‘Well, now we’ve established what’s going on, we’ll have to do something about it. The plumber thing was a mistake, he had nothing to do with the young man’s death, you know what I mean.’ Again Mannion nodded to try and get the message through.
But it seemed that Sloane was picking up the idea of this covert banter. ‘Nah, he never blew Danny away. He was fitting toilets. Likely just shouting his mouth off to impress that lassie in the bar.’
Mannion held his head in his hands. ‘Aye, and now he’s a toasted sandwich. Listen, our man in Paisley means business. He won’t stop at Dusky. However, he knows about our deal with his ex-pal, trust me. We have to make a gesture to dissuade him from going any further. And it has to be a big gesture. Be ready, I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. Get a team together – do you know what I mean?’
‘Aye, of course, I get it. Do you think I’m thick?’
Before Mannion could reply, their order arrived.
‘Hey, well done with the cream, hen.’ Sloane took in the huge swirl on top of his drink.
‘Get it done – today!’ said Mannion when the waitress had gone. ‘I’ll be in touch later.’
Sloane nodded, a dollop of cream now on the tip of his nose.
22
Zander Finn had been able to persuade his wife to let him see ‘the books’. These were lists of numbers no accountant would understand; however, to the initiated they transmitted the same idea: a basic understanding of where they were in terms of money in, money out, and profit. As an organisation the results were calamitous. He’d no idea things could have become so bad in such a short time.
‘You can take that look off your face, Zander,’ said Senga, cigarette smoke billowing from her mouth as she spoke. ‘Everyone did their best under the circumstances. Remember, I was grieving.’ She glared at him with undisguised loathing.
‘I was having a ball.’ He didn’t look at her but carried on reading. ‘The slot machines in the Southside. What happened to that?’
‘That was Dusky’s thing.’
‘And what we were getting going with Manchester – you know.’
‘Dusky took that on when you went. How was I supposed to know what to do about having weans take shit up on the bus to Ullapool?’
Finn smiled. ‘But I bet your boyfriend knows how to do it.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘You knew, didn’t you?’
‘Knew about what?’
‘About Dusky and Joe Mannion. You knew that he was playing both sides of the fence.’
‘It’s an alliance!’
‘Between you and him – not the rest of the guys. That’s what you said. Anyway, an alliance is supposed to go both ways. From what I can see, this is one-way traffic!’
‘Well, how was I supposed to know what every bastard was up to? Everyone thought you were dead.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘So you say.’
‘Do you think anyone liked the way you were running things? Shagging old Joe was just the last straw.’
‘Huh! Didn’t stop other folk jumping into bed with him.’
‘You’re into metaphors now.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ He closed the jotter and walked across the lounge towards her.
‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!’ Senga backed away.
‘In all of our marriage have I ever hit you?’ His face was now in hers.
‘No. But don’t think you can start now.’
‘I wouldn’t waste my time. But know this, from now on you have no say over anything, understand?’
‘You don’t know what’s been going on. You can’t stop me!’
‘Oh, you can do what you want with that old man. I don’t care. But you’re with him now. And I want you out of here.’
‘Fuck off! We’ve discussed this. This house is as much mine as yours.’
Finn laughed. He walked back to the plush leather sofa and took a seat. ‘Big Joe, he’s a right family man, isn’t he?’
‘I’m not interested in your mind games.’
‘See these wee cameras you get now, brilliant, so they are.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Senga accentuated each word as though she was trying to make herself understood to someone who didn’t speak English.
Finn reached into a briefcase at his feet and pulled out an A4 envelope. ‘This is what I mean.’ He skimmed the envelope across the room at his wife. It landed at her feet.
With a puzzled look, she leaned forward then opened it. It contained large images of her and Joe Mannion in bed. ‘You bastard!’
‘It’s you that’s having the affair!’
She ripped at the images, one of her false nails coming off in the process and landing on the thick carpet.
‘You’re not daft enough to think I don’t have the originals, are you?’
‘I fucking hate you!’
‘I’ll give you until tomorrow to move out. You can take the car, and I know you’ve got plenty of dosh stashed away.’
‘Do you really think these will bother Joe?’ She gestured at the torn pictures on the floor.
‘No, he’ll probably get a semi looking at them, if he can manage that at his age. But his dear wife and those lovely kids of his won’t like it at all.’ Finn grinned. ‘Make sure you’re out by five tomorrow. Oh, and take what you want. I’m not interested in your tasteless tat.’ He got up, lifted his briefcase and walked towards the lounge door. ‘And another thing: if I was you, I’d stay away from hotels for a while. Especially those fleapits in the West End – bad for your health.’
‘Wait! These photographs were taken before you came back.’
‘Did you really think that someone wasn’t looking after my interests when I was away?’
Zander Finn slammed the door behind him as he left the room.
Senga was breathing heavily. She reached into her bag and fetched out her mobile.
*
The chiropractor was pinned over the examination table in his consulting room, with Malky Maloney’s powerful hands round his throat. He yelled out in pain as his back was forced further back over the edge of the table.
‘Now, we’ve found you a nice new place to work from. Right in the centre of Paisley. A great wee spot. You’ll have loads of customers.’
‘There’s fuck all left in the centre of Paisley,’ said the stricken man, despite his perilous position.
‘This is our version of town centre regeneration. See me, I’m right sad every time I clock empty shops and that. Used to be a great wee cobbler just off Espedair Street, he’s gone and I’ve nae bugger tae fix my good boots. Arnotts, gone too. Even the Piazza’s away now. No, something has to be done to make Paisley great again.’
‘Aye, okay. But you’ll break my back!’
‘Just as well you’ll know how to fix it, eh?’ Maloney released his grip on the man’s throat. The chiropractor hauled himself back into a seated position.
‘This new place, how much will it cost?’
‘How much are you paying here?’
‘I’d have to look to get you an exact figure.’
‘Well, whatever that is, we’ll double it. Sound fair?’
‘Fuck off!’
Maloney made to grab the chiropractor’s throat again.
‘Right, okay. Whatever.’ He caught his breath for a moment, then sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell? It’s burning!’
‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s just the hotel next door on fire. It was a fucking eyesore, anyway. Damn near a knocking shop, eh?’
‘Do you know who owns that place?
‘Aye, I do.’ Maloney burst into laughter. ‘And you know how fire spreads, and you just next door. Here, me and the boys will give you a hand with your kit.’
‘Shit!’ The chiropractor flung himself off the treatment table and dashed around the office desperately filling boxes and bags.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Maloney just as his phone rang. ‘Wh
at’s up?’ He listened for a moment, then ended the call. ‘That’s the fire on your roof now. You’d better get a move on!’ He smiled. ‘It’ll be great to see the old town busy again.’
*
‘Now, this is about a wee cat that lives on an island. He looks funny, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t like they books, Papa. Can I not get my iPad?’
‘Now, come on, Chardonnay,’ said Joe Mannion. ‘It’s important that you like books.’
‘It’s shite. I don’t like it!’
‘Now, what would the author say if he heard you? He’d probably take you to court. Just read the book with Papa. And shite’s not a nice thing to say. Wee girls shouldn’t be speaking like that.’
‘My mammy says it all the time. Aye, and fuck all will stop her neither, so Daddy says.’
Mannion’s mouth gaped. ‘Tracy-Anne, get up here!’ He heard her feet padding up the stairs.
‘What’s up? Is there a fire?’
‘Have you heard the words this wean knows?’
Tracy-Anne shrugged. ‘What can I do about that? She’s clever, picks things up right quick, so she does.’
Mannion was about to reply when his phone rang. ‘Fucking shite!’ he said, as he ended the call.
‘There’s a fire, I need to go!’ He kissed his granddaughter on the cheek and rushed to the door.
Chardonnay watched him leave, a frown on her tiny face. ‘Papa shouldn’t be saying these words, should he, Mammy?’
23
Gramoz Makur liked Scotland. He liked it so much he’d purchased quite a lot of it. From a small estate in Aberdeenshire to a large mansion in North Ayrshire, he had invested heavily. Gramoz liked the place, liked the scenery, liked the people, but most of all he loved the money he could make.
It was simple for him: here there were fewer problems. He liked the rule of law in the UK. You could be reasonably comforted by the fact that if one of your enemies were to move against you, they would have to factor in the police – even the intelligence services. Back home in Albania, well, that was another matter entirely. Since the fall of the ultra authoritarian communist government, Albania had become one of the most lawless places on the planet. He couldn’t sleep at night for worry. Whole families were wiped out in an instant; the perpetrators faced few, if any, legal repercussions.
Here, everything was so well arranged. As long as you oversaw things from a distance, nobody appeared to care. As far as anyone who knew him was concerned, he was a man from the east who made millions from renewable energy. A Russian, maybe – who knew, who cared? The Scottish government had even given him a nice fat grant to help with ‘research’. Though, apart from a largely empty factory – also government-funded, manned by a handful of misfits he’d picked up from the list of the unemployed, for which he was also very well remunerated – very little research went on. In fact, he would shortly pull the plug on this feeble operation, pleading financial meltdown, and happily start up again somewhere else with nice fat grants that spilled from the public coffers like wine from the fountain in the village in which he grew up.
He thought about home. On festival days there, the young men would stand under the fountain, mouths open, their shirts drenched red by the cheapest fruit of the vine. He smiled at the memory. His smile faded when he thought of his father. The man had been cruel and brutal, blighting his young life. But, as it turned out, he was not invincible. Makur shied away from the memory.
He also liked Scotland for another reason: he had red hair. This was unusual in Albania, and he’d been bullied for it as a small child. But, he surmised, very little happened for no reason, and he’d soon learned to fight back, learned he was good at it, too. He learned he was better than everybody else. This, and a long spell in the army, had made him. An intelligent mother, weighed down by the grind of domestic chores, fear of a brutal husband and poor health, made sure that, as a small boy, her son read. And he read prodigiously. He hadn’t realised from whence these books had come, back then. Later, he discovered his mother’s brother, his uncle, was a professor at Padua University in Italy. Somehow, he managed to have everything from Stendhal to Steinbeck smuggled in for his bookworm nephew.
In stature, he was short. In his bare feet, he barely reached five foot seven inches. But to compensate for this, he was strong, his shoulders broad, his knotted muscles rippling across his squat frame. He’d learned that it didn’t really matter how tall, short, strong or physically weak you were. It was your desire that took you places – the lengths you were prepared to go to, to get what you wanted. And Gramoz Makur wanted a lot – he wanted it all.
He loved marching down the grand old wooden stairway in the morning. The smell of oak and opulence, the magnificent collection of paintings he’d assembled, the tick of the antique grandfather clock in the wide reception hall. He’d first read about grandfather clocks as a young child in Albania. For a little boy, in a country where very few people even had watches, this seemed to be the height of decadence. Now he had a beautiful example, made by the legendary Wilhelm Baur of Vienna in 1895. It was solid and elegant, the pendulum swinging to and fro, quite as hypnotic as the loud tick that echoed round the ground floor of the mansion.
The man waiting for him beside the clock was dressed casually, but his head was bowed in old-fashioned deference. As though he wasn’t there, Makur opened the clock’s casement and brought out a large key, with which he began to wind the antique slowly and carefully. Only after the last turn of the key did he address the man.
‘So, you have found out what I wanted to know, Jotir?
‘Yes, sir.’ He almost bowed when answering the question. Makur had been his colonel in the army, he’d saved his life, and there was no greater bond between two men than that. He owed Makur everything, right unto death.
‘And what did you discover?’
‘As we thought, Finn is slowly taking control. He has replaced his wife, assassinated one of his men. He thought he was working with Mannion.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes, it is almost certain that he was. This bastard did something else. The dead man, I mean.’
‘The murder of your cousin.’
Jotir hesitated. ‘He was my mother’s cousin, sir.’
‘Still, family, nevertheless. And you think Finn ordered it?’
‘I know he did.’
Makur was now using his handkerchief to polish one side of the clock. ‘This place for dust, it’s everywhere. I don’t know where it all comes from.’
‘I read that it was mainly old skin.’
‘Then the previous owners must have been walking skeletons, no?’ Makur laughed heartily, slapping Jotir on the back. He wiped his eyes dry with the same hanky he’d used to dust the clock. ‘Something has to be done. Everything has been going so well, we can’t take backward steps now. This Finn, he is smarter than Mannion, I think. Though the old man is cunning, of that there is no doubt.’
‘I would like to kill Finn, sir.’
‘Would you? Why not Mannion?’
‘Because Finn was responsible for the death of my cousin.’
‘But you don’t know why he had this cousin of yours killed?’
Jotir shrugged. ‘To get back at us somehow – retaliation?’
‘Does Zander Finn sound to you like a man who would make such a mistake?’
‘No, but he was responsible for this. I know he was.’
‘Mannion passed on information to Finn. He told him that your cousin was one of those who killed his son.’
Jotir looked puzzled. ‘And Finn believed him?’
‘Yes. The death of his son is his weakness, even now. If he’d thought about this, he would have been more careful. But he had his men kill someone they didn’t know was responsible for the crime.’
‘Maybe they fucked up, yes? Maybe Finn didn’t want my cousin to die.’
Makur shrugged. ‘Yes, maybe so, it is possible. But, in that case, he hasn’t regained true control of his people.�
�
‘Then he is weak.’
‘Yes, Jotir, then he is weak. But a man like him, he will soon build his strength. He is no . . .’ He searched for the word.
‘Budalla?’
‘Ha! Yes, idiot. It is strange how many words in English I cannot remember.’
‘Why don’t we speak Albanian?’
‘Because we learn, and to learn is important – it is good for business here in this country. We must make sure that their words cannot be our masters.’
‘So, what do we do with Finn?’
Makur watched the clock’s pendulum swing to and fro. ‘He is dangerous, yes. But he knows about business, he is clever.’ He nodded to Jotir. ‘Despite this terrible thing that happened to your cousin.’
‘This goes unpunished, then?’
‘No, it does not. But we have to consider our next step carefully. Come, we have coffee. It always helps me think.’
*
The café in Paisley’s Moss Street was busy. The narrow space was mostly cluttered with those desiring really good coffee but without the time to sit and enjoy it, so Finn found a table easily.
He scrolled through his phone, checking the door every now and then. He’d just finished writing a quick email to his legitimate accountant when she entered. The sight of the thin, young woman made him catch his breath. He’d held her when they’d been reunited at Robbie’s hospital bed, seen her at his mother’s even. He supposed that the worry over seeing his son like that and the distraction of Kevin Mannion at Maggie’s was why he hadn’t really noticed then.
‘Dad, hi.’ She slid onto the chair easily.
‘Hello, Gillian. What do you want?’ He was determined that she eat something. His daughter was painfully thin.
‘No, this is my treat. I said, remember?’
‘I’m honoured! I want some cake – coffee cake. You used to love that when you were a wee girl.’
‘I’m not hungry, Dad.’ Her smile disappeared.
‘You’re not eating.’
‘Fuck, you sound like Gran.’
‘Oh, don’t say that.’ Finn grimaced.
‘I don’t understand why you don’t get on – you’re too similar, that’s the reason.’
Terms of Restitution Page 11
