by Jo Nesbo
‘Love, something’s happened. I’ve got to run.’
‘Oh? Nothing awful, I hope.’
‘No,’ Duff laughed. ‘Nothing awful. Not at all. I think you should switch on the radio news this afternoon and listen to what they say about the new appointment for Organised Crime.’
‘Oh?’
‘Kiss on the neck.’ They hadn’t used this term of endearment for years. Duff rang off and ran – he couldn’t stop himself – out of his office and up the stairs to the top floor. Up, up, up, higher and higher.
The secretary told Duff to go straight in. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ She smiled. Smiled? She never smiled.
Around the circular oak table in the chief commissioner’s large, airy but soberly furnished office sat four people, not counting Duncan. Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm, prematurely grey and bespectacled. He had studied philosophy and economics at the university in Capitol, spoke accordingly and was seen by many as a strange bird in HQ. He was an old friend of Duncan’s, who claimed he had brought him in because they needed his broad range of management skills. Others said it was because Duncan needed Malcolm’s unqualified ‘Yes’ vote at management meetings. Beside Malcolm, Lennox leaned forward, as keen as ever, albino-pale. His section, the Anti-Corruption Unit, had been established during Duncan’s reorganisation. There had been a brief discussion as to whether anti should be in the title, some arguing that they didn’t say the Anti-Narcotics Unit or the Anti-Homicide Unit. Yet under Kenneth the Narcotics Unit had been known as the corruption unit in local parlance. On the other side of Duncan sat an assistant taking minutes of the meeting, and beside her, Inspector Caithness.
As Duncan didn’t allow smoking in his office there were no ashtrays on the table with cigarette ends to tell Duff roughly how long they had been sitting there, but he registered that some of the notepads on the table had coffee stains and some of the cups were nearly empty. And the open, gentle, almost relaxed atmosphere suggested they had reached a conclusion.
‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Duff,’ Duncan said, showing him to the last vacant chair with an open palm. ‘Let me get straight to the point. We’re pushing forward the merging of your Narcotics Unit with the Gang Unit to become the Organised Crime Unit. This is our first crisis since I took over the chair of—’ Duff looked in the direction Duncan was nodding, to the desk. The chief commissioner’s chair was high-backed and large, but didn’t exactly look comfortable. Bit too straight. No soft upholstery. It was a chair to Duff’s taste ‘—so I feel it’s important we show some vim.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ Duff said. And regretted it at once. The remark made it seem as if he had been brought in to assess top management’s reasoning. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’re right.’
There was a moment’s silence around the table. Had he gone too far the other way, suggesting that he didn’t have opinions of his own?
‘We have to be absolutely one hundred per cent certain that the person is not corrupt,’ Duncan said.
‘Of course,’ Duff said.
‘Not only because we can’t afford any similar scandals such as this one with Cawdor, but because we need someone who can help us to catch the really big fish. And I’m not talking Sweno but Hecate.’
Hecate. The silence in the room after articulating the name spoke volumes.
Duff straightened up in his chair. This was indeed a big mission. But it was clear this was what the job demanded: slaying the dragon. And it was magnificent. For it started here. Life as a different, better man.
‘You led this successful attack on the Norse Riders,’ Duncan said.
‘I didn’t do it on my own, sir,’ Duff said. It paid dividends to show a bit of humility, and especially in situations where it wasn’t required; it was precisely then you could afford to be humble.
‘Indeed,’ Duncan said. ‘Macbeth helped you. Quite a lot, I understand. What’s your general impression of him?’
‘Impression, sir?’
‘Yes, you were in the same year at police college. He’s undoubtedly done a good job with SWAT, and everyone there is enthusiastic about his leadership qualities. But of course SWAT is a very specialised unit. You know him, and that’s why we’d like to hear whether you believe Macbeth could be the man for the job.’
Duff had to swallow twice before he could get his vocal cords to produce a sound. ‘If Macbeth could be the man to lead the Organised Crime Unit, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Duff needed a couple of seconds. He placed a hand over his mouth, lowered his eyebrows and forehead and hoped this made him look like a deep thinker – not a deeply disappointed man.
‘Well, Duff?’
‘It’s one thing leading men in a raid on a house, shooting criminals and saving hostages,’ Duff said. ‘And Macbeth’s good at that without any doubt. Leading an organised crime unit requires slightly different qualifications.’
‘We agree,’ Duncan said. ‘It requires slightly different and not completely different qualifications. Leading is leading. What about the man’s character? Is he trustworthy?’
Duff squeezed his top lip between thumb and first finger. Macbeth. Bloody Macbeth! What should he say? This promotion belonged to him, Duff, and not some guy who could equally well have ended up as a juggler or knife thrower in a travelling circus! He focused his gaze on the painting on the wall behind the desk. Marching, loyalty, leadership and solidarity. He could see them in his mind’s eye on the country road: Macbeth, himself, the two dead men. The rain washing the blood away.
‘Yes,’ Duff said. ‘Macbeth is trustworthy. But above all he’s a craftsman. That was perhaps clear from his performance on the podium today.’
‘Agreed,’ Duncan said. ‘That was why I got him up there, to see how he would tackle it. Around the table we agreed unanimously that what he demonstrated today was an excellent example of a practitioner’s respect for established reporting routines, but also a true leader’s ability to enthuse and inspire. Cawdor’s still hanging there because he was a corrupt policeman.’
Muted laughter around the table at Duncan’s imitation of Macbeth’s rough working-class dialect.
‘If he really has these qualities,’ Duff said, hearing an inner voice whispering that he shouldn’t say this, ‘you have to ask yourself why he hasn’t got further since his police college years.’
‘True enough,’ Lennox said. ‘But this is one of the strongest arguments in favour of Macbeth.’ He laughed – an ill-timed, high-pitched trill. ‘None of us sitting round this table had high posts under the last chief commissioner. Because we, like Macbeth, weren’t in on the game, we refused to take bribes. I have sources who can say with total certainty that this stalled Macbeth’s career.’
‘Then you have answered the question already,’ Duff said stiffly. ‘And of course you’ve taken into consideration his relationship with the casino owner.’
Malcolm glanced at Duncan. Received a nod from him in return and spoke up. ‘The Fraud Unit’s now looking into businesses that were allowed to prosper under the previous administration and, with respect to that, they’ve just carried out a thorough investigation of Inverness Casino. Their conclusion is unambiguous: the Inverness is run in exemplary fashion with regard to accounts, tax and employment conditions. Which is not a matter you can take for granted in gambling joints. At this moment they’re taking a closer look at the Obelisk’s—’ he smiled wryly ‘—cards. And let me say quite openly that this is a different kettle of fish. To be continued, as they say. So, in other words, we have no objections to Lady and her establishment.’
‘Macbeth’s from the east end of town and an outsider,’ Duncan said, ‘while all of us around this table are considered to belong to an inner circle. We’re known to have stood up to Kenneth, we represent a change of culture in the force, but we’ve also had private educations and come from privileged homes. I think it’s
a good signal to send. In the police, in our police force, everyone can get to the top, whatever background, whatever connections they have, as long as they work hard and are honest, with emphasis on the honest.’
‘Good thinking, sir,’ Lennox said.
‘Fine.’ Duncan brought his hands together. ‘Duff, anything you’d like to add?’
Haven’t you seen the scars on his arms?
‘Duff?’
Haven’t you seen the scars on his arms?
‘Anything wrong, Duff?’
‘No, sir. I have nothing to add. I’m sure Macbeth is a good choice.’
‘Good. Then let me thank all of you for attending this meeting.’
Macbeth stared at the red traffic lights as the wipers went to and fro across the windscreen of Banquo’s Volvo PV544. The car was as small as Banquo, a good deal older than the others around them, but fully functional and reliable. There was something about the design of the car, especially the set-back bonnet and protruding lower front, that made it look a bit like a throwback to before the war. But internally and under the bonnet, according to its owner, it had everything a man could demand of a modern car. The wipers struggled to dispose of the rain, and the running water reminded Macbeth of melting glass. A boy in a wet coat ran across the road in front of them, and Macbeth saw the light for pedestrians had changed from a green man to red. A human body covered with blood from head to toe. Macbeth shuddered.
‘What is it?’ Banquo asked.
‘I think I’m getting a temperature,’ Macbeth said. ‘I keep seeing things.’
‘Visions and signs,’ Banquo said. ‘It’s flu then. No wonder. Soaked all day yesterday and bitten by a dog today.’
‘Talking about the dog, have we found out where it came from?’
‘Only that it wasn’t Cawdor’s. It must have come in through the open veranda door. I was wondering how it died.’
‘Didn’t I tell you? Seyton killed it.’
‘I know that, but I couldn’t see any marks on it. Did he strangle it?’
‘I don’t know. Ask him.’
‘I did, but he didn’t give me a proper answer, just—’
‘It’s green, Dad.’ The boy on the back seat leaned forward between the two men. Macbeth glanced at the lanky nineteen-year-old. Fleance had inherited more of his mother’s modesty than his father’s good-natured joviality.
‘Who’s driving, you or your dad, son?’ Banquo said with a warm smile and accelerated. Macbeth looked at the people on the pavement, the housewives shopping, the unemployed men outside the bars. In the last ten years the town had become busier and busier in the mornings. It should have lent the town an atmosphere of hustle and bustle, but the opposite was true, the apathetic, resigned faces were more reminiscent of the living dead. He had searched for signs of change over recent months. To see whether Duncan’s leadership had made any difference. The most glaring and brutal street crimes were perhaps rarer, probably because there were more patrols out. Or maybe they had simply shifted to the back streets, into the twilight areas.
‘Afternoon lectures at police college,’ Macbeth said. ‘We didn’t have them in my day.’
‘It’s not a lecture,’ the boy said. ‘Me and a couple of others have a colloquium.’
‘A colloquium? What’s that?’
‘Fleance and some of the keener ones swot together before exams,’ Banquo said. ‘It’s a good idea.’
‘Dad says I have to study law. Police college isn’t enough. What do you think, Uncle Mac?’
‘I think you should listen to your dad.’
‘But you didn’t do law either,’ the boy objected.
‘And look where it got him.’ Banquo laughed. ‘Come on, Fleance. You have to aim higher than your wretched father and this slob.’
‘You say I don’t have leadership qualities,’ Fleance said.
Macbeth arched an eyebrow and glanced at Banquo.
‘Really? I thought it was a father’s job to make his children believe they can do anything if they try hard enough?’
‘It is,’ Banquo said. ‘And I didn’t say he hasn’t got leadership qualities, only skills. And that means he has to work on it. He’s smart; he just has to learn to trust his own judgement, which means taking the initiative and not always following others.’
Macbeth turned to the back seat. ‘You’ve got a hard nut of a father.’
Fleance shrugged. ‘Some people always want to give orders and take charge while others aren’t like that – is that so weird?’
‘Not weird,’ Banquo said. ‘But if you want to get anywhere you have to try to change.’
‘Have you changed?’ asked Fleance with a touch of annoyance in his voice.
‘No, I was like you,’ Banquo said. ‘Happy to let others take charge. But I wish I’d had someone to tell me my opinion was as good as anyone else’s. And sometimes better. And if you’ve got better judgement you should lead, it’s your damned duty to the community.’
‘What do you think, Uncle? Can you just change and become a leader?’
‘I don’t know,’ Macbeth said. ‘I think some people are born leaders and become them as a matter of course. Like Chief Commissioner Duncan. People whose sense of conviction rubs off on you, who can make you die for something. While others I know have neither conviction nor leadership skills, they’re just driven by the desire to climb and climb until they get the boss’s chair. They might be intelligent, have charm and the gift of the gab, but they don’t really understand people. Because they don’t see them. Because they understand and see only one thing: themselves.’
‘Are you talking about Duff?’ Banquo smiled.
‘Who’s Duff?’ Fleance pleaded.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Macbeth said.
‘Yes, it does. Come on, Uncle. I’m here to learn, aren’t I?’
Macbeth sighed. ‘Duff and I were friends at an orphanage and at police college, and now he’s head of the Narco Unit. Hopefully he’ll learn the odd thing on the way and that will change him.’
‘Not him.’ Banquo laughed.
‘The Narco Unit,’ Fleance said. ‘Is he the one with the diagonal scar across his mug?’
‘Yes,’ his father said.
‘Where did he get it?’
‘He was born with it,’ Macbeth said. ‘But here’s the school. Be good.’
‘Yeah, yeah, Uncle Mac.’
The ‘Uncle’ came from when Fleance was small; now he mostly used it ironically. But as Macbeth watched the boy sprinting through the rain to the gates of the police college it gave him a feeling of warmth anyway.
‘He’s a good lad,’ he said.
‘You should have children,’ Banquo said, pulling away from the kerb. ‘They’re a gift for life.’
‘I know, but it’s a bit late for Lady now.’
‘Then with someone younger. What about someone of your own age?’
Macbeth didn’t answer, staring out the window rapt in thought. ‘When I saw the red man at the lights I thought about death,’ he said.
‘You were thinking about Cawdor,’ Banquo said. ‘By the way, I spoke to Angus while he was staring at Cawdor dangling there.’
‘Religious musings?’
‘No. He just said he didn’t understand rich, privileged people who took their own lives. Even if Cawdor had lost his job and maybe had to do a short stretch, he was still well set up for a long, carefree life. I had to explain to the boy that it’s the fall that does it. And the disappointment when you see your future won’t live up to your expectations. That’s why it’s important not to have such high expectations, to start slowly, not to have success too young. A planned rise, don’t you think?’
‘You’re promising your son a better life than yours if he studies law.’
‘It’s different with sons. They’re an exten
sion of your life. It’s their job to ensure a steady rise.’
‘It wasn’t Cawdor.’
‘Eh?’
‘It wasn’t Cawdor I was thinking of.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was one of the young men on the country road. He was—’ Macbeth looked out of the window ‘—red. Soaked in blood.’
‘Don’t think about it.’
‘Cold blood.’
‘Cold . . . what do you mean?’
Macbeth took a deep breath. ‘The two men by Forres, they’d surrendered. But Duff shot the guy wearing Sweno’s helmet anyway.’
Banquo shook his head. ‘I knew it was something like that. And the other one?’
‘He was a witness.’ Macbeth grimaced. ‘They’d run out of the party and he’d only been wearing a white shirt and white trousers. I took out my daggers. He started to plead; he knew what was coming.’
‘I don’t need to hear any more.’
‘I stood behind him. But I couldn’t do it. I stood there with a dagger in the air, paralysed. But then I saw Duff. He was sitting with his face in his hands sobbing like a child. Then I struck.’
A siren was heard in the distance. A fire engine. What the hell could be burning in this rain? Banquo thought.
‘I don’t know if it was because his clothes were drenched,’ Macbeth said, ‘but the blood covered all of him. All his shirt and trousers. And lying there on the tarmac with his arms down and slightly to the side, he reminded me of the traffic light. Stop now. Don’t walk.’
They went on in silence, past the entrance to the garage under police HQ. Only unit leaders and higher-ranking officers had parking spots there. Banquo turned into the car park at the rear of the building. He stopped and switched off the engine. The rain beat down on the car roof.
‘I understand,’ Banquo said.
‘What do you understand?’
‘Duff knew that if you arrested Sweno, hauled him before a greedy judge in the country’s most corrupt town, how long would he have got? Two years? Maximum three? Full acquittal? And I understand you.’