Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

‘At the house.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come over. Give me half an hour.’

  ‘It’ll take you that time to get through the press at the gates.’

  ‘I’ll get some bodies over. We’ll soon clear them.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose.’ Finn looked out of the big window again just in time to see a man with a camera slung around his neck scale the front gate and drop down onto the gravel driveway. ‘Listen, Donnie, I need to go. You tell everyone to keep their heads down. Aye, and be careful. We don’t know who did this.’

  ‘We can guess, surely.’

  ‘Mannion? Nah, he wouldn’t go this far. A knife in the back? Aye, maybe. Something this high profile, no way. Anyway, we’ll discuss it when you get over.’

  ‘I’ll stick on an auld boiler suit and come in one of the vans.’

  ‘Good idea, see you soon.’

  Finn ended the call, flung his phone on the sofa and pelted out of the room to the front door. As he opened it, he caught sight of a figure ducking round the side of the house. With no shoes on, the gravel dug into his bare feet, but he didn’t care. In his mind’s eye, all he could see was the swinging, broken body of Malky Maloney dangling high above from the Erskine Bridge. As he turned the corner, the man was crouched behind an oversized ornamental plant pot. A poor choice of hiding place.

  Finn pulled him up by the lapels of his jacket. For a second, he stared at the photographer’s frightened face, before propelling his head against the nose of the man from the press, hearing the satisfying crack and squeal as he did so.

  ‘Fuck you!’ said the photographer, as blood poured down his face.

  ‘Your fault! You fucking fell over trying to break into my house.’

  ‘No, I didn’t! I’m in your garden.’

  In a flash, Finn propelled the man to the floor with a punch to the solar plexus. As the man groaned on the gravel, Finn pulled the camera and its big, and doubtless expensive, lens from round his neck and dashed it against the plant pot, sending shards of glass, plastic and pottery showering over the gravel. He was about to stamp on the man’s head when unseen hands grabbed him from behind.

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Langley. She was accompanied by a phalanx of uniformed police officers, two of whom had him by the arms. Another plain-clothed police officer stood beside her. Finn recognised DS Neil Dickie.

  ‘I want this man charged with serious assault,’ said the photographer, still holding his broken nose and being helped to his feet by another cop.

  ‘Piss off, Jimmy. What did you expect? We saw you jumping over the gate.’

  ‘Not in time to stop me getting a doing! Aye, and look at my kit.’ He gestured to the broken camera and lens on the gravel.

  ‘We came as quickly as we could.’ Langley smiled. ‘Reminds me of the time you and your squalid little paper were trying to accuse me of corruption when I first got promoted to the OCU, remember?’

  Jimmy the photographer looked as sheepish as a man could with one hand clamped over a bleeding nose and a burgeoning bruise on his forehead.

  ‘Save the shit for your wedding photographs clients.’ She nodded to two constables. ‘Please escort Mr Stein from the premises. And clear away his colleagues at the gate while you’re at it. Neil, you go and talk to the press. Don’t give them anything more, just a holding statement.’ She turned her attention to Finn. ‘Come on, you and I need to talk. In private.’

  Finn shrugged off the grip of the police officers and walked back round to the front of his home and in through the open door.

  In the lounge, Langley observed the empty whisky bottle and discarded blanket. ‘Rough night, Zander? Don’t blame you, to be honest.’ Without being asked, she sat on a leather chair.

  ‘I told you all I knew last night. That’s it. Any other questions and you can either arrest me, or contact my solicitor.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘Fuck, don’t tell me someone else is swinging off a bridge with their throat cut and eyes gouged out?’

  ‘She’s fine, but I need you to listen. Sit down, Zander!’ It took him a second to register the word ‘she’. But as reality dawned, he sat down on the sofa.

  ‘It’s Gillian.’

  ‘Fuck, no!’ Finn’s face took on a desperate, horrified look.

  ‘She’s okay. But she took an overdose last night. Her flatmates found her in time and got her into the Queen Elizabeth. She’s still there, but she’s okay – Gillian’s going to be fine.’

  Finn looked about the floor for his shoes. ‘I better go and see her.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to see you. I left her about an hour ago. Her mother’s with her.’ Langley changed her tone, quieter, trying to calm the man in whose home she was sitting. ‘You need to take it easy for a while. And get someone to look at your feet – they’re bleeding.’

  Finn rubbed his face with one hand, an expression of disbelief spread across it. ‘How has all this happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. But we’re looking into it all.’

  ‘What about my daughter?’

  Amelia Langley shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. She wasn’t saying a great deal earlier. Her mother asked us to leave.’

  ‘Asked? Aye, I can just hear her “asking”.’

  ‘That’s not important.’ She got up and walked over to the gangster. Looking round to make sure they were alone, she knelt down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You should never have come back, Zan.’ She cradled his chin in her hands, staring into his bright green eyes.

  ‘I know, Amy. I know.’

  She held the man that had saved her life close to her chest, all the time listening for the return of her colleagues. For what had passed between her and Zander Finn was a tale that never could be told.

  28

  Joe Mannion was still in bed when his wife woke him. ‘You better see this,’ she said, as she flung the newspaper at him.

  ‘What the fuck are you on about? You know I had a late night. I just want to have a kip. I’ll read the paper later.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll want to read this.’ With that, she turned on her heel and was gone.

  Mannion had learned a lot in his life. Some of it proved to be useless information, much of it was handy; the rest, somewhere in-between. But of one thing he was sure: he trusted his wife’s judgement. So, reaching on the nightstand for his glasses and trying to blink the sleep from his eyes, he grabbed the newspaper.

  Gangster Tortured and Killed: The Macabre Slaying of Paisley Underworld Boss.

  The headline and its subtext were plain enough. Mannion squinted at the blurry picture. Though the resolution was awful, he could make out an object hanging from the Erskine Bridge. He read on to discover the gruesome fate of Malky Maloney.

  Having scanned all of the six pages on the murder covered in colour, including a short biography of the dead man, Mannion discarded the newspaper. He lay back in bed and sighed. He knew what would happen.

  He lifted his mobile phone from the nightstand and dialled a number from memory. The call was answered quickly. ‘Can I speak to Detective Chief Inspector Langley, please?’ He listened to the reply intently. ‘Oh, she’ll want to speak to me, of that I’m sure. Tell her Joe Mannion is looking for her. I’m sure she has the number.’

  *

  Maggie Finn was sitting on her sofa, a large mug of tea in her hand. She was staring in disbelief at the screen of the big TV her family had bought her. The boy she’d watch become a man was plastered over not just the local but the national news too.

  Traffic is now moving freely on both sides of the River Clyde following the brutal murder of Paisley gangster Malcolm Maloney. However, the area where his body was found is still cordoned off.

  The reporter gestured over her shoulder at the bridge, then had the camera swing round to frame the roofs and spires of the town Maggie knew so well.

  Forty-eight-year-old Maloney is thought to be one of the leading figures in organised crime in Paisley, second only to the r
ecently returned Alexander ‘The Taxman’ Finn.

  Maloney’s body was found at around four o’clock yesterday afternoon hanging from the underside of the Erskine Bridge. Though the police have yet to confirm this, sources close to the gangster have said that he was tortured prior to his death.

  This sickening murder comes just two years after the brutal attack on Alexander Finn’s son Danny in a Paisley bar, where the nineteen-year-old was gunned down with a group of friends.

  Recently, a young Albanian man was also found dead amidst a wreck of burnt-out cars in Eastwood in the Southside of the city. This was followed by the murder of John ‘Dusky’ MacBride, found murdered on his own doorstep near Bishopton a few days ago. MacBride is thought to be another major Paisley gang figure.

  It is believed that this spate of killings accelerated with the return of Alexander Finn. There is known to be an ongoing turf war between rival organised crime families in and around Glasgow, with added pressure from Eastern European criminals.

  This horrific crime caused chaos in much of West Central Scotland yesterday, bringing traffic on both sides of the Clyde to . . .

  Maggie could take no more. She used the remote control to click off the television, taking a last gulp of her now cold tea.

  She sat back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Zander and Malky had been childhood friends – before school, even. She could picture them as children playing football in the garden of her old home in Renfrew. Could see them with their pimples and ridiculous haircuts and awful suits as they headed out for the night in the eighties. Watched them take a stranglehold of life in the town, as they had families of their own.

  ‘So, it comes to this.’ She shook her head, tears making her mascara run.

  Taking time to correct this, Maggie Finn put on her coat, called for a taxi and left her flat high in the tower block. She could think of only one person to speak to – and it had been a while.

  *

  Gillian Finn was alone with her mother in the room in Glasgow’s Queen Elizabeth University Hospital. Yet another nurse had been in to take blood samples and test her blood pressure.

  Senga Finn was standing by the window, looking blankly out at the grey, smir-slathered scene outside. It was as though there was no colour left in the world, only drab monotone. Far below, buses jerked into life from bus stops; people scurried in all directions under hoods and umbrellas, as cars, vans – all manner of vehicles – stopped and started to the command of the only splashes of colour she could see, the controlling sequence of red, amber and green.

  ‘You’re father will want to see you. There’s nothing I can do about it.’ Senga turned to face her youngest daughter, who was lying on her back wired to a heart monitor, with a drip feeding into her left arm.

  ‘I don’t want to see him – or Gran.’ Gillian’s face was pale, but her manner was determined.

  ‘Okay, but how long do you think you can keep your father from coming here, or not telling your gran? You know what they’re like. You can imagine the fuss. And – well – with what happened to Malky yesterday, your father will be in full-on loss-of-control mode. You know what I mean?’

  ‘This is a hospital, Mum. People can’t just walk in and out as they please. There are rules, you know.’

  ‘This is your father we’re talking about.’

  Gillian looked away, not at anything in particular, just staring at the ceiling. ‘You know, all this time I’ve always told myself that Dad – and Uncle Malky – weren’t what folk said they were. You know, kids at school, in the papers. All that shit.’ She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, holding back tears. ‘But in reality they’re even worse. You live by the sword and you die by the sword, that’s true, isn’t it?’ Gillian stared wearily back at her mother.

  ‘Don’t you worry about all that just now. Just concentrate on getting better. For the life of me, I cannot understand why you did this, Gillian.’ Senga looked exasperated. ‘Do you realise how close you came? I’ve already lost one son and nearly another – now you! How the fuck do you think I feel?’

  ‘Of course, it’s all about you, Mum, isn’t it? Isn’t it always?’

  ‘So why did you want me here, not your father? He’ll know about this, you know. He’s got half they polis of Police Scotland in his pocket.’

  ‘You make him sound more romantic than he is, Mother. He’s just a fucking thug. Uncle Malky was no better.’

  ‘So you forget all the things Malky bought you, eh? Toys, clothes – he even bought you a car when you got into that bloody college, which you gave to some lowlife bastard.’

  ‘His name was Karim. He couldn’t get into the halls and had to travel all the way from the Borders every day. I didn’t need the car. I live just round the corner.’

  ‘Oh, what a big heart you have.’ Senga walked towards her daughter and leaned on the end of her hospital bed. ‘You know the biggest mistake me and your father made?’ There was an edge to her voice now.

  ‘You mean apart from being born?’

  ‘No, trying to make sure you had a better life than we had. Trying to make sure you didn’t have to grow up like we did. If you think your granda Finn was a saint – well, think again. He used to wallop your gran and your father – aye, and not just a wee tap on the head neither.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why he ended up dead in an alley with a knife in his gut.’

  ‘Do you think that’s funny? He was murdered, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Yeah, just like my brother. Just like Uncle Malky and Uncle Dusky. This isn’t a family, it’s a butcher’s shop!’

  ‘I tried my best to keep you away from all that – so did your father. Well, if you can call anything he does “best”.’

  ‘I have to tell you something.’

  ‘What now?’ said Senga, throwing her arms up in the air.

  ‘This isn’t just about Uncle Malky.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. There’s something you don’t know.’

  Senga held her hand to her forehead. ‘Bugger this. I’m not sure I can take any more bad news.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing somebody.’

  ‘Oh fuck, don’t tell me you did this because of some daft boy?’

  ‘No, a daft girl, actually. I love her.’

  Senga grabbed a chair and sat down at Gillian’s side. ‘And you’re just telling me now?’

  ‘I told Dad.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The other day, I told him.’

  ‘Fuck, that’s brave. No wonder you took an overdose.’

  ‘He was cool with it.’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘Well, you hear something new every day.’

  Gillian made to sit up in bed. ‘See, if he had a normal job – he wouldn’t be like this. Did you know he drove a patient transport van for elderly people when he was away? He told me.’

  ‘Aye, and I flew home from Tesco yesterday.’

  ‘He did! If my dad, if Uncle Malky, was a welder, or bin man, accountant, teacher – anything – then everyone would still be alive.’

  Though she made to speak, Senga knew this was hard to deny, so she decided to change the subject. ‘What about this girl? Do I know her, even?’

  ‘You’ve met her.’

  Senga thought for a moment. ‘Do you mean that Kirsty lassie?’

  ‘Well done, Mum.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘She told her family the same time that I told Dad.’

  ‘And they didn’t like the fact their daughter was gay? Fucking dinosaurs.’

  ‘No, it was nothing to do with that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘They didn’t like us – what we are – my family. That’s what ruined everything!’

  ‘But they’re black!’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re calling them dinosaurs? They’re right, that’s the thing. Who on earth would want their child to get involved with us?’<
br />
  ‘Campbell, that’s her name, isn’t it? Kirsty Campbell.’

  ‘Don’t bother looking for her. She’s out of the country.’

  Senga shrugged. ‘I was just mentioning it, that’s all.’

  She got up and walked back to the window. This time there seemed to be more colour about the place. A woman’s jacket looked red instead of a dull hue. A bright green car streaked past in the distance. Maybe there was a chink of sunshine on the grey day. Maybe Senga Finn was just really angry, seeing things in an enhanced Technicolor rage.

  29

  Maggie knocked on the door of the old house, noting that it was badly in need of a lick of paint. She heard shuffling feet, then the sound of a big key turning in a heavy lock. A man with white hair and a crinkled, sallow face blinked at her in the late morning light.

  ‘Forgive me, Father. It’s been twenty-two years since my last confession.’

  Father Giordano smiled at her. ‘You are forgiven. Come in, Margaret.’ Gently, he took her hand in his and helped her up the two shallow stairs and into the hall.

  As the front door clunked shut, she looked round. ‘You’ve not lavished any money on interior decoration, then?’

  ‘Why do this when I am happy with things the way they are?’

  ‘For a wee change, maybe?’

  ‘The world outside is changing too quickly for me as it is, without my adding to it. Come through. I know why you are here.’

  ‘Into mind-reading too, eh?’

  ‘I don’t need to be able to do that to know what’s troubling you. How long has it been?’

  ‘Ten years, maybe more since I’ve been here.’

  ‘You look good.’

  ‘You look old. But then again you can’t slap on the warpaint like I can.’

  They walked into the familiar room. The clock ticked, the place smelled exactly the same: of old oak, good brandy, red wine, leather and mouldering books.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, before turning to note that she was already sitting where she always sat when she came here. It was as though it was only yesterday they had last met. Oh yes, and she’d been wrong. It was nearly twelve years since she’d been to this house. He knew and remembered it exactly. Though he had seen her at her grandson’s funeral two years before. On that sad day, though, the pair hadn’t spoken.