Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Could be. Can you think of anybody else?’

  Finn thought for a moment. ‘No, nobody. No other bastards would have the balls.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Right, tomorrow morning, bright and early, we meet at the usual place. Use the fucking back door. You can juke in through the fence – you know the score.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Make sure Lonesome is there.’

  ‘He’s a big boy now. He can handle this. If you and me is thinking along the same lines, that is?’

  ‘No doubt we are.’

  ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘How should I know? The polis will want to take him apart, won’t they.’

  ‘From what I hear that’s been done for them, no?’

  ‘Any more smart comments?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Zan.’

  ‘Just get everyone to keep their heads down – be careful. I said this to Malky. The polis are all over this. They’ll be all over us, too.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘I’ll have to rely more on you now, Davie. Especially since – you know.’ He swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay.

  ‘Aye, of course. Hey, we go back a long way all of us, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes. Problem is, you never know how long that will be going forward these days.’ Finn heard the intercom buzz. ‘Listen, see you tomorrow, just after eight. Make sure nobody’s late.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The usual place, through the fence at the back.’

  As the call clicked off, so did a digital recording device at Police Scotland’s Organised Crime Unit.’

  *

  Gillian Finn stared at the huddle of journalists and photographers as the large gates protecting her father’s house slowly slid open. She was momentarily blinded when a camera was thrust in front of her window and a bright flash filled the car.

  ‘You okay?’ said Mick, her driver.

  ‘Yeah, just a shock, that’s all.’ She knew the man. The taxi firm belonged to her father, or one of his friends. She remembered Mick taking her to school once. He’d had a problem with a crossing attendant en route and, having brought the taxi to a screeching halt, was out beating the man with his lollipop seconds later. She had thought they were just clowning about at the time. Gillian and the little girl who shared the taxi with her laughed, imagining the whole episode as a sketch like they watched on children’s TV. Now she knew that there had been nothing funny about it.

  ‘Don’t worry, hen. I’ll have a word with him on my way out.’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, Mick. These guys will get pictures anywhere.’

  ‘Hey, still and all.’

  As they drew up beside the steps at the front of the big door, her father was standing there. She rushed into his arms and he held her tight, slamming the door closed with one foot.

  ‘I’m not going to ask anything, or make any comment, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ She was looking straight into his face now.

  ‘Just promise me one thing. Never do anything like that again.’

  ‘Or what?’ She smiled thinly.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’

  The sadness they both felt was cut by their laughter. The ice was broken.

  Inside the house, Gillian glanced out of the big window. At the gate, she could make out the taxi driver pushing a cameraman over a nearby bush.

  31

  The Paisley morning had dawned dark and miserable. A low smir of cloud hung over the observatory, not far from where the spectacles, hankie and the heart were picked out in the cobbles. This was a touching tribute to a workman who had lost his life falling from the spire of the nearby church. It was said that his still beating heart, his handkerchief and ruined eyeglasses were found together on the hard road. It had touched the people of this town, with the tough reputation concealing a soft heart, for there were few places in the world like Paisley. The unusual memorial had been fashioned by his workmates, and still nobody walked over it – not those in the know, at any rate.

  Across the town, silent figures were lurking in the shadows of factories and small business units. Abercorn Street was a place of business and enterprise. Mechanics, architects, welders, platers, painters, lorry drivers, warehouse workers; all manner of folk plied their trade from the street.

  Amelia Langley was in a van parked in the grounds of the college on Renfrew Road. It ran parallel with Abercorn Street but was higher up on the hill. The car park would soon be full of students ready for another hard day learning something that would lead to a job – hopefully.

  Langley was irritated that DS Neil Dickie had called in sick that morning. Her detective sergeant was a pivotal member of the team and she needed him. But, as always, she accepted the inevitable.

  ‘Langley to all units, are we in position?’ She listened as various call signs replied in the affirmative. She knew they were probably early, but you couldn’t rely on the old adage that gangsters were late risers, certainly not where Zander Finn was concerned.

  She turned to the younger woman at her side. She was sporting a pair of headphones and monitoring a bank of screens in the back of the van. ‘Okay, DS MacDonald, are you ready?’

  Her colleague revealed one ear. ‘Yes, ma’am, all ready to rock and roll.’

  ‘I don’t know if there will be much rock going on. But if we can nab Finn and his crew about to head off on some revenge mission – tooled up, even – heads will certainly roll.’

  She thought about the newly returned criminal for a moment. She’d been surprised that the feelings she’d had for him had lasted the two years of his absence. He’d just looked so small in the big room. The big man was a little boy. She’d cradled his face, as tears spilled from his bright green eyes. The swipe of grey amidst the thick thatch of what was otherwise black hair caught in her memory.

  It had been awkward – very awkward. But nothing was said. It was merely one human being comforting another – the most natural thing in the world. But when he’d looked into her eyes, she felt the same tingle down her spine. The most dangerous thing was that she knew he felt it too.

  But Zander Finn wasn’t one to let emotion get in the way of business, and neither was she. Why couldn’t the world be different? Was it some celestial trick being played on humanity by the mischievous deities of old? Like Apollo tempting Agamemnon, or the conjuring up of Pan to coax Julius Caesar across the Rubicon? The perils of an education in the classics always haunted her. They were clever buggers, these Greeks and Romans. The circumstances may be entirely different, but she knew that defeat here for Finn would cast her in the role of Pyrrhus, and this car park would – for Ameila Langley, at least – forever be the fields of Asculum.

  Langley often questioned why she’d become a police officer in the first place. She could be living the life of an academic now, publishing books and papers at her leisure. She always recoiled when she happened upon fellow students who had bagged gigs walking through ancient ruins, telling their tales on TV and radio. That could have been her.

  Instead, Dr Amelia Langley was sitting in the back of a stuffy transit van waiting for a collection of gangsters – most of whom had half a brain – to appear for a war council arranged to wreak vengeance for the brutal murder of one of their own, Malky Maloney.

  Again, her thoughts returned to Finn. He could easily have been a first-class student. They were both products of what life had thrown at them. She supposed it was the same for just about everyone.

  Still, if she could bring him down, she would. Life was a game, of this she had no doubt.

  She placed the airwave radio before her lips. ‘Langley to all units: everyone moves on my signal and not before.’

  *

  Joe Mannion hated boats. It didn’t matter if they were big, small, on a river, loch, or the open sea. He just hated them: from cruise ships to sailing boats. For him, they were beneath contempt, all of them.

  These thoughts passed across his mind as he pulled on the wet-weather suit
in order to board the RIB secured to the rickety-looking pier on a remote shore of Loch Lomond.

  ‘Okay, sir, now if you zip that right up to your chin and put this on, please.’ The young man in the suit that matched his in every way, apart from the size, was all business. Mannion placed what could best be described as a cross between a cycling helmet and a luminous hard hat on his head, then followed the man to the edge of the pier.

  ‘And you’re sure this bloody thing is safe?’

  ‘Yes, safe as houses. Anyway, if we sink you don’t have too far to get to the shore.’ He laughed.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Tim Tomely.’

  Mannion raised his brows.

  ‘Oh, I know, I sound like someone from a Dickens novel. The joys of having humorous parents, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can you not change it to something else? I’m fucking sure I would.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it has grown on me the older I’ve become. And anyway, it sounds worse in the Scotch accent, you know. Like most things.’

  ‘Watch your lip, son!’

  ‘Sorry. I get so much stick for being English up here, I take revenge when I can.’

  ‘Never mind revenge. First of all, get me aboard this bloody thing and over to this island.’

  ‘We’ll be there before you know it.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I’m worried about. Drowning while looking like a sumo wrestler in this get-up.’

  ‘You’re safe with me.’ Deftly, Tim Tomely jumped aboard the RIB and held his hand out to Joe Mannion.

  *

  It was just before eight, and already students were arriving at the college car park.

  So much for ‘bright and early’, said Amelia Langley to herself. She watched the screens carefully, anxious not to be blindsided by Finn in some way.

  ‘Ma’am, look!’ said DS MacDonald, pointing to the screen.

  Langley leaned across to make out what was going on. She could see an old white transit van driving past parking places towards the very rear of the space. ‘That’s them! They’re heading for the fence!’

  As she predicted, the van turned round the corner of a building and parked next to the fence backing on to Abercorn Street.

  ‘What have we got on that?’ asked Langley.

  DS MacDonald stuck the tip of her tongue out between her lips, while fiddling with a keyboard. ‘Actually, we don’t have any visuals on that area, ma’am.’

  ‘Fuck! Units two and three, attend the rear of the college at the fence, get eyes on a white transit van, over.’ She waited as the conformation of this sounded over the radio.

  ‘Here’s another van, ma’am.’

  This time a small, red and battered ex-Post Office van appeared and made for exactly the same spot, turning the corner just as Langley lifted the radio to her mouth. ‘Two, three, do we have anything?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Just getting a feed to you now, over.’

  A screen at Langley’s right burst into life. The smaller red van pulled up beside the transit by the fence.

  ‘Two, three – all units, the focus is now on the back of the college. Leave your positions and locate at the bottom of the bank to the rear of Chancellor Fabrications.’ Langley heard this order acknowledged by her various teams. She stared at the vans. There seemed to be absolutely no movement inside either, at least none that she could detect. She was tempted to have her men move in, but what would have been the point? If Finn’s crew were armed and ready to take the fight to Maloney’s killers, she might as well wait until they broke cover.

  *

  The short journey was enough to make Joe Mannion’s stomach churn. Two suited figures were waiting by a small pontoon on the island. One leaned forward and helped him from the RIB with a strong arm.

  ‘Hope you enjoyed your trip, sir,’ said Tomely.

  ‘Naw, I didn’t.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you for the return journey.’

  ‘My lucky day.’ Mannion looked between the besuited men who obviously comprised his reception party. ‘Right, where now?’

  The taller of the two looked him up and down. ‘You need to get out of that suit.’ His voice was deep, with a foreign accent.

  ‘Here, Tim Tom, or whatever the fuck your name is, help me out of this bloody thing.’

  Mannion hated all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. He felt exposed here on this island in the middle of Loch Lomond, without even Sammy Sloane for protection. But he’d had assurances, and his host was well aware that if he didn’t return in two hours they had better be sure to have an army on the small island to fight off his men. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  ‘You come with us.’ The besuited men made their way off the pontoon, Mannion in their wake.

  The track was rough and overgrown, and Mannion wished he’d worn stout boots rather than an expensive pair of loafers. ‘Here, hang on. I’m not an Olympic athlete, you know.’ He wheezed as the men held back, waiting for him.

  ‘We don’t have far to go.’

  They were as good as their word. They reached the top of a rise and, a short distance away, surrounded by the black fingers of wintering trees, stood a well-appointed house. It was much bigger than he’d expected – three floors, with ornate brickwork. It seemed out of place on this tiny island.

  ‘Right, lead on,’ said Mannion, finally able to catch his breath.

  *

  Langley was breathing heavily now. The vans hadn’t moved for twenty minutes. She began to doubt her judgement. Again, she cursed Dickie. She trusted his experience and would have liked him to be present to bounce ideas off. It was another character flaw, she reasoned. No faith in herself. Outwardly, she projected a super confidence. Inside, though, she was riven by doubts.

  ‘Unit two to Langley, over.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We have movement, ma’am. Just about to get you visuals.’

  Langley held her breath as the image on the screen to her right changed. Now she could see the other side of the white transit, the driver’s door, facing onto the back of the college.

  ‘Roger, unit two, I have eyes on.’ Just as the words left her mouth, the door began to slowly open.

  32

  Finn left the vehicle and looked about. The coast seemed clear, but then he’d expected nothing less. On his way to the rendezvous, his mind had worked overtime. He’d had a chance to collect his thoughts, and his reasoning was no longer pillowed in a fog of alcohol. He knew what he had to do and was ready to go to any lengths to achieve his goal.

  For years there had been an uneasy peace between warring gangland factions in west central Scotland. Sure, there was always going to be the odd turf dispute involving minor players. But as long as the agreement between those in charge held, things could be resolved pretty quickly, normally by the swift application of money.

  All that had changed when his son had been murdered – and now Malky Maloney.

  He’d grieved in his own way for both of them. A loss of a son compared to that of a best friend was hard to define. In a way, he knew that he was closer to Maloney than he ever had been to his son Danny. Though his mother disagreed, he had seen the similarities between Danny and his dead father, William, from a young age. The same cocksure arrogance, the disregard for the feelings of others, the inability to realise when enough was enough.

  Zander Finn had always treated this matriarchal opinion with disdain. But, all too late, he realised that he should have acted much sooner to mitigate his son’s many faults – many dangerous faults. He’d also – for the first time – begun to understand the deep loathing his mother felt for William Finn, or so he thought.

  Though his father’s murder had never been solved, neither by the police nor the many hidden resources of the underworld, he couldn’t help wondering if she had been involved in some way. It was a fanciful notion, he was sure. However, occasionally, he caught a look in her eye when the subject came up – as rarely as that was – which h
e couldn’t explain.

  But he was aware that anything could be analysed to death. It wasn’t the first time that ghosts had jumped from every darkened corner when he’d been assailed by troubles. Whether this was just human nature or some personal flaw, he wasn’t sure. But he’d fought hard to resist the scream of paranoia, something that was part and parcel of the life he led.

  He thought of Maloney. Not the grotesque corpse swinging from the Erskine Bridge, but the guy who’d been his friend and ally for most of his life. There was no better man to have at your back than Malky Maloney, period. He was a counsellor, friend – his right hand. Only Father Giordano could compare. And he didn’t expect the octogenarian priest to tag along and address the many illicit problems that he now faced.

  Money. There was that word again, twisting in his head like a spiralling spinning top. His greed for it sometimes abated; in his mind’s eye, he could see the top begin to falter, the spin that kept it upright fail. Though, even in London it still tottered at the edge of his consciousness like a nagging reminder of the life he’d left behind.

  As Finn breathed the heady fuel-slick fumes of a Renfrewshire morning, deep in thought, movement to his right caught his eye.

  *

  Mannion was walking through a large hallway. The walls were plain, unadorned by paintings or décor of any kind. Just plain white. He contrasted this with his own home; no less grand, but cluttered by tat that his wife had accumulated in the course of a lifetime. There was something refreshing about living without clutter and encumbrance; there was something refreshing about the notion of living without his wife.

  As he was shown into a large room, his thoughts strayed momentarily to Senga Finn.

  ‘You’re smiling, Mr Mannion.’ The woman’s English was good, though her accent was strong. She was sitting on a burgundy leather couch. A small table, bearing cups and a large French Press coffee maker, sat in front of her on the polished wooden floor.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mannion, walking towards the woman. ‘Joe Mannion. But you know that already.’

  Without standing, she merely held out her hand limply, palm down. At first Mannion considered trying to grab it in an awkward handshake, but he quickly realised that the intention was that he should administer a kiss.