‘Aren’t we all. Did he say which hotel?’
‘Nope, I just know it was somewhere in Dumbarton.’
Finn thought for a moment. ‘Listen, Mandy, if he appears, get him to give me a bell, please. His phone’s switched off.’
‘Ach, he’s likely run out of battery. If it wasn’t for me, the damn thing would never be charged up, but I’ll tell him. He was up half the night pacing about on the damned thing. That’s what will have happened to his battery. It’s good to hear from you, Zander.’
‘You, too. We’ll catch up soon.’
When Finn ended the call, for some reason, he felt uneasy. Maloney spending half the night on the phone didn’t sound right. But since his return, everything was unfamiliar. He banished the thought from his mind.
*
‘Why are you doing this?’ groaned Malky Maloney, his face battered and bloody. One of his eyes was already closed and the other wasn’t far behind. He’d lost several teeth and his right cheek was swollen like a balloon. Maloney was tied to a chair in the boarded-up dining room of the hotel. He was trussed, hand and foot, and couldn’t see his attackers because of the bright light shining in his eyes. The blows, and there had been many of them, rained down on him from nowhere. He’d fallen out of consciousness on a couple of occasions, but they’d brought him back with drenching buckets of ice-cold water.
Again, he was caught on the face by a blow that flashed between the blinding light and his failing vision.
‘Listen. I’ve got money, if that’s what you’re after. I’ll give you anything you want. Just fucking stop this!’
Another heavy blow, this time to the back of the head. Flashes of stars swept across his vision.
‘I don’t even know what it is yous want. Tell me, for fuck’s sake!’
Now another shadow, but instead of an agonising impact he was aware of a figure between him and the light. The silhouette was that of a tall woman. She kneeled down in front of Maloney, her features indiscernible. He could smell her perfume, so at odds with his current plight.
‘You want to know why we do this to you?’ The voice was heavily accented, but light.
‘Fucking scum!’ Maloney shouted, with as much passion as he could muster.
‘Scum?’ The punch came right out of the light and broke Maloney’s nose with a crack.
‘Bastard,’ he whispered through the pain. ‘Tell me what the fuck you want. If you leave us to our own bit in Paisley, there’s no problem. You can do what you want in Glasgow.’ He spat out part of a tooth, hoping it would hit his tormentor.
‘I don’t want to know anything from you, Mr Maloney. You are here for one reason and one reason only.’
‘Eh, what the fuck are you on about?’ The shadow moved away, but Maloney kept shouting. ‘You let me fucking go or you know what will happen, you fucking pieces of shite!’
The voice again, this time from behind. ‘It wouldn’t be good if we all knew what was in front of us, I think.’
Maloney opened his ruined mouth to reply just as the blade cut into his neck. The agonised scream was cut off to a grotesque gurgle. He struggled for a few moments against his bonds before his lifeless body went limp.
*
Finn was driving along St James Street in Paisley when he noticed the long parade of traffic at a standstill just before him. He banged his fists on the steering wheel in frustration. It had already been a hard day. Maloney hadn’t appeared, so they’d had to delay submitting a proposal for the fencing contract. He was angry with his old friend. Now he just wanted to get home, pour a dram and relax in front of some shit on TV.
He turned off the Journey track he’d been listening to and switched over to BBC Radio Scotland. The traffic in front was showing no sign of movement. He listened for a few minutes before, right on cue, came Theresa with the travel news.
And now, Theresa, we’ve got big hold-ups either side of the Erskine Bridge, haven’t we?
Yes, indeed we have. The bridge has been closed for the last hour or so because of what’s being termed a ‘police incident’. Though we don’t know what’s caused this, the upshot is that traffic is backing up all along Dumbarton Road and on the other side of the river at the St James Interchange.
Cursing, Finn reached for the mobile now ringing on the passenger seat of his Maserati.
‘Mr Finn?’
The woman’s voice was familiar, but, in his irritation, he couldn’t place it. ‘Aye, who’s this?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Amelia Langley from Police Scotland.’
‘Oh, great! See, instead of phoning me, why the fuck aren’t you doing something about the bloody Erskine Bridge?’
‘Are you near there?’
‘Yes, I’m stuck in the biggest fucking traffic jam I’ve ever seen. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather concentrate on this than pass the time of day with you. In fact, I’d rather stick needles in my own bollocks than pass the time of day with you, to be honest.’
‘Still the same old charm, Zander.’
‘Still the same old pish, Amelia.’
‘Believe me, I take no pleasure in this.’
‘Pleasure in what?’ The tone of her voice made a cold shiver run down Finn’s back. He’d heard police officers adopt that sympathetic tone before. Suddenly Danny’s butchered face passed before his mind’s eye.
26
It was dark now. Finn was on the River Clyde in an RIB belonging to Police Scotland’s Diving and Marine Unit. He was kitted out with the requisite lifejacket and wet gear. At his side, Amelia Langley appeared pliant, almost sympathetic.
The lights of the city began to string out the further down the Clyde they sped. The RIB was hitting almost forty knots and, despite the relative calm of the river, this still made for a jolting passage.
Langley stared straight ahead. If she was right, Finn was about to experience another black day in his life. She watched him as he leaned his head back, taking in great gulps of air in preparation for what was to come.
‘Are you okay?’ she shouted, her hand on his arm.
‘Aye, brand new,’ said Finn. In truth, he was feeling sick, and not just because of the motion of the boat.
The Erskine Bridge loomed in the distance. From this angle, it looked massive; the nearer they got, the further he had to crane his neck back in order to see the complete structure. There were bright arc lights on the bridge and just near its apex across the river small lights seemed to hover in the air, like bees around a jam jar.
‘What are those?’ he shouted in Langley’s ear.
‘Drones. The lights are so they can get clear images, though some of them have night-vision cameras.’
The noise from the great inboard diesel engine lowered as the boat came to a stop, the police officer at the helm making sure they remained almost still in the middle of the Clyde by subtle use of the throttle.
Finn looked up. It was clear that something was hanging from the bridge, swaying to and fro under the bright white lights and pinpricks shining from the drones. He felt the bile rise in his throat.
Amelia Langley had something held in her hands, an iPad, cushioned and waterproofed in rubber. Her expression was grave. ‘You don’t have to do this, Zander,’ she said, holding out the device to him.
With the engine now at a low purr, he could hear much better. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a visual feed from the drones.’ She swallowed hard. ‘We want to try and get an ID before we attempt to recover the body.’
‘Why?’
‘You did ask. Are you sure you want to know the answer?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.’
She bit her lip then looked him straight in the face, brushing a strand of hair from over one eye. ‘The body is in such bad shape, we’re not sure if we can recover it intact.’ Langley blinked as she gauged his response.
‘Okay, give me the thing.’
‘You can change your view by pressing here.’ She pointed to
an arrow on the screen of the tablet.
Finn took a deep gulp and held the iPad in front of his face. The first image was of something swaying in the wind like a grotesque pendulum of an old clock. He pressed the arrow. The image was closer now. At first he thought the face was made up like a clown’s, until he realised that the great gaping ‘smile’ was a huge slash in the victim’s neck, a vivid black under the lights.
Finn tried to calm the revulsion he felt at the pit of his stomach as he pressed the arrow again. The image was remarkably steady, pointing right into the face of the victim, moving with it as the body swung gently in the still night air.
The face was battered and bruised. One eye was already obscured, but where the other should have been there was a black hole, with trickles of dried blood streaming down the ruined face like black tears.
‘Is it Maloney?’ The question was laden with empathy, or so he felt.
Zander Finn clicked the screen again. This time it was easy to make out the face he’d known for most of his life, despite the mutilation. He could hear the sound of sirens carried on the wind from the Erskine Bridge. He felt his world begin to swim.
The last thing Finn remembered was replying with a weak ‘Yes’ to Langley’s question before fainting away at the horror of it all.
*
Gillian Finn was in her room in the flat in Glasgow she shared with some other students. Connor, one of her flatmates, had just made them a dish he called ‘vegafusion’, but it tasted like a cross between vegetarian bolognese and a cauliflower curry. She had taken a few mouthfuls before excusing herself. She knew her friends were worried about her lack of appetite and recent weight loss, but she couldn’t eat what she’d been given, despite its vegan credentials.
She lay back on her bed, listening to the sounds of the city through a slightly opened window. Gillian couldn’t sleep in a sealed room; she always felt as though she would suffocate. Regardless of the chill outside, she would always have her window open, at least a crack, to let fresh air in.
Her hand lingered over the mobile phone at her side. She’s been waiting for a message from Kirsty all day but had heard nothing. She reasoned that Kirsty, a year ahead of her at the Conservatoire, was busy in her preparations for the Christmas show they’d be staging. She knew what it was like trying to learn lines. You had to have peace and quiet. She was slightly hurt by the fact her girlfriend hadn’t at least sent a text, though she reasoned that her lack of presence across her social media platforms spoke to the fact that she had her head down studying.
I should be doing that, thought Gillian, just as her phone burst into life. At first her heart soared, but that feeling was soon replaced by an emotion altogether more ambivalent when she saw who was on the other end of the line: Jenny Maloney.
Like many an offspring of best friends, she’d grown up with Jenny as her playmate largely by default. They’d had fun as kids, making holes in the large hedge at the bottom of the huge garden of the Finn residence, turning it into what approximated a secret house. There they played with dolls, before graduating to listening to music and discussing boys, fashion and the problems they shared as children of the kind of parents they had. But in their young teenage years they had begun to drift apart.
To Gillian, Jenny appeared dissolute, directionless. She loved partying and drugs. Gillian had often felt Jenny had more in common with her brother Danny. But she was aware youthful friendships often ended as children became adults and interests diverged.
‘Hi, Jenny,’ she said, trying her best to sound friendly. ‘Hello?’
For a moment there was silence on the other end of the phone, then came Jenny’s slurred voice. ‘How are things at your posh acting school, Gildy?’
‘Fine,’ Gillian replied. She readied herself to listen to her childhood friend’s long list of habitual lamentations about how badly the world was treating her.
‘I fucking hate you, and I hate your fucking family. Especially that cunt of a father of yours!’
Gillian sat up in her bed. Jenny’s voice seemed distorted by spite. ‘What have you been on, Jenny? Why are you saying these things?’
‘Oh, so you’ve not heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘My father is dead! He’s been murdered and it’s all down to your fucking father, the great Zander Finn! Why the fuck didn’t he just stay hidden away under whatever rock he’d found?’
Gillian’s mind was in overdrive. Jenny was more than capable of talking shit when she was out of it, but this sounded different. ‘Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gillian. What do you mean your father’s dead?’
‘Fuck off, and tell your shit of a father to do the same!’
With that last statement, the line went dead.
Gillian sat for a few moments. She wanted to go through to the lounge and talk to her friends, but what was the point? They hadn’t lived the life of a child of gangsters, so how could they possibly understand? The person she really needed now was Kirsty.
Gillian did something she’d wanted to do all day. She scrolled Kirsty’s name up on the screen and pressed the call button, but her phone was switched off. Gillian knew she sometimes did this when she was studying, so scrolled down to ‘Kirsty Home’, dialling her land-line number.
After a few rings, a man answered. He had a deep, resonant voice. Kirsty’s father was unmistakable.
‘Hi, Dr Campbell. I’m looking for Kirsty, is she in? It’s Gillian.’
Dr Campbell cleared his throat. ‘No, as a matter of fact, she’s not here.’
‘Oh,’ said Gillian, momentarily off her stride. ‘Do you know where I can get her?’
‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you, at the moment.’
‘What?’ Gillian felt sick.
‘I believe you talked to your father about the “relationship” you and she have been having?’
‘Yes.’ Her reply was weak.
‘Well, no doubt as you arranged together, Kirsty spoke with us.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Gillian. We like you, and we have nothing against same-sex relationships.’
‘But?’
‘You’re right to assume there is a “but”.’
‘Tell me!’
‘I will not have my daughter throw her life, her future, away on someone with a background like yours. It’s something her mother and I have worried about for some time. Now we know the true extent of this “attraction”, we have decided it cannot continue.’
‘I think Kirsty is old enough to make her own mind up about who she sees! This isn’t the nineteenth century!’
‘You don’t understand, Gillian. Kirsty, faced with the facts, could see our reasoning. She has taken a sabbatical from the Conservatoire and is away at the moment.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ This she shouted at the top of her voice.
‘Whether you believe me or not is inconsequential. Things are as they are. Please don’t try to contact my daughter. If you have the feelings for her you think you have, let her get back to a normal life. She won’t tell you any different. The decision was mutual. And before you say it, it’s nothing to do with you being white.’
The phone went dead.
Gillian sat motionless, the mobile phone still to her ear. She couldn’t process what had just happened. In a few moments her world had been turned upside down. She thought about Malky Maloney; surely Jenny was just out of it, as usual. But Kirsty – Dr Campbell had always been so kind to her when she visited.
She lay back on the bed, silent tears streaming down her face. It wasn’t her fault that her father was who he was. In that moment she too wished Zander Finn had stayed away.
Then she began to worry.
27
When Zander Finn awoke, he experienced a blissful moment when everything seemed right, the first waking moment before the world’s problems crowd in. He was able to convince himself that the nagging feeling in the back of his mind was noth
ing more than the aftermath of a lingering nightmare. Soon, he realised that this was very wrong. His friend, his best friend and confidant, was dead; tortured and killed in the most brutal way.
To make matters worse, he had a hangover. He’d come home to the big empty house and encamped in the lounge with only loud music, a bottle of whisky and a blanket for company. Here he’d drunk himself to sleep in exactly the same way he’d done when Danny had been murdered.
He tried to mash some moisture back into his mouth but failed and went in search of something to drink of the non-alcoholic variety. As he stumbled across the hall and down the few steps to the sunken kitchen, all he could see was the dead, mutilated face of Malky Maloney.
Finn reached the big fridge and noticed to his dismay that it held precisely nothing to drink: no orange juice, no Coke – even the milk was sour. He slammed the heavy door shut with a rattle, then walked to the sink and grabbed a mug from the dish rack. As he filled it with cold water he squinted through the broad window into the distance. Down the long driveway, beyond the tall gates, he could see cars and people.
The press.
Amelia Langley had told him that they would confirm Maloney’s death first thing in the morning, once his family had been informed. Finn looked at his watch. It was already after ten. The whole world would have known of Maloney’s fate for at least two hours.
Making his way back to the lounge, he picked up his mobile and dialled. There were two rings before it was answered.
‘Chancellor Fabrications, can I help you?’
‘Is Donnie in yet?’
The voice on the other end was hesitant. ‘Yes, Mr Finn. I’ll put you through. And I’m sorry about Mr Maloney.’
‘Thanks, honey,’ he said. It was good to hear a friendly voice. Hold music sounded briefly in his ear, then the familiar voice of Donald Paton.
‘I’ve been watching the news, Zander. You have my condolences.’
‘You knew him, too – like me, since he was a boy.’
‘Aye, I did that. Where are you?’
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