Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Duly noted.’ Green carried on with her paperwork.

  36

  Langley was standing not far from the reporter who was giving her piece to camera in a very animated fashion, all arms and flying adjectives.

  Despite Green’s advice, she had been unable to grab as much as ten minutes’ sleep. The shadows under her eyes bore testament to the fact. She’d just endured the press conference; now it was time to do a face-to-face interview. It was going to be difficult – very difficult. At that moment, the thought of her old friends at university who had appeared on television doing their best to add some lustre to history came to mind. Langley was inwardly cursing them all as the interviewer turned to face her.

  ‘With me is Detective Chief Inspector Amelia Langley, head of Police Scotland’s Organised Crime Unit. Chief Inspector, can you give the public any reassurance as to their safety after what can only be described as an unprecedented night of violence across central Scotland?’

  Langley cleared her throat nervously. ‘Not that it’s any consolation, but it must be noted that all of those who were injured or who lost their lives last night were known to the police, either here or abroad.’

  ‘So, are you saying you’re not troubled by what happened to them because of previous criminal behaviour?’ The dark-haired reporter was sharp as a tack as she probed Langley’s defences.

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m merely pointing out that these are not random attacks perpetrated upon members of the public. Most certainly not terrorism, as I’ve seen reported in some news outlets.’

  ‘But some of last night’s twenty-one victims were foreign nationals. How can we be sure they weren’t the subject of racially motivated attacks?’

  ‘It’s quite clear that these terrible crimes are part of an underworld turf war between rival factions in Glasgow and the surrounding area.’ Langley was holding her own, or thought so, at any rate.

  ‘I’m quite sure most of our viewers will have had no idea that organised crime has reached such levels. What is Police Scotland going to do about it?’

  ‘Rest assured, we have a large team of officers working on this, both here in Scotland and abroad.’ Langley was ready with the coup de grâce. ‘In fact, a man we believe to be heavily involved with the incidents last night has been taken into custody.’ She breathed a silent sigh of relief. This was bound to put the reporter off her stride, even if she doubted the wisdom of the arrest. Here was new information that hadn’t been revealed in the press conference. Now she could relax: interview over.

  The reporter consulted her notes. ‘Yes, we have been contacted by the lawyer representing Alexander Finn, the man we believe you arrested in the early hours of this morning at his home in Renfrewshire.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t make comment on that at this time.’ Langley was back in the mire.

  ‘Are you aware that up until a short time ago Mr Finn was working full-time as a patient assistant and ambulance driver in London?’

  ‘As I say, I cannot make any comment on these matters at this time.’ Langley was now desperate for this torture to end. She should have realised that Finn would have been prepared.

  ‘Does he really sound like a man who, in a few weeks, could plan and execute such a clearly co-ordinated attack here in Glasgow?’

  ‘Again, I can make no comment on these matters now. All I can say is that our inquiries are ongoing.’ Please let this end, thought Langley to herself.

  The reporter half turned to the camera. ‘Chief Inspector, we know how busy you are. But we’d be grateful if you could watch this short piece put together earlier this morning by our colleagues in London.’

  ‘Really, I must be getting on . . .’

  But this had no effect. Her attention was drawn to an image of an old woman in a wheelchair pictured on a monitor beside the camera that was filming them.

  ‘With me is Phyllis Quinn, who lives here in Kensington. Good morning, and thank you for speaking to us today.’ The man’s voice was disembodied, the camera pulling in on the old lady’s wrinkled face.

  ‘That’s my pleasure, son.’

  ‘The man you know as “Sandy” has been arrested this morning in connection with a series of murders and other serious crimes in and around Glasgow last night. Can you tell us what you think of this, please?’

  ‘A lot of bloody nonsense, if you ask me. He was a lovely man. His Scotch was sometimes hard to make out, but he was a gem. Made sure I was always comfortable, lit me fags for me. Even brought chocolate, or gave me a cupper from his flask when it was a bit nippy out. An absolute gent.’

  ‘So, it would be fair to say that what you’re hearing about him on the news this morning comes as a bit of a shock?’

  ‘Me shocked by what the Old Bill gets up to? No, son. They fitted up my great-uncle in nineteen-forty-eight. They’ll do anything to cover their arses, that lot.’

  ‘Mrs Phyllis Quinn, thank you.’

  The screen went blank and the reporter turned back to Langley.

  ‘Can I ask you for a response to what you’ve just seen, please?’

  ‘As I say, no comment at this time.’ Langley’s face was bright red.

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. With that, from Fi Hunter here at Police Scotland’s Organised Crime Unit at Gartcosh, it’s back to the studio.’

  The reporter turned to thank Langley, but she was already striding back into her headquarters.

  ‘Think we caught somebody by surprise there,’ said Fi Hunter to her cameraman, with a smile.

  *

  Maggie Finn looked through the peephole in her front door before allowing access to the person standing on the landing outside.

  ‘I am sorry to bother you, Mrs Finn.’

  ‘You know it’s Maggie, Father.’

  The retired priest nodded, removed his black trilby hat and followed his long-time parishioner through into her lounge.

  ‘Take a seat, Father.’ She was unadorned by make-up or eye shadow, and looked uncomfortable to be seen without this mask.

  To the old man, the cosmetics were more than mere beautification or the desperate attempt to ward off old age. He knew that the face Maggie Finn presented to the world wasn’t just a carapace but a shield. And she’d had plenty to fend off in her life, of that he was more than aware.

  She held up the front page of the tabloid newspaper. ‘You don’t think he could have done this, do you?’

  Father Giordano read the headline – Gangland Slaughter!! – and shrugged. ‘All I know is what I see. It only makes the heart ache to speculate on things about which we cannot be sure.’

  ‘But they’ve lifted him. My granddaughter said they appeared at just after four in the morning at the house.’

  ‘She will be upset.’

  ‘She’s always upset about something. Just been chucked by her girlfriend, no less. I mean, girlfriend – I’m so sorry, Father. You must recoil at the sight of what my family has become.’

  ‘You know that’s not how I feel, Maggie.’ He looked at her, his dark eyes saying so much without saying anything. ‘Love is love. It is not for us on earth to question why God puts people together or pulls them apart. If we learned that we are but small parts of a greater whole, then our lives would improve immeasurably.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’m sure you’re right. It just shows you. It’s circumstances that make people, not their blood – or whatever it is they call it now. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Genetics: much the same thing. But in the end, as eventually with DNA, we are all the same in God’s eyes.’

  ‘If you say so. How does this DNA thing sit with His Holiness?’

  ‘With him? I don’t think he cares. The Pope just wants what what’s good for the world. I admire him. He is a pragmatist.’

  ‘A bit like you.’

  ‘I do what has to be done. We do not exist in a world where everyone lives as they should – rather the reverse, in fact. If we are to succeed in banishing sin, then
we must meet it face to face, unflinchingly.’

  ‘Noble words, Father. Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have any fancy wine or brandy. But I’ve got a kettle, and there’s a bottle of Smirnoff somewhere. I don’t normally drink at home.’

  ‘I need nothing, but I do need to speak with you. Please, sit here beside me.’

  Maggie did as he asked. As she sat beside the priest on her sofa, he reached out and grabbed her hands in his.

  ‘There has been much sin in my life.’

  ‘We don’t need to go there again. We’ve been through it for years.’

  ‘There is something you must know. It is of great importance, and none of us are getting any younger.’

  ‘Right cheery, then?’

  ‘This is serious, Maggie.’

  ‘Aye, right, I’m listening.’

  Father Giordano cleared his throat and began his story.

  37

  Gillian Finn watched the TV with increasing despair. Though the news channel had made sure the reporting of the night of murder and mayhem that had washed over Glasgow, Paisley and many other places besides wasn’t graphic, they couldn’t hide the facts. Nine men lay dead. Two women and another eleven men were seriously injured. Scotland was the centre of press attention from across the world.

  Having seen enough, Gillian closed the laptop and sank back on her bed in her father’s house. She stared at the ceiling and spotted a spider making its way along a cornice. At this point she wished she were anywhere but here – wished she was anyone else but who she was.

  They’d had such a good time watching the play. She and her father had stayed in the bar until a taxi picked them up at just after one in the morning.

  Gillian had been asleep when she’d heard the frantic knocking and shouting at the front door. For a second, her heart had frozen. Were these people here to kill her father? But when she made out the call of ‘Police!’ another fear gripped her. Was her father responsible for what she’d seen all over the media in the last few hours? How could he be, she reasoned. He’d been with her since early evening. He’d laughed – been his usual self. Surely he couldn’t have known what gruesome horrors were happening in his name without letting it show. She was tired, so closed her eyes, desperate to find the sleep she knew wouldn’t come.

  After a few minutes, just as she felt herself drifting off, her mobile phone rang. She’d been expecting one of two things: a call from the police to back up the alibi she could easily provide on her father’s behalf, or journalists looking for any dirt they could on Zander Finn. Both part of the same thing, she reasoned.

  When she saw the name on the screen, Gillian shot up in her bed. ‘Kirsty!’

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ The voice was quiet, distant, but at that moment the sweetest sound Gillian could have hoped to hear.

  ‘Kirsty, I don’t know what to say. I mean, how are you?’

  ‘Okay, I guess.’ There was a pause. ‘Listen, Gillian, I’m so sorry about everything.’

  ‘I don’t understand what happened. One minute we were okay, then you were – well, gone.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I spoke to your father.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘So he told you?’

  Another silence.

  ‘Kirsty?’

  ‘No, I was there – when you spoke to him, I mean.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gillian felt something, but she wasn’t sure just quite what it was. Hurt, anger, betrayal. She couldn’t tell. But she knew the feeling was strong. ‘Why the artifice?’

  ‘Woo, listen to who goes to drama school!’

  Gillian laughed. Kirsty always made her laugh – until recently, that was. ‘It doesn’t matter, we’re speaking now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kirsty sounded doubtful.

  ‘What’s wrong? You sound funny.’

  ‘Gillian, you know I’ll always love you. This was my father’s idea. You don’t really know him, but he’s so ambitious – not just for himself, for us all.’

  Gillian felt her heart soar as it began to slowly mend. She’d thought all along that Kirsty had been at the mercy of her father’s opinions. She’d even spotted him once dismiss his daughter with no more than a wave of her hand. Doctor he may be, but Gillian was sure she didn’t want to be one of his patients.

  ‘That’s why I’m phoning – you now, to tell you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! I always knew how you really felt. At least, I hoped I did.’

  ‘Wait, I’m not saying this very well.’

  Gillian felt her heart begin to falter. Like Icarus too near the sun, she felt her face flush and prickle, as though a thousand tiny pins were being thrust into it. ‘I don’t know what you mean. You’re talking in riddles.’

  On the other end of the line, Kirsty sighed. ‘I just want you to understand.’

  ‘Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it.’

  ‘I hated my father for splitting us up.’

  ‘Don’t hate him. He was just doing what he thought was right.’

  ‘That’s just it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking – you know, about what he said.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re too different, you and me, too young to get involved in something so – so deep.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m still like a child – so are you, Gillian. We pretend to be grown up, all sophisticated, going to drama school. But at heart we’re just stupid teenage girls that haven’t seen or experienced the world.’

  ‘I just hear your father talking, Kirsty.’

  Silence.

  ‘Kirsty, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ The reply was sheepish, but then everything came out in a rush. ‘The truth is, well, what happened last night, that’s your dad, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? No, no, it isn’t!’

  ‘That’s not what everyone is saying on WhatsApp.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s where you find the truth, is it?’

  ‘Your dad comes back, then everybody starts to get killed.’

  ‘Fuck you! My father isn’t involved. Anyway, your family isn’t perfect!’ Gillian was on the defensive now.

  ‘Oh, you mean we’re black?’

  ‘No! I never mentioned anything like that. You know me, I hate the racism shit! But I do think your father is an arrogant prick, if you want the truth.’ Gillian winced just as she said the words.

  ‘Huh! And your father kills people. I know what I prefer, Gillian.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you brought family into it first.’

  ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re just like kids in the playground. Big kids playing at being adults.’

  Gillian was flailing now, crashing to the ground, falling fast. ‘This isn’t the way to do this, Kirsty! We need to meet – you chose the place.’

  ‘It’s too late, Gillian. I’ve read the news and watched the TV. It’s not just WhatsApp. I don’t want anything to do with a family like yours. It’s over. Please, for both our sakes, don’t try and contact me again, okay?’

  ‘Kirsty, please . . . none of it’s true. The stuff you’re hearing, I mean. Kirsty?’ Gillian listened, but the line was dead. She was dying inside.

  *

  Maggie Finn looked out of her window on the seventeenth floor, just in time to see the man in the black raincoat and trilby hat cross the car park and slip out of sight. He looked like a figure from another age, which is just what he was, she considered.

  It took a lot to take Maggie Finn’s breath away, but what Father Giordano had said had made her question just about everything she believed in. There was so much she hadn’t known, so much that now made sense.

  She felt the need of a lift, something to calm her frayed nerves. Maggie made for the kitchen. She’d been right – in the back of a cupboard was a bottle of vodka. She stood on her tiptoes and grabbed it. There was nothing in the fridge or cupboards to mix it with.
Sometimes she had fresh orange juice when she was on one of her many health kicks, but today there was only milk and a bottle of mineral water she’d brought home from somewhere.

  ‘Fuck it.’ She poured a large measure into a glass and gulped half of it down. For a second, as it caught her throat, she thought she might be sick. But soon the spirit’s burn became comforting warmth. She made her way back to the lounge and flopped on the sofa.

  She knew her son was in custody. She now knew things she could never have suspected. But, she reasoned, she now knew much more than Zander did. And this knowledge could prove invaluable. It certainly changed things.

  Maggie Finn took another gulp of straight vodka and reached for the phone on the coffee table in front of her. She ordered a taxi, finished the vodka and rushed off to put her mask back in place.

  38

  Ginerva de Lucca cast her eyes over the skyline of Glasgow through the blacked-out back windows of a large SUV as she was driven through the city. She was aware that – despite being free of any official investigation – the CCTV cameras would be turned in her direction the minute she broke cover. But she was well used to due diligence in this regard. Her philosophy was to give the authorities just enough knowledge of her whereabouts to keep them busy, then disappear.

  Ginerva had stepped from the RIB and taken just a few steps up the tiny beach by the loch to where stood the SUV. She knew that there were no cameras where she was going. Her host had guaranteed that.

  What a miserable place to live, she pondered. Low grey cloud hung over a slate grey landscape, populated by grey-faced people. She winced as an old man hawked the contents of his throat onto the pavement while the SUV stopped at a set of traffic lights. How could anyone live, love – exist – in such misery?

  When she was young, Scotland had been a place of long-haired warriors in her mind – of bold, brave men in Highland garb, fighting their way from one rugged castle to another. The reality was hunched, pallid, unhealthy individuals fighting their way through rain and wind to the nearest off-licence, pub or club, or shooting up in parks or dingy alleyways.