Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Have you ever heard the expression “divide and rule”?’

  ‘Aye, sure I have.’

  ‘Well, just let me divide, while you rule, Mr Mannion.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Mannion shrugged.

  ‘Think of it like this. You dominate your city and all of central Scotland. Any problems, and we step in. In the meantime, you are at the heart of our county lines operation. Together we will run drugs all across the UK. With us, you will become richer and more secure than you could possibly imagine.’

  ‘And just who are “us”? I mean, who are you?’

  ‘We’re your friends from sunny Calabria.’ Ginerva placed her delicate cup back on its saucer. ‘Now, Mr Mannion, can we shake on it?’

  As Joe Mannion stood and took her slim hand in his, for some reason a chill went up his spine.

  He put it down to having been on a boat.

  34

  It was a typical late autumn night across the west Central Belt of Scotland: cold, drab and wet. Those visiting pubs, clubs, restaurants and theatres did so huddled in their coats, or under umbrellas, hoods and scarves. As the rain beat down more heavily, even the odd plastic carrier bag became an impromptu hat.

  In the dark places, the back streets and the alleys, lurked those with lots to do, or nothing to do at all. Prostitutes hoped the rain would ease off. Rain was always bad for business. Sheltering in doorways was an occupational hazard as much as it was a place to keep dry. If you couldn’t be seen, who would stop to buy your wares?

  Making a place to sleep under archways, bridges or in shop doorways, the legions of the city’s homeless sought sanctuary from the night, the weather, and in some cases those who would inevitably try to torment, injure or, in the worst cases, kill them. Their crime was that of being vulnerable, mere entertainment for the cruel, drunk or bored. To insulate themselves against the penetrating damp and misery, they huddled under newspapers, old blankets, sleeping bags and cardboard boxes, many high or drunk. It was the only way to survive.

  As in most cities, they were the problem that nobody wanted to talk about. Ignored or defiled, the homeless could rely only on the kindness of strangers for a bite of food, or a roof for the night from time to time.

  As people poured out of big venues – the football stadiums, concert halls or cinemas – most did their best to avoid the desperate plight of the poor. Society had abandoned them; most seemed more than happy to treat their fellow citizens like dog dirt on their shoes. All the while, these same individuals were happy to recycle their rubbish, buy the latest smartphone or new car, preaching one political ideology or another, as the real problem stared them in the face.

  Then there were the others who dwelt in the shadows. Those who dealt in misery of another kind: pay them to change your mind, pay them to lift your spirits, pay them to stop you shaking and feeling sick. It was the chemical equivalent of Disneyland, or a holiday in the sun. Forget all of your problems for thirty quid – forget everything for thirty more.

  The dealers worked away, their business guaranteed, no matter the weather. The cloying desperation of addiction was enough to drive those in its grip out in the fiercest storm. With bony, shaking hands, they exchanged rolled-up notes or handfuls of change in return for an armful of glory and peace, a snort of pure joy. Then, the rain meant nothing. In their heads, it was spring. The deep cherishing warmth of the drug cossetted failing flesh from the fetid world.

  Of course, for many it was the battle just to remain normal. The real addicts found little of the joy that had first turned them onto their drugs of choice. The chemicals – often cut with talcum powder, rat poison, a myriad of toxic concoctions – ate away at minds, souls and bodies. To avoid the desperation of withdrawal, they would brave the rain and cold. They would brave almost anything just to find the peace of mind with which they were born.

  It was on this night, into this dark world, that some new figures arrived. They too slunk in the shadows, but their purpose was an altogether different one. In Glasgow, Paisley and so many other communities they appeared, unheeded by the underbelly of life.

  In a lane off Argyll Street, two young men rounded on a dealer. It began with abuse, then a punch and a kick. In an instant, two stout men came to his aid and chased off the dealer’s tormentors. But as they turned to seek the comfort of a warm car, they were set upon by a fury of blows, followed by the slash and deadly puncturing of sleek blades.

  In Paisley, hidden in the shadows at the corner of Underwood Lane, three men lay in the rain, neat gunshots in their foreheads. Their blood, diluted by the downpour, made for the nearest drain, as a queue of cars stopped on either side, halted by this roadblock of death. The line of cars was so long and tightly packed that Mrs Girvan had to walk all the way to the end of the street to gain access to her flat on the other side. She wasn’t happy.

  In Motherwell, Giffnock, the schemes of Glasgow, a country road that led to Loch Lomond – so many places – the story was the same. Dead men on wet roads or face down in the mud. Dead men ritually impaled on fences; dead men scattered like the outpourings of the wickedest storm.

  *

  Amelia Langley was watching this unfold in her office in Gartcosh as the reports came in. Big screens were feeding information and images from beat cops, detectives and the force helicopter. She watched this slumped forward on a desk with a cup of lukewarm coffee in her hand. Her mouth gaped, as report after report sounded over the system in the large room.

  For a moment, she felt like a spider at the centre of a web. But this spider had lost all control over what was happening in her domain. She felt as though she was slipping into a void. For Amelia Langley knew what was happening, knew who was doing it. Just didn’t know how she could stop it or, more importantly, prove it. They had been careful – very careful. The attacks took place away from the gaze of security cameras, of CCTV. But then this was where the purveyors of drugs did their trade, so for their attackers the work was done.

  ‘That’s another, ma’am, just hot off the press.’ DS Neil Dickie handed her a sheet of paper. ‘Three dead, only yards away from Glasgow’s Sherriff Court.’

  ‘Are we sure they’re part of all this, Neil?’

  ‘Aye, ma’am. Two Eastern Europeans, one local male – he’s a known dealer, ma’am. He worked for Mannion for years. Looks like he changed sides.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ sighed Langley.

  ‘Ma’am, we have another problem.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, two problems, actually.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, just spit it out, Neil!’ Langley’s brain was frazzled and she was in no mood for riddles.

  ‘The press and the ACC. She wants to see you as soon as, ma’am. They’re calling it the Glasgow massacre.’

  ‘The Glasgow massacre? What about all the other places this is going on?’

  ‘You know the hacks, ma’am, especially those from down south. To them anywhere within a sixty-mile radius of George Square is Glasgow.’

  ‘Try telling that to folk in Ferguslie Park.’

  Neil Dickie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Interpol has also sent us this, ma’am.’ This time Dickie held out an iPad to his boss. Pictured on it was a dark-haired woman, the image clearly taken from a CCTV screen grab.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Ginerva de Lucca, ma’am. This image was captured at Heathrow, where she was waiting to board a flight to Glasgow about a week ago.’

  ‘Very interesting, Neil, but why the fuck should this bother me now?’ Langley gestured angrily to the large screens in front of them.

  ‘Because she’s underboss of the Calabrian Mafia, ma’am.’

  ‘What?’ Langley looked startled. ‘You mean the Calabrian Mafia?’

  ‘Yes, I do. She was being tailed by a Met OCU team who duly lost her in Glasgow airport when she went to the bog and never came out.’

  ‘You have such a lovely turn of phrase, Neil.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
r />   ‘And why did nobody see fit to tell us?’

  ‘They thought that she was planning to fly elsewhere. That is, that Glasgow was just a stop on the way.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘They didn’t say, ma’am.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s involved with this, do you? We have enough to do, coping with the shite of our own.’

  ‘And the Albanians, ma’am.’

  ‘There doesn’t appear to be many of them left, Neil. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  He shrugged. ‘In any case, the ACC is waiting for you now, ma’am.’

  ‘Mars, bringer of war! Or in your case, arse, bringer of gloom.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

  ‘Not a fan of Holst, Neil?’

  ‘No, I prefer a good Scottish beer, ma’am.’

  Langley sighed, as she picked up her phone and papers from the table in front of her. ‘When I come back, I want to know why you missed the show at Abercorn Street.’

  ‘Bit of a flop, I heard.’

  ‘Glad you’re so engaged.’

  ‘Eh?’

  With a look that plainly said ‘fuck off’, she strode off in the direction of the Assistant Chief Constable’s office.

  ‘You should have stuck with your classical Greek and ruins,’ said Neil Dickie under his breath.

  *

  The crowd spilled out of Glasgow’s Theatre Royal to the wail of police sirens. Zander Finn and his daughter Gillian were walking arm in arm down Hope Street as two police cars, blue lights flashing, sped past them.

  ‘What’s going on, Dad?’ said Gillian, looking up at her father. The heavy rain had become a light drizzle, now no hardship to the hardy folk who lived in this part of the world.

  ‘Who knows? The football on tonight, maybe?’ said Zander.

  ‘Huh, if football was on, you’d know about it.’

  ‘My eye’s been a bit off the beautiful game in the last wee while, dear.’

  Gillian bit her lip. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want you to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not think too much. You get that from your gran.’

  ‘She just thinks about rubbish. She phoned me last night to complain about the storyline in Coronation Street. She says if I appear in it when I graduate she’ll never talk to me again.’

  ‘That sounds about right for her.’

  Another police car roared past, this time in the other direction.

  ‘At least I know they’re not after you, Dad. You’ve been with me the entire time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Zander said with a smile.

  ‘Be honest, did you enjoy Gilgamesh?’

  ‘Yes. Long, but good.’

  She giggled. ‘And that was the short version. I can just see you as a Sumerian king who wants to rule the universe.’

  ‘You can? Is that what it was about?’

  ‘You mean, you didn’t get it?’

  He nudged her with his elbow. ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, I did have a wee look online yesterday.’

  ‘Cheat!’ said Gillian, in mock outrage.

  ‘You know me.’ Zander smiled broadly. ‘Come on, let’s catch a quick drink before we head back.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm.’

  A large van full of uniformed police officers was sitting at the lights.

  ‘Something really bad must have happened. I hope it’s not a big accident.’ Gillian thought for a moment. ‘What about a terrorist attack!’ She pulled the mobile phone from her pocket, turning it back on after being in the theatre.

  ‘Whatever it is, there’s nothing we can do about it. Put that away, Gillian. We’re out to cheer ourselves up, have a good time. Come on, this bar looks okay.’

  ‘It’s a gay bar, Dad.’ Gillian slid the phone back in her pocket.

  ‘So?’

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Don’t you dare try to set me up with somebody.’

  ‘As if.’ Zander Finn smiled at his youngest daughter as yet another police car screamed by.

  35

  Assistant Chief Constable Mary Green sat behind her desk, deliberately not taking her eyes from the papers laid out before her.

  Amelia Langley was left standing like an errant schoolgirl in front of the headmistress. Here she was, her old classmate from the police college resplendent in her fancy uniform. The woman was notorious for her ambition – and her uncanny ability to make sure that whatever went wrong, her hands remained clean. But Langley knew that was far from the case. The trick was trying to prove it. Her desire to be the next Commissioner of the Met Police was well known and she was widely tipped for the job. Green was a slip of a woman. Beneath her short fringe was a thin, almost drawn face, pallid and lined.

  ‘Take a seat, Langley.’ Green had no time for rank – at least not for those who ranked under her. ‘Let’s just say, things haven’t gone quite as well as we’d hoped recently, eh?’

  ‘No, ma’am. But we were acting on the best intelligence.’

  ‘No intelligence that pointed to what’s happening tonight, though?’

  ‘No, this has been – well, an unpleasant surprise.’

  ‘Is that your best shot at describing this – this bloodbath?’ Green’s voice was raised now. She glared at Langley with barely disguised malice.

  ‘Nobody could have predicted anything of this scale, ma’am. Nothing like it has happened before.’

  ‘And yet we knew that there would be retaliation following the murder of Maloney and this Dusky fellow.’

  ‘Yes, we suspected it. But have you ever experienced the likes of this?’

  Green sat back in her chair, steepling her fingers in front of her face. ‘I’ve been in this job for as long as you, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I worked my way up from being a cop on the beat to the position I currently occupy. You know how hard that was.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Langley, waiting for the story she’d heard so often.

  ‘Men, that was the problem. They had girlie magazine pages pinned to the walls, made crude jokes – cruder remarks. I was expected to make the tea during our breaks, ordered to do so by an inspector, no less. One officer sexually assaulted me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I know how bad things were.’ Amelia Langley struggled for something to say.

  ‘But you see my point, don’t you?’

  ‘That things have changed for the better?’ Langley knew that this wasn’t what she was about to be told but decided to play along for the hell of it.

  ‘You think me getting where I am now is unfair. You think I’m beneath you because you’re a doctor of whatever it is. You’ve always been the same.’

  ‘I did my two years on the beat, ma’am.’ Langley’s hackles were up.

  ‘With sojourns to the police college and holidays. Just how many weeks did that really add up to?’

  Langley began to object but was stopped from doing so by a gesture from Green that could have been used to halt traffic on the road outside.

  ‘I never wanted you in this job. Not because I don’t want women in senior positions in the service – quite the opposite, in fact. No, what I want is to see more women in the highest ranks of the police all over the country. We have come a long way since I was forced to brew up the tea. But incompetence such as you have displayed in the last few days, culminating in this bloodbath tonight, puts my good work, and the work of so many dedicated women in the job, in jeopardy.’

  Amelia Langley stood and banged Green’s desk with balled fists. ‘I don’t have to listen to this shit! If you want to suspend me, do so. But I’m here to do a job, not listen to your sanctimonious bullshit! We have multiple crimes out there – murders. All you can do is lecture me on my so-called failings. With the greatest of respect, ma’am, forgive me for saying that you’re missing the big picture here! Don’t forget, you’re the woman in charge.’

&nb
sp; ‘Sit down, Langley!’ The order was plain.

  Resuming her seat, face flushed with anger, Langley obeyed. But she glared at her superior defiantly.

  ‘At last, a bit of spirit! Carry that spirit out of this room and bring me those who’ve done this.’

  ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘Can’t be that hard to work out, surely? Zander Finn has been back for a matter of weeks and people are being murdered left, right and centre. Bring him in now!’

  ‘And what about evidence? Apart from the anecdotal, we have nothing. If you think that Zander Finn will just hold up his hands to all of this, you’re much mistaken. He’s too clever to leave any trace of his involvement.’

  ‘Well, you are an admirer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Langley could feel her face redden again, this time not with anger but embarrassment.

  ‘We have a source. He came to me, not you. Which I think speaks volumes.’

  ‘What source?’

  ‘You’ll find out shortly. In the meantime, get ready to face the press. You will make the usual noises about having everything under control. You’ll tell them that we are making arrests, and that we already have made a significant breakthrough as to the cause of this night of violence. You’re on at seven in the morning. So if I were you, I’d make sure Finn is in custody, then get as much beauty sleep as you can. You’ll be on the news across the world by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And will you be with me? You know, down with the sisterhood and all that.’

  ‘You can leave now.’

  Amelia Langley turned away, heading for the door. Just before she stopped to open it, she turned to face ACC Green. ‘And what about Ginerva de Lucca?’

  Green’s attention was back on the papers in front of her. She signed something with a flourish, then moved on to the next document. ‘Mere coincidence, nothing more.’

  ‘So you think that the fact we have the senior lieutenant of the biggest criminal organisation in the world on our doorstep when there is chaos on the streets is just a coincidence? I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not sure.’

  ‘What have I just said?’

  ‘All I can say is, ma’am, I hope your “source” is a good one. Zander Finn has caught us out already. I want it on the record that I’m against arresting him at the moment.’