Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  With only a handful of minor convictions, his own rise had been seamless until the day his son was gunned down. Like grandfather, like grandson, she thought. When Zander Finn had disappeared, Scotland’s law enforcement community had publicly treated him as an official ‘missing person’. In private, though, many a glass was raised; the assumption being that he too had been taken out, albeit in a less public fashion.

  Amelia Langley hadn’t joined the celebrations. For her, Finn, though a crook to his bones, vicious and ruthless when required, was manageable. She knew foreign gangs were on their way, and they didn’t have any qualms about the safety of those not involved in the dangerous game of organised crime. She’d been proven right, too. The murder rate in the Central Belt was soaring and the number of recognised organised crime groups had more than doubled.

  Could Finn coming back from the dead prove to be a good thing? The thought lingered for a moment, then disappeared as she flicked the screen onto the charred remains of an Albanian plumber.

  17

  Maggie Finn was in her friend’s car. They’d been for lunch in Glasgow and were now back in Paisley.

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Maggie again found herself becoming nostalgic. She’d been doing this more and more recently, something she attributed to advancing years and the proximity of the end.

  Maggie looked absently at a piece of waste ground. It took a few moments for her to realise that this was where her first marital home had once stood. A tiny flat in Incle Street, now gone, lost to the demolition ball, as had been so much of the town. She and her husband had lived in the flat for two years until Zander was born and they qualified for a council house in the rarefied surroundings of Gallowhill.

  Zander: she thought about him and the events surrounding his birth. This was something Maggie normally kept to the back of her mind. But something was telling her things were going to change. She baulked at the thought.

  She forced herself back to her main train of thought. Maggie had loved it in Gallowhill: a proper wee community. She got on well with her neighbours and she had a small back garden, three bedrooms, and for the first time in her life could be proud of her home. Not many could say that.

  She remembered the detached house in Renfrew. It was to be the first home they’d owned – any of her family had ever owned, as far as she knew. And while her husband Willie loved it, she hated the place. She was marooned from her own kind, to endure life among the aspirational middle classes.

  At first she’d done her best to make friends, but it hadn’t taken long for her new neighbours to realise that Mrs Finn at number twenty wasn’t all she seemed. Years of misery had disappeared in an instant when her husband was killed. It was wicked to think it, but it was true.

  Sitting at the traffic lights just about where the close to her old flat in Incle Street would have been, she felt no nostalgia, nor pity for the husband she’d lost. Maggie knew this wasn’t normal. A sin, no doubt. But she had promised always to be honest with herself, even though circumstances often dictated she couldn’t be so with others.

  The plain truth was she’d hated her husband. He was unfaithful, cruel and uncaring. She thought about the word ‘unfaithful’. Maggie knew the meaning in that context, but to her faith was something different entirely. The faith she kept in her heart was one she would, could, never reveal.

  ‘Mind that wee dance studio, Maggie?’ said her friend Jenny, pointing across the road. ‘We did thon line dancing in there.’

  ‘Remember? Sure, I fell over and broke my ankle on the third night.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Not so much “take your partners” as “take me to A&E”.’ Jenny laughed.

  ‘Huh, I was in the RAH for three days – not so funny.’

  ‘Baked potato city, they’re calling it now.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because everything you get to eat comes with a baked potato, that’s how.’

  ‘Better calling it the mortuary. I’m telling you, most of the folk that go in there come out in a box.’

  Ignoring this declaration of doom, Jenny continued. ‘See my wee niece Beyonce.’

  ‘Beyonce? Oh aye, Charlie’s wee lassie?’

  ‘Aye. Well, when she was getting a D&C they ran out of dinners. All they could offer her was a bowl of custard and a baked potato.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘Naw, on two separate plates.’

  ‘I was going to say.’

  ‘She ended up with chits for her dinner.’

  ‘What was in them?’

  Jenny looked at her friend in the passenger seat. ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  Maggie shrugged as the hole where the Incle Street flats had once stood flashed by the car window.

  *

  Home again, Maggie made her way wearily from the lift. She was momentarily shocked to find her door unlocked, but when she heard a familiar voice from within she returned the stiletto knife into the recesses of her large handbag and hurried inside.

  ‘Gillian, dear. How—’ The question remained unasked. Sitting beside her granddaughter was a young man, and at his side was Sandra, her eldest grandchild.

  ‘Well, a “hello, Sandra” would be nice,’ said Gillian.

  ‘Aye, hello, Sandra.’ Maggie looked at the young man. Her voice stiffened. ‘Kevin, how are you?’

  ‘Aye, fine, Mrs Finn. Fine and dandy.’ The sandy-haired man reached out and gripped his girlfriend’s hand. ‘We hope you can be as happy as we are.’

  Maggie sat down heavily on her recliner. ‘Aye, I’m happy for you both. But I can’t promise everyone will feel the same.’

  As she watched the pair gaze into each other’s eyes, she saw nothing but trouble. ‘We’ll need to change our name to Catapult.’

  ‘Eh? What the fuck are you on about, Gran?’ said Sandra.

  ‘She means Capulet – you know, from Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Maggie. ‘A catapult will be of more use to you than Shakespeare when your father finds out.’

  ‘Right, we’re going!’ Sandra stood up to leave, while Gillian looked at her grandmother with a pleading expression.

  ‘Sit down and take the weight off that great belly of yours. Fuck me, you’re the size of a single end.’

  ‘What a nice thing to say, Gran,’ said Sandra, her smile forced.

  ‘Right, egg, chips and beans for three, is it?’

  Gillian looked at her pregnant sister. ‘Don’t worry, she’s using the oil now. No egg for me, Gran.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ said Sandra. She sighed. ‘Okay, egg and chips it is. But no salt, thanks.’

  Maggie trotted through to her kitchen, as happy as she’d been for a long time. She muttered to herself. ‘No eggs, no salt – what’s the world coming to?’

  Then she remembered her son.

  18

  Dusky lived in a converted farmhouse near Bishopton. His wife had left him years ago, so apart from visits from his daughter and the odd one-night stand, he lived alone. The arrangement suited him.

  As he pottered about in the kitchen, Pink Floyd blared from the lounge. ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. The song made him think of Zander Finn, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  ‘Fucker,’ he swore under his breath, as he patted down the sandwich he was making. His big, wheeled suitcase was sitting by the kitchen table. He took a bite and thought about things. At first he’d been angry. Finn had just breezed back in and taken over, as though it was his feudal right. Then again, Senga had been a nightmare, and there was more to it all than he would ever reveal to Malky Maloney, or especially Zander Finn.

  The mobile phone rang in the pocket of his jeans. He clocked the number and answered immediately. ‘Aye, what’s up?’ Dusky listened to the short reply. ‘Fuck! Okay, message received and understood. Give me ten minutes, eh? Then I’ll be out of your hair.’

  Ending the call, he took another bite of the sandwich and shrugged on his leath
er jacket. He made sure he had his passport, bank cards and some cash. He took a quick look round the kitchen. Everything was switched off. The note to his cleaner was pinned to the fridge. He was all set.

  He hurried through the dining room and into the lounge. The remote control for the Bose sound system was on the coffee table. He clicked off Pink Floyd just as Dave Gilmour was reaching the exquisite peak of his guitar solo. Suddenly the room felt cold and empty.

  Dusky lifted his car keys from the hall table opened the front door and strode out onto the front step.

  As he pulled the door to make sure it was locked tight, he felt a blow to his chest that knocked him over. He stared down as a dark red stain spread across his white T-shirt. His world began to swim before disappearing forever.

  *

  Finn had always hated the high flats in which his mother had chosen to live. What was it about phone boxes and lifts that encouraged the male of the species to relieve themselves on the spot? As usual, the lift stank of piss. What a way to welcome your guests, he thought: take a halting ride in an elevator that reeks of urine, is covered in graffiti and strewn with rubbish, the odd used condom thrown in for good measure.

  As the red numbers slowly ascended, guilt set in. He should have told his mother he was safe and well during his time in London. She’d just lost her grandson; he had been thoughtless.

  Before he could become maudlin about this, the lift pinged. He had reached the seventeenth floor. Finn stepped out of the lift and placed the bouquet of flowers under his nose, savouring the pleasant scent. Anything to take the edge off the piss-ridden lift. As he walked to her door, he made a mental note to try again to persuade her to leave this place.

  He smiled as the neat ‘welcome’ doormat and the miserable-looking garden gnome that sat beside it came into view. He remembered Senga gifting the gnome to Maggie one Christmas. She’d bought it online, thought it a great idea to buy a gnome fashioned to look like his mother, but he was sure Maggie had never spotted the resemblance. It was a running joke in the family.

  He knocked sharply on the door.

  *

  ‘Right, that’s yours, son, with eggs and salt. Sandra, that’s yours, no salt. Give me a second, Gillian, and I’ll get your plate.’

  As Maggie turned on her heel, she heard a knock on the door. ‘Here, Gillian, will you get that? If it’s that bastard selling fake watches again, tell him I’ll boot him right in the haw-maws.’

  Raising her eyebrows, Gillian answered the door.

  ‘Close your mouth, you look like a fish,’ said Finn. He eased his way past his youngest daughter, the large bouquet almost obscuring his face. ‘I take it your gran’s about?’

  ‘Dad, can you hold on a minute, please?’

  ‘Why? Is my mother parading about in her knickers? Now, that’s an image.’

  ‘No, Dad, wait!’

  Despite his daughter’s protestations, Finn carried on through to the lounge, but he stopped in the doorway.

  Sandra had a chip impaled on a fork at her open mouth. Her partner, Kevin, dropped the knife on his plate with a clatter.

  Maggie appeared from the kitchen with a plate of chips and beans. She looked her son up and down. ‘Nice flowers, Alexander.’ She thrust the plate towards him. ‘See this, it’s what your youngest daughter calls a meal. She’ll not even take an egg.’

  Finn took in the scene. Sandra was pregnant – very pregnant. Beside her, the young man was unmistakable.

  ‘This is a set-up, isn’t it, Gran?’ Sandra snarled. ‘You did this on purpose. I’ll never forgive you!’ Trying her best to bend forward, she placed her plate of food on the carpet in order to get up.

  ‘How come? I didn’t know you were all coming today. Fuck me, I sit here week after week without seeing a soul. It’s like buses. You wait for an hour, then they all come at once.’ She turned to her son. ‘Aye, that’s Joe Mannion’s son. He’s about to be the father of your grandchild. You’ll have to like it or lump it. Now, do you want some egg, chips and beans?’

  Unfazed by the situation, Maggie grabbed the bouquet from her son and bustled off into the kitchen. ‘Lovely flowers, son. Thanks again. Your father always brought me a bunch like that when he’d been away shagging some tart.’

  ‘Dad, it is what it is. You’ve been away – we all thought you were dead. You’ve no right to make any comment.’ Sandra grabbed Kevin’s hand tightly, all the while looking defiantly up at her father.

  Relieved of the bouquet, Zander Finn walked slowly towards the sofa on which Sandra and Kevin Mannion were sitting.

  ‘If you try to hurt him, you’ll have to kill me first.’ Awkwardly, Sandra tried to clamber on her boyfriend’s knee, hindered by her swollen belly. All the while Kevin Mannion looked as though he was trying to shrink into the fabric of the sofa, desperate to disappear.

  ‘Will you sit down, Sandra. Your gran will kill you if your waters break all over her carpet. You know how much she loves it,’ said Finn, staring unblinkingly at the young man.

  ‘No! Not until you leave, Dad.’

  Finn pulled his hand from the pocket of his coat, making everyone in the room flinch. ‘I’m Sandra’s dad, but you probably have worked that out by now. Pleased to meet you, Kevin.’

  Before taking his hand, Kevin Mannion glanced at Sandra, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Hesitatingly, he took the hand of his father’s most bitter enemy.

  ‘I was just saying, it’s like they Catapults,’ said Maggie Finn, arriving with a plate of steaming hot egg, chips and beans.

  ‘Capulets!’ said Gillian, standing stock-still in the doorway.

  19

  The gangster’s body was in plain sight on his own doorstep when Neil Dickie and DC Peter Hynds arrived at the house outside Bishopton. The blood was black through his shirt, revealing Dusky’s ruined chest. A small calibre bullet hole in the centre of his forehead marked this out as a gangland execution.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Dickie, as he regarded the scene. ‘Get assistance, Peter. I’ll give the gaffer a bell.’ He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket, took a picture, then sent it to Langley. He waited a few moments before his phone rang. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘How could they possibly have known we were moving for him?’ Amelia Langley’s voice was strained, more than a hint of anger obvious.

  ‘I have no idea, boss. By the look of things, they’ve only just got him.’

  ‘Finn is back for a few days and this starts up. One dead plumber and now Dusky.’

  ‘There was always going to be a reckoning.’ Dickie hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who knows what happened while your man was away. But I was just wondering, ma’am, are we assuming too much here?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, this might not be the work of Zander Finn.’

  ‘You mean, it might be retaliation for the plumber?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Why on earth would the Albanians want to avenge the death of a guy who fixes toilets?’

  ‘Might be connected in some way: family, friend – who knows?’

  Langley thought for a moment. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Might even be Mannion, eh?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Could be. A kind of line in the sand to Finn – a warning?’

  ‘Aye. You know that Dusky was one of his top guys.’

  The more Langley thought about this, the more it made sense. ‘Okay, SOCO are on their way. Sit tight, Neil. I’ll be out as soon as I can.’

  As DS Neil Dickie slid his phone back into his jacket pocket, he stared at the gangster’s corpse. ‘Fucking idiot,’ he said under his breath.

  He shouted to Hynds, who had just finished his own work on the phone. ‘Go get us a coffee from somewhere, would you? We’ll be here for the duration when the cavalry arrives.’

  Hynds looked between his superior and the murdered man.

  ‘What are you worried about? That he might j
ump to his feet and strangle me?’

  The younger man shrugged. ‘It’s not procedure, is it?’

  ‘What if some old dear out walking her dog had found him? Probably no mobile in her pocket, in the middle of nowhere, has to go and sound the alarm from home? Work it out, son. They teach marching about and a lot of shit at that police college. You’ll get your real education here with me. Now, fuck off and get the coffees. For your impertinence, you can pay.’

  He watched Hynds slope off, tail between his legs. ‘Young cops!’ he said, with a snort and a shake of the head.

  Dickie walked towards the body. He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from the pocket of his trousers. Stretching them on like a surgeon, he kneeled over Dusky’s body. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of the dead gangster’s jacket. ‘Bingo, first time!’ He looked at the mobile phone he’d just found, switched it off and placed it quietly beside his own, all the time looking to see he hadn’t been observed.

  Dickie looked down at the man he’d seen on so many mug shots and had first arrested more than twenty years before. His eyes stared sightlessly ahead, with nothing to see. ‘You always were a useless bastard,’ he said to nobody.

  In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens.

  *

  Langley looked at the whiteboard on the wall of her office. There were three headings: Mannion, Finn and ‘The Albanians’. She was dismayed at how little she knew about the structure of the foreign organisation. People just seemed to come and go, disappearing as soon as they arrived, leaving a trail of death and destruction in their wake.

  The locals OCGs were a different matter.

  Joe Mannion stared from the image straight at her. He looked like a solid door, no emotion, no pity, just seemingly immovable. She’d known him for a long time. Their first encounter had been when she’d worked in Strathclyde’s old ‘D’ division. She was young and wet behind the ears. In a new, sharp uniform, Langley walked into a bar on a routine check. Three men were sitting at a table at the back of the smoky room. A few other customers, either elderly, addled by drink, or both, eyed her with distaste. It was fair to say that in this part of Glasgow the police force was not the most respected organisation.