Macbeth

  ‘They calm you down,’ said one guy rocking on a chair at the back of the room. ‘If you’re going to assassinate your boss, you’re probably a bit shaky. Lots of bank robbers take benzos.’

  ‘And that’s why they fuck it up,’ said a detective with nervous twitches around his nose wearing a shoulder holster over a white polo neck.

  Laughter. Short-lived.

  ‘What do you reckon, Caithness?’ Duff said.

  She shrugged. ‘Detection is not my field of expertise, but to me it seems pretty obvious that they needed to take something to calm their nerves, but they don’t know a lot about drugs, so they messed up the dosage. During the murder the drugs worked as intended. Their reflexes were still fast, but the nervousness was gone, and the clean cuts show a steady hand. But after the murder, when the chemical really kicked in, they lost control of the situation. They wandered around getting blood all over themselves and in the end both simply fell asleep in chairs.’

  ‘Typical,’ said the polo neck. ‘Once we nabbed two doped-up bank robbers who had fallen asleep in their getaway car at the lights. I’m not kidding. Criminals are so bloody stupid you can—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Duff interrupted. ‘How do you know their reflexes were still fast?’

  Caithness shrugged. ‘Whoever made the first stab managed to remove their hand from the knife before the blood spurted out. Our blood-spatter analyst says the blood on the handle is from the spurt. It didn’t run, drip or get smeared on.’

  ‘In which case I agree with all your other conclusions,’ Duff said. ‘Who disagrees?’

  No reaction.

  ‘Anyone agree?’

  Mute nods.

  ‘Good, let’s say that answers that then. Now let’s go to the other loose thread. Malcolm’s suicide.’ Duff stood up. ‘His letter says that the Norse Riders threatened to kill his daughter if he didn’t help them kill Duncan. My question is: instead of doing as Sweno and the Norse Riders want and taking his own life, why not go to Duncan and have his daughter moved to a safe house? Threats aren’t exactly something new for the police. What do you think?’

  The others looked at the floor, each other and out of the window.

  ‘No opinions? Really? A whole Homicide Unit of detectives and no—’

  ‘Malcolm knows Sweno has contacts in the police,’ said the chair rocker. ‘He knows Sweno would have found his daughter anyway.’

  ‘Good, we’re up and running,’ Duff said, bent over and pacing to and fro in front of them. ‘Let’s assume Malcolm thinks his daughter can be saved by doing as Sweno says. Or by dying so that Sweno no longer has any reason to kill his daughter. OK?’ He saw that none of those present had a clue where he was going.

  ‘So if Malcolm – as the letter suggests – cannot live if either he loses his daughter or he becomes an accessory to Duncan’s murder, why didn’t he commit suicide before Duncan was murdered and save them both?’

  The faces gaped at him.

  ‘If I might . . .’ Caithness began.

  ‘Please, Inspector.’

  ‘Your question might be logical, but the human psyche doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Duff replied. ‘I think it does. There’s something about Malcolm’s apparent suicide that doesn’t tally. Our brains will always – with great accuracy and based on available information – weigh up the pros and cons and then make an irrefutably logical decision.’

  ‘If the logic’s irrefutable, why, despite having no new information, do we sometimes feel remorse?’

  ‘Remorse?’

  ‘Remorse, Inspector Duff.’ Caithness looked him straight in the eye. ‘It’s a feeling in people with human qualities that tells us we wish something that we’ve done, undone. We can’t exclude the possibility that Malcolm was like that.’

  Duff shook his head. ‘Remorse is a sign of illness. Einstein said proof of insanity is when someone goes through the same thought process again hoping to get a different answer.’

  ‘Then Einstein’s contention can be refuted if, over time, we draw different conclusions. Not because the information has changed in any way, but because people can do that.’

  ‘People don’t change!’

  Duff noticed that the officers in the room had woken up and were following attentively now. They perhaps suspected that this exchange with Caithness was no longer only about Malcolm’s death.

  ‘Perhaps Malcolm changed,’ Caithness said. ‘Perhaps Duncan’s death changed him. That can’t be ruled out.’

  ‘Nor can we rule out the possibility that he left a suicide letter, threw his police badge in the sea and did a runner,’ Duff said. ‘As regards human qualities and all that.’

  The door opened. It was an officer from the Narcotics Unit. ‘Phone call for you, Inspector Duff. He says it’s about Malcolm and it’s urgent. And he only wants to speak to you.’

  Lady stood in the middle of the bedroom looking at the man sleeping in her bed. In their bed. It was gone nine o’clock, she’d had her breakfast a long time ago, but there was still no life in the body under the silk sheets.

  She sat down on the side of the bed, stroked his cheek, tugged at his thick black curls and shook him. A narrow strip of white appeared under his eyelids.

  ‘Chief Commissioner! Wake up! The town’s on fire!’

  She laughed as Macbeth groaned and rolled onto his side, his back to her. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Late.’

  ‘I dreamed it was Sunday.’

  ‘You dreamed a lot, I think.’

  ‘Yes, that bloody . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I heard storm bells. But then I realised they were church bells. Summoning churchgoers to confession and a christening.’

  ‘I told you not to say that word.’

  ‘Christening?’

  ‘Macbeth!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The press conference is in less than two hours. And they’ll be wondering what’s happened to their chief commissioner.’

  He swung his legs out of bed. Lady stopped him, held his face between her hands and inspected him carefully. The pupils were small. Again.

  She pulled a stray hair from his eyebrow.

  ‘Also we’ve got a dinner this evening,’ she said, searching for more. ‘You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  ‘Is it really right to have it so close after Duncan’s passing-away?’

  ‘It’s a dinner to cultivate connections, not a banquet. And we still have to eat, darling.’

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Everyone I’ve asked. The mayor. Some of your colleagues.’ She found a grey hair, but it slipped between her long red nails. ‘We’re going to discuss how to enforce the regulations for the casinos. It’s in today’s leader column that the Obelisk is apparently running a prostitution racket under cover of the casino and that therefore it should be closed.’

  ‘It doesn’t help that your editor chum writes what you want him to if no one reads his newspapers.’

  ‘No. But now I’ve got a chief commissioner as my husband.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘You should get a few more grey hairs. They look good on bosses. I’ll talk to my hairdresser today. Perhaps he can discreetly dye your temples.’

  ‘My temples aren’t visible.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why we’ll get your hair cut – so they are.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Mayor Tourtell might think his town should have a chief commissioner who looks like a grown man, not a boy.’

  ‘Oh? Are you worried?’

  Lady shrugged. ‘Normally the mayor wouldn’t interfere with the police hierarchy, but he’s the one who appoints the new chief commissioner. We just have to be sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas.’

  ‘And how can we d
o that?’

  ‘Well, we might have to ensure we have some hold over Tourtell in the unlikely event that he cuts up rough. But don’t you worry about that, darling.’

  ‘All right. Apropos cutting up rough . . .’

  She stopped searching for unruly hairs. She recognised the tone. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me, dearest?’

  ‘Banquo . . .’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve begun to wonder whether I can trust him. Whether he hasn’t made some cunning plan for himself and Fleance.’ He took a deep breath, and she knew he was about to tell her something important. ‘Banquo didn’t kill Malcolm yesterday, he sent him off to Capitol. He made some excuse about this not being a life we risked anything by sparing.’

  She knew he was waiting for her reaction. When none was forthcoming he remarked she didn’t seem so dumbfounded.

  She smiled.

  ‘This is not the time to be dumbfounded. What do you think he’s planning?’

  ‘He claims he’s frightened Malcolm into silence, but I’m guessing the two of them have concocted something that will give Banquo a better and surer pay-off than he’s getting with me.’

  ‘Darling, surely you don’t think that nice old Banquo has any ambition to become chief commissioner?’

  ‘No, no, Banquo has always been someone who wants to be led, not to lead. This is about his son, Fleance. I’m only fifteen years older than Fleance, and by the time I retire Fleance will be old and grey himself. So it’s better for him to be the crown prince to an older man like Malcolm.’

  ‘You’re just tired, my love. Banquo’s much too loyal to want to do anything like that. You said yourself he would burn in hell for you.’

  ‘Yes, he has been loyal. And so have I to him.’ Macbeth got up and stood in front of the big gold-framed mirror on the wall. ‘But if you take a closer look, hasn’t this mutual loyalty been more advantageous for Banquo? Hasn’t he been the hyena who follows the lion’s footprints and eats prey he hasn’t killed himself? I made him second-in-command in SWAT and my deputy in Organised Crime. I would say he’s been well paid for the small services he’s performed for me.’

  ‘All the more reason why you can count on his loyalty, darling.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought too. But now I see . . .’ Macbeth frowned and went closer to the mirror. Placed a hand on its surface to check if there was something there. ‘He loved me like a father loves a son, but that love turned to hatred when he drank the poison of envy. I passed him on the way up, and instead of him being my boss I became his. And as well as obeying my orders he has had to tolerate the unspoken contempt of his own blood, Fleance, who has seen his father bow his head to the cuckoo in the nest, Macbeth. Have you ever looked into a dog’s faithful brown eyes as it looks up at you, wagging its tail and hoping for food? It sits there, still, waiting, because that’s what it’s been trained to do. And you smile at it, pat its head, and you can’t see the hatred behind the obedience. You can’t see that if it got the opportunity, if it saw its chance to escape punishment, it would attack you, it would tear at your throat; your death would be its breath of freedom and it would leave you half-eaten in some filthy corridor.’

  ‘Darling, what is the matter with you?’

  ‘That’s what I dreamed.’

  ‘You’re paranoid. Banquo really is your friend! If he was planning to betray you he could have just gone to Malcolm and told him about your schemes.’

  ‘No, he knows he’ll be stronger if he plays his ace at the end. First kill me, a dangerous murderer, and then bring back Malcolm as chief commissioner. What a heroic deed! How can you reward a man like that and his family?’

  ‘Do you really believe this?’

  ‘No,’ said Macbeth. He was standing close to the mirror now, his nose touching the glass, which had misted up. ‘I don’t believe it, I know it. I can see. I can see the two of them. Banquo and Fleance. I have to forestall them, but how?’ Suddenly he turned to her. ‘How? You, my only one, you have to help me. You have to help us.’

  Lady crossed her arms. However warped Macbeth’s reasoning sounded, there was some sense in it. He might be right. And if he wasn’t, Banquo was still a fellow conspirator and a potential witness and blabber. The fewer there were of them, the better. And what real use did they have for Banquo and Fleance? None. She sighed. As Jack would say, If you’ve got less than twelve in blackjack you ask for another card. Because you can’t lose.

  ‘Invite them here one evening,’ she said. ‘Then we know where they are.’

  ‘And we do it here?’

  ‘No, no, there have been enough murders at the Inverness; one more would cast suspicion on us and also frighten away the clientele. We’ll do it on the road.’

  Macbeth nodded. ‘I’ll ask Banquo and Fleance to come by car. I’ll tell them we’ve promised someone a lift home with them. I know exactly the route he’ll take, so if I tell them to be punctual we’ll know to the minute where on the route they’ll be. Do you know what, woman of my dreams?’

  Yes, she thought, as he embraced her, but let him say it anyway.

  ‘I love you above everything on this earth and in the sky above.’

  Duff found the young boy sitting on a bollard at the edge of the quay. There was a break in the rain, and more light than usual penetrated the layer of white cloud above them. But out in the river new troops of bluish-grey clouds stood lined up ready to ride in on the north-westerly wind against them – all you could rely on in this town.

  ‘I’m Duff. Are you the person who rang about Malcolm?’

  ‘Cool scar,’ the boy said, straightening his eyepatch. ‘They said you weren’t the head of Narco any more?’

  ‘You said it was urgent.’

  ‘It’s always urgent, Mr Narco Boss.’

  ‘Suits me fine. Spit it out.’

  ‘Fork it out, I think we say.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s why it’s urgent. When do you have to have your next shot?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago. And as this is important enough for the boss himself to show up, I think we’ll say you pay for not only the next one, but the next ten.’

  ‘Or I wait half an hour and you’ll happily spit it out for half the price. Another half an hour and it’ll cost half again . . .’

  ‘I cannot deny this, Mr Narco Boss, but the question is: which of us is in a greater hurry? I read about Malcolm in the papers this morning and recognised him in the photo. Drowned, kind of. Deputy chief commissioner and shit. Heavy stuff.’

  ‘Come on, lad, and I’ll pay you what it’s worth.’

  The one-eyed boy chuckled. ‘Sorry, Mr Narco Boss, but I’ve stopped trusting the fuzz. Here’s your first bite. I wake up after nodding off, sitting between the lines of containers you can see over there, where you can shoot up and have a trip without being robbed, know what I mean? No one sees me, but I can see him, Malcolm, on the other side of the canal. Well, Narco Boss? First shot’s for free, the next one will cost you big time. Heard that one before?’ The boy laughed.

  ‘Not sure I’m hooked there,’ Duff said. ‘We know Malcolm was here, we found his car.’

  ‘But you didn’t know he wasn’t alone here. Or who was here with him.’

  From bitter experience Duff knew a junkie told more lies than the truth, especially if that way they could finance their next shot. But, as a rule, a junkie preferred easier and quicker ways of tricking you than ringing HQ and insisting on talking to one of the unit heads, then waiting an hour in the rain, and all of that without a guaranteed payment.

  ‘And you know that, do you?’ Duff asked. ‘Who this person is?’

  ‘I’ve seen him before, yes.’

  Duff took out his wallet. Produced a wad, counted, passed the banknotes to the boy.

  ‘I was thinking of calling Macbeth himself,’ the boy said as
he recounted. ‘But then I realised he would probably refuse to believe me when I told him who it was.’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘That Malcolm was talking to Macbeth’s sidekick,’ the boy said. ‘Old guy, white hair.’

  Duff gasped involuntarily. ‘Banquo?’

  ‘I dunno what his name is, but I’ve seen him with Macbeth at the station.’

  ‘And what were Banquo and Malcolm talking about?’

  ‘They were too far away for me to hear.’

  ‘What erm . . . did it seem as if they were talking about? Were they laughing? Or were there loud, angry voices?’

  ‘Impossible to say. The rain was hammering down on the containers and mostly they had their backs to me. They might have been arguing. The old boy was waving his shooter for a while. But then things quietened down, they got into a Volvo and drove off. The old boy was driving.’

  Duff scratched his head. Banquo and Malcolm in cahoots?

  ‘This is too much,’ the boy said, holding up a note.

  Duff looked down at him. A junkie giving him change? He took the note. ‘You didn’t tell me this just for the money for another shot, did you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said you’d read the papers and knew this was heavy stuff. And it is. So heavy that if you’d rung a journalist with this story you’d have got ten times more than from a policeman. So either it’s Hecate who sent you to spread false info or you’ve got another agenda.’

  ‘Go to hell, Mr Narco Boss.’

  Duff grabbed the junkie’s collar and pulled him off the bollard. The boy weighed almost nothing.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Duff said, trying to avoid inhaling the boy’s stinking breath. ‘I can put you behind bars, and let’s see then what you think when you hit cold turkey and you know you’ve got two days in the wilderness in front of you. Or you tell me now why you came to me. You’ve got five seconds. Four . . .’

  The boy glared back at Duff.

  ‘Three . . .’

  ‘You piece of cop shit, you’re fuckin’ . . .’

  ‘Two . . .’

  ‘My eye.’

  ‘One . . .’

  ‘My eye, I said!’

  ‘What about it?’