listened, absently at first, then more intently to the second item of news on the bulletin. He turned up the volume.

  Police in Glasgow are investigating what they believe could be a targeted gangland killing in the Southside of the city earlier today. A car was attacked by a male assailant in a car park outside a bakery in Eastwood at around eight-thirty. Witnesses say shots were fired, then a man trapped in a car burned to death when his vehicle was set on fire.

  Though we have, as yet, no official response from Police Scotland, it is believed the victim was of Eastern European origin. His murder would seem likely to be connected to the ongoing turf war between local organised crime groups and Albanian gangs. This dispute is thought to be the cause of a number of brutal deaths throughout the city in the last two years.

  Though also unconfirmed and unconnected, rumours of the reappearance of Paisley crime boss Alexander Finn have emerged. The alleged gangland kingpin was last seen two years ago at the funeral of his son, Danny Finn, gunned down along with five friends in a Paisley bar. Though no one has ever been arrested for the murders, sources in the underworld told the BBC that Eastern European criminals were the likely perpetrators.

  We’ll have more on this in later bulletins.

  Father Giordano switched off the radio and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes in silent prayer. The wood-panelled room cosseted him like a warm bed, insulating the old priest from the world outside. Now he was alone with God and his memories. Though he hoped his pleas for peace would be heard, his mind soon drifted back in time, as though this was the direction in which his Lord wanted to take him.

  Five decades earlier

  He could see the young woman through the grille of the confessional booth. Her light hair glowed and the scent of her cheap perfume filled the small space. Somehow, though, it didn’t smell cheap on her. She was younger than him, only nineteen years old, but already it seemed as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  ‘What troubles you, my child?’ The words sounded strange on his tongue. Though his English was now good, he still found himself thinking and dreaming in his native Italian.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, I have sinned.’ Her voice was light, lilting despite the harshness of the accent.

  It had taken him time, but he could not now merely understand the people, his flock, but identify with them. There wasn’t so much difference between the people of Calabria and those of his new home in Paisley. Both had suffered war, destruction, death and poverty. They struggled to put food on the table, to put clothes on backs. Yet there was still warmth, kindness and human decency in abundance.

  But studying the girl through the grille, he could easily make out a large bruise and lump under her right eye, despite her best efforts to disguise it with make-up.

  ‘What is your sin, my child?’

  ‘Theft. I have stolen, Father.’ Her voice was quieter now; he could hear the shame.

  ‘What did you steal, my child?’

  She hesitated, as though considering the magnitude of her sin. ‘A pan loaf – breed – I mean bread, Father.’ She paused. ‘Now I know I promised that I wouldn’t be at the stealing again – you know, after that incident with the butcher’s tongue – but we was hungry, you know?’

  He fought hard to keep the smile from his face, but reminded himself he had a solemn duty to perform. ‘You paid a heavy price for stealing the meat from your employer, no?’

  She sighed. ‘Aye, auld Jimmy Law – that’s the butcher, Father – well, he wasn’t very happy.’

  ‘You lost your job, I think?’

  ‘Aye, and the bastard kicked me up the fucking arse. I mean, he wasn’t very nice about it,’ she said, remembering where she was and regaining her best Sunday accent.

  ‘Who hit you in the face, my child?’ The question was direct, and he knew the answer. But he wanted her to know what he could plainly see.

  ‘I-I’d rather not say, Father.’

  ‘I see.’ It was his turn to pause. ‘How long is it since I married you?’

  ‘It’s not my man!’ The denial was instant and defensive.

  ‘Yet. He has caused much pain in the past, I believe – and to many others.’

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ she said again, determinedly.

  ‘You have sinned, but you have also been sinned against.’

  ‘Aye – if you say so.’

  ‘We will pray . . .’

  *

  He remembered that day so long ago, as he was transported back to the study, the musty smell of age and the ticking of the grandfather clock. He remembered the incident vividly for so many reasons. Most of all because he knew it was the day he’d first realised the truth.

  15

  The Tannahill Bar was quiet. It was only mid-afternoon, but still. There would have been a buzz about the place at this time of day back when he’d been a regular customer. He marvelled at how little it had changed. Of course, it’d had a lick of paint here and there, with a few new tables, bar stools. But he could still picture his younger self standing at the bar with a slim version of Malky Maloney, replete with a feather-cut mullet. He smiled at the memory. How ridiculous they’d looked back then: pixie boots, button-down collars, sleeves rolled up.

  The man behind the bar seemed oblivious to his presence. Finn was pretty sure the lad had no idea who he was. He was from Australia, working his way round the world. He would know little of Paisley and its criminal hierarchy, and that suited Zander Finn nicely.

  You only met people on neutral turf – in public – if there was likely to be a problem. And there was most certainly a problem. As he took a sip of his pint, the slight tremble of his hands made him realise how furious he was. The old saying was true – if you wanted something done, you were best to do it yourself. But Finn knew that the spotlight was firmly on him, and there was no way he could operate as he once had. For the time being, at least.

  As always, he was early. He liked to be early. If you were late for something, you were always playing catch-up, trying to collect your thoughts, become accustomed to your surroundings, say the right things. Father Giordano had taught him the importance of good timekeeping – he had taught him so much.

  Finn looked up from his drink when the door swung open. It was Dusky and another man he vaguely recognised but didn’t really know.

  ‘Where’s Malky?’ said Finn sharply.

  Dusky shrugged. ‘Dunno. He knew we were meeting here. I spoke to him last night.’

  ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is my man Davey.’

  Though Dusky was about to introduce his companion, Finn cut the conversation short. ‘Do one, Davey,’ he said casually, not looking at the other man.

  ‘Eh?’ Davey looked at Dusky.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Finn calmly. ‘And you don’t need to look at him for confirmation. If I tell you to do one, you do one. If I tell you to jump into the Cart, you jump into the fucking Cart, understand?’

  For a moment the younger man looked flushed with anger. His face reddened and he balled one fist. Dusky grabbed him by the arm. ‘Just do what the man says, eh?’ Davey turned on his heel and left the bar.

  ‘Who the fuck was that?’ asked Finn, nodding to a chair upon which Dusky sat down heavily.

  ‘I’m grooming him.’

  ‘What? To fuck him?’

  ‘No! As my successor. You know, take the shit while I’m in Spain. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Oh right. In Spain – lucky you.’

  ‘You know I’ve got a place out there.’

  ‘Aye, I do. Just as well, really. I hope you’ve brought your passport with you?’

  ‘Why the fuck would I bring my passport?’

  ‘Because you’re going to have to fuck off, that’s why.’

  Before Dusky could reply, the door opened again and Malky Maloney appeared, looking red-faced and flustered. ‘See that fucking Renfrew Road! It’s like trying to navigate around Bogotá, so it is.’

  ‘Wher
e?’ said Dusky.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Finn. ‘Just know it’s a nightmare to drive in.’ He held the bald man’s gaze.

  Maloney took a seat. ‘Here, there’s a right wide-looking cunt standing outside. He gave me the eyeball when I came in, Zan.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s Dusky’s man. He’s grooming him.’

  ‘What? Have you jumped the fence, Dusk?’

  ‘To be my right-hand man,’ replied Dusky, wearily.

  ‘He looks like a right piece of shit,’ said Maloney.

  Dusky stood. ‘You know, fuck this. I’m not here to take shite from you pair in a hyena court.’

  ‘It’s a kangaroo,’ said Maloney.

  ‘What?’ Dusky looked even more irritated.

  ‘It’s a kangaroo court, not a fucking hyena.’

  ‘Sit down!’ demanded Finn. ‘It’s not a kangaroo court you’ve got to worry about, it’s the real thing, the High Court.’

  ‘Why?’ said Dusky, now back in his seat.

  ‘Because you were clocked on camera yesterday torching that plumber.’ Finn’s voice was low.

  ‘Nah, no way, Zander. Every camera in that row of shops was off. We own the security firm that runs them, remember?’

  ‘Oh aye, they were off. But no’ the camera on the phone of the wee lassie that worked behind the bakery counter. Hers was most definitely on. I had word from our man in Gartcosh last night. They haven’t identified you yet, but they will, trust me.’

  ‘And she’s got bad burns into the bargain,’ said Maloney.

  ‘No way! She was nowhere near the fire. We made sure of that. Not a soul in the street. It was perfect, man.’

  ‘She got walloped in the face by a steak pie just out the microwave.’

  ‘It was a mutton pie,’ said Finn, correcting Maloney. ‘Happened when the petrol tanks went up.’

  Dusky shrugged. ‘So what? Some wee hairy gets a pie in the coupon. Who the fuck cares?’

  ‘I do,’ said Finn. ‘I care about the whole fucking thing. Here’s me, just back, and plumbers are getting toasted in their motors and a wee shop girl gets scarred for life with jumbo sausage. How do you think that looks? Not to mention the charcoal brick.’

  ‘Aye, just about to go and fit a new lavvy, so he was.’

  Finn turned to Maloney. ‘How the fuck do you know that?’

  ‘Just heard.’ Maloney shrugged apologetically. ‘Think it was in The Sun.’

  Finn shook his head. ‘I wanted you to find out if there was any truth in the shit that Mannion had given us about the guy. I didn’t expect you to torch him on spec.’

  ‘You told us that we should handle it.’

  ‘And what did you discover? Our pal at Police Scotland tells me that he’s legit – a plumber, nothing more. Meanwhile, I’m on the news in connection with the whole thing and I wasn’t even there.’ Finn leaned across the table. ‘I don’t care how you get there – I don’t even care where you go – just fuck off until we sort this out.’

  ‘Aye, if we can,’ added Maloney.

  Dusky looked between the pair, beads of sweat obvious on his balding head. ‘So this is the way things are, eh?’

  ‘You torch a guy in public, and yes, this is the way things are.’

  ‘We don’t even know if the polis will clock me.’

  ‘We can’t take the risk,’ said Finn.

  ‘If you’re worried in case this lassie in the shop can ID me, I can soon sort that out.’

  ‘She’s still picking mince out of her hair,’ said Maloney.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Finn. ‘You’ve made a big enough fuck-up of things as they are. Get going – now!’

  ‘And what about business, who’s going to run that?’

  ‘What about your groom dug out there?’

  ‘Fuck off, Malky,’ said Dusky.

  ‘We’ll deal with that, don’t worry. You can take your boy and groom him in the sun. Maybe you’ll both get a tan.’ Finn sat back, arms folded to signal the end of the conversation.

  ‘And I thought Senga was a pain in the arse when she was in charge,’ spat Dusky. No more said, he stormed out of the bar and off into the grey Paisley day.

  ‘He could be a problem, Zander. He was a pain in the arse when you was away, man.’

  Finn nodded. ‘Maybe Spain’s too hot for him just now, eh?’

  ‘Can’t see that, big man. It’s the end of October. It should be just nice there now – you know, about sixty-five degrees or so. Maybe in the seventies.’

  Finn said nothing, just stared blankly at his old friend. ‘Take a swatch at this.’

  Finn removed a thin brown envelope from his pocket and handed it to Maloney, who removed its contents. ‘Fuck!’ he said, looking at the image of Dusky shaking Joe Mannion’s hand outside the Glasgow pub that was his HQ. ‘Are you sure, Zan? I had no idea.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure. You know how bad things were when my dear wife was at the helm. Can’t blame him, in a way. But I can’t trust him now, can I?’

  ‘He’s been around for a long time.’

  ‘Aye, so has herpes.’

  Malky Maloney shrugged. ‘Never thought it would come to this.’

  ‘We’re swimming to survive, here. Why do you think Mannion chucked us that shite?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Because it’s like I’ve said all along, Malky. There’s something we’re not seeing.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’s not in with they Albanians, Zan.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve got things to do, then.’

  ‘Yup. But first you can buy me another pint.’

  Begrudgingly, Maloney headed for the bar. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to Finn. ‘That Davey guy. There’s something familiar about him.’

  ‘Some shite from the schemes, likely. I thought I knew his face, too.’

  Maloney nodded and carried on to the bar.

  16

  Chief Inspector Amelia Langley was scrolling through the images of the Eastwood attack frame by frame on her laptop. DS Neil Dickie was at her back, studying the footage over her shoulder.

  ‘Nothing from the recognition software, Neil?’

  ‘No. The image quality isn’t good enough. They tell me it’s poor resolution – older phone, plus it’s taken through the shop window.’

  ‘Shit! Every teenager in Glasgow is running about with the latest tech in their pocket apart from our girl, eh?’

  Dickie shrugged. ‘To be fair, she was only working part-time at a bakery counter. That phone shit costs a fortune now.’

  ‘I’ve lost track. The job pays for mine.’ Langley sighed. She paused the footage at the point the assailant had clambered down from the bonnet of the car. For a fleeting second, he half turned his head. She gazed at the figure then zoomed in on the image. ‘I know who that is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Big Dusky from Paisley.’

  Dickie leaned closer to the screen. ‘You think?’

  ‘You don’t, obviously.’

  The detective shook his head. ‘I can see what you mean. But even if it is him, the PF is never going to swallow that as evidence.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop us from bringing him in.’

  ‘No, true.’

  ‘And the security cameras on that row of shops just happen not to be working, of course.’

  ‘No. Nor were some of the traffic CCTV cameras on the routes leading to the parade. Two of them were burnt out the night before.’

  ‘How convenient. Who owns the cameras?’

  ‘DME Security Services. I’ve looked them up, registered on the Isle of Man. Need I go any further?’

  She sighed. ‘No, you don’t have to say any more. But one thing’s for sure, this is no small-time drug hit. Whoever did this knew what they were at, so that narrows things down significantly, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Paisley, Glasgow, or the Albanians.’

  ‘And this bastard looks like one of Paisley’s finest.’

>   ‘It can’t hurt to try, ma’am.’

  ‘Bring him in, Neil.’

  ‘Okay, will do. Now the fun begins.’

  ‘Begins? It never ends, you know that.’

  DS Neil Dickie left the room, leaving Amelia Langley staring blankly at the computer screen, deep in thought. She flicked off the footage of the attack and brought up another file.

  Alexander ‘Zander’ Finn’s face stared out at her from undercover surveillance footage. He was smiling at someone out of shot, his brown eyes flashing with bonhomie, arm outstretched in mid-handshake. His dark hair was neatly cut, perfectly framing his sallow face. To the uninitiated he could have been an on-the-stump politician; that he was charming she knew only too well.

  Langley pondered a while on the paradox of the criminal mind. This man was clever; he had a sharp brain, sharper suits, charisma and drive – all that was required to become successful at the top of many professions. Yet he had chosen crime. She could never fathom why.

  Langley flicked back through his file, a snapshot of his life on a flickering screen. In context, she supposed, it all made more sense. From a poverty-stricken home in Paisley’s Gallowhill, his circumstances had improved in line with his father’s rise in the underworld. First, just muscle, then a small workshop making gates and railings. A twisted arm here, a bribe there and William Finn was soon fulfilling big contracts for councils the length and breadth of Scotland. By this time the family were in a much nicer home in Renfrew.

  As his rise through the Paisley mob continued, William Finn inherited betting shops, pubs, clubs – you name it. In fact, much of what went on in the town bore his unseen mark. But he’d made enemies.

  She scrolled down. Not such a pretty picture. William Finn lying dead in an alleyway in Glasgow, a large part of his chest bloodied by the blade that killed him. He was a murder victim, seemingly random, and never solved. But that was the way of things in the world of Scotland’s organised crime.

  She supposed that all Finn senior had so rapidly gained could have been just as quickly lost. But that hadn’t been the case. His only son, Zander Finn, had stepped into the breach and, despite his tender age, not only had he held on to what his father had created, but he’d built on it, too – massively.