by Jo Nesbo
‘Not at all, sir.’
Macbeth walked towards the door. He wasn’t floating any longer. A sense of relief, happiness even, spread through his body. He was saved. The chief commissioner had liberated him. Lady could do and say what she liked, but this stopped here. Five paces. He grabbed the door knob with his free hand.
Then a movement in the reflection on the polished brass.
As if in a fairground mirror and in the light from the bathroom door he saw – like in some absurd, distorted film – the chief commissioner pull something from under his pillow and point it at his back. A gun. Five paces. Throwing distance. Macbeth reacted instinctively. Whirled round. He was off balance, and the dagger left his hand while he was still moving.
9
OF COURSE IT HAD BEEN Duff who had approached the two girls and asked to join them at their table. Macbeth went to the bar and bought them all beers, came back and heard Duff sounding off about Macbeth and him being the best two cadets in the final year at police college. Their future prospects looked more than rosy, and the girls should make a move if they knew what was good for them, he said. The two girls laughed, and the eyes of the girl called Meredith glinted, but she looked down when Macbeth tried to hold her gaze. When the bar closed, Macbeth accompanied Meredith to the gate and was rewarded with a friendly handshake and a telephone number. While, next morning, Duff went into great detail about how he had serviced the friend, Rita, in a narrow bed at the nurses’ hall of residence, Macbeth rang Meredith the same evening and in a trembling voice invited her out for dinner.
He had ordered a table at Lyon’s and knew it was a mistake the moment he saw the head waiter’s knowing gaze. The elegant suit Duff had lent him was much too big, so he’d had to go for Banquo’s, which was two sizes too small and twenty years out of date. Fortunately Meredith’s dress, beauty and calm polite nature compensated. The only part of the French menu he understood was the prices. But Meredith explained and said that was how the French were: they refused to accept that they spoke a language that was no longer international, and they were so bad at English they couldn’t bear the double ignominy of appearing idiots in their rivals’ tongue.
‘Arrogance and insecurity often go together,’ she said.
‘I’m insecure,’ Macbeth said.
‘I was thinking of your friend Duff,’ she said. ‘Why are you so insecure?’
Macbeth told her about his background. The orphanage. Banquo and Vera. Police college. She was so easy to talk to he was almost tempted to tell her everything, for one crazy moment even about Lorreal. But of course he didn’t. Meredith said she had grown up in the western part of town, with parents who made sure their children lacked for nothing but who also made demands on them and were ambitious on their behalf, especially for her brothers.
‘Protected, privileged and boring,’ she said. ‘Do you know I’ve never been to District 2 East.’ She laughed when Macbeth refused to accept that could be true. ‘Yes, it is! I never have!’
So after dinner he took her down to the riverbed. Walking along the potholed road alongside the run-down houses as far as Penny Bridge. And when he said goodnight outside the gate she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
When he returned to his room Duff was still up. ‘Spill the beans,’ he ordered. ‘Slowly and in detail.’
Two days later. Cinema. Lord of the Flies. They walked home under the same umbrella, Meredith’s hand under his arm. ‘How can children be so cruel and bloodthirsty?’ she said.
‘Why should children be any less cruel than adults?’
‘They’re born innocent!’
‘Innocent and without any sense of morality. Isn’t peaceful passivity just something that adults force children to learn so that we recognise our place in society and let them do what they like with us?’
They kissed at the gate. And on Sunday he took her for a walk in the woods on the other side of the tunnel. He had packed a picnic basket.
‘You can cook!’ she exclaimed excitedly.
‘Banquo and Vera taught me. We used to come to this very spot.’
Then they kissed, she panted and he put his hand up her cotton dress.
‘Wait . . .’ she said.
And he waited. Instead he carved a heart in the big oak and used the point of his knife to write their names. Meredith and Macbeth.
‘She’s ready to be plucked,’ Duff told Macbeth when he came home and told him the details. ‘I’m going to Rita’s on Wednesday. Invite her here.’
Macbeth had opened a bottle of wine and lit candles when Meredith rang at the door. He was prepared. But not for what happened – for her loosening his belt as soon as they were inside the door and stuffing her hand down his trousers.
‘D-d-don’t,’ he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
‘S-s-stop.’
‘Why are you stammering?’
‘I d-d-don’t want you to.’
She withdrew her hand, her cheeks burning with shame.
Afterwards they drank a glass of red wine in silence.
‘I have to get up early tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Exams soon and . . .’
‘Of course.’
Three weeks passed. Macbeth tried ringing several times, but the few times he got an answer Rita said that Meredith wasn’t at home.
‘You and Meredith are no longer dating, I take it,’ Duff said.
‘No.’
‘Rita and I aren’t either. Do you mind if I meet Meredith?’
‘You’d better ask her.’
‘I have.’
Macbeth gulped. It was as if he had a claw around his heart. ‘Oh yes? And what did she say?’
‘She said yes.’
‘Did she? And when are you . . . ?’
‘Yesterday. Just for a bite to eat, but . . . it was nice.’
The day after, Macbeth woke up and was sick. And it was only later he realised what this sickness was and that there was no remedy for a broken heart. You had to suffer your way through it and he did. Suffered in silence without mentioning her name to anyone but an old oak tree on the healthy side of the tunnel. And after a while the symptoms passed. Almost completely. And he discovered that it wasn’t true what people said, that we can only fall in love once. But unlike Meredith, Lady was the sickness and remedy in one. Thirst and water. Desire and satisfaction. And now her voice reached him from across the sea, from across the night.
‘Darling . . .’
Macbeth drifted through water and air, light and darkness.
‘Wake up!’
‘He opened his eyes. He was lying in bed. It had to be night still, for the room was dark. But there was a grainy element, a kind of imperceptible greyness that presaged dawn.
‘At last!’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Been?’ Macbeth said, trying to hold on to a scrap of the dream. ‘Haven’t I been here?’
‘Your body has, yes, but I’ve been trying to wake you for hours. It’s as if you’ve been unconscious. What have you done?’
Macbeth was still holding on to the dream, but suddenly he didn’t know whether it was a good dream or a nightmare. Duncan . . . He let go, and images whirled in the darkness.
‘Your pupils,’ she said, holding his face between her hands. ‘You’ve taken dope, that’s why.’
He squirmed away, from her, from the light. ‘I needed it.’
‘But you’ve done it?
‘It?’
She shook him hard. ‘Macbeth, darling, answer me! Have you done the deed you promised you would?’
‘Yes!’ He groaned and ran a hand across his face. ‘No, I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know ?’
‘I can see him in front of me with a dagger in him, but I don’t know if it really happened or I just dreamed it.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember.’
‘Is the other dagger with them? Pull yourself together!’
‘Sleep no more. Macbeth is murdering sleep.’
‘What?’
‘He said that. Or I dreamed it.’
‘We’d better go in and check.’
Macbeth closed his eyes, reached out for the dream – perhaps it could tell him. Rather that than go back in. But the dream had already slipped through his fingers. When he reopened his eyes Lady was standing with an ear to the wall.
‘They’re still snoring. Come on.’ She grabbed the dagger from the bedside table.
Macbeth breathed in deeply. The day and its revealing light would soon be here. He swung his legs out of bed and discovered he was still fully dressed.
They went into the corridor. Not a sound to be heard. Those who stayed at the Inverness didn’t usually get up early.
Lady unlocked the guards’ room, and she and Macbeth went in. Each was lying asleep in an armchair. But there were no daggers anywhere, and there was no blood smeared over their suits and shirts, as per their plan.
‘I only dreamed it,’ Macbeth whispered. ‘Come on, let’s drop this.’
‘No!’ Lady snarled and strode off to the door connecting to Duncan’s room. Shifted the dagger to her right hand. Then, without any sign of hesitation, she tore open the door and went in.
Macbeth waited and listened.
Nothing.
He walked over to the door opening.
Grey light seeped in through the window.
She was standing on the opposite side of the bed with the dagger raised by her mouth. Squeezing the handle with both hands, her eyes wide with horror.
Duncan was in the bed. His eyes were open and seemed to be staring at something by the other door. Everything was sprayed with blood. The duvet, the gun lying on the duvet, the hand on the gun. And the handle of the dagger sticking out of Duncan’s neck like a hook.
‘Oh darling,’ Lady whispered. ‘My man, my hero, my saviour, Macbeth.’
Macbeth opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment the total Sunday silence was broken by a barely audible but continuous ringing sound from below.
Lady looked at her watch. ‘That’s Duff. He’s early! Darling, go downstairs and keep him busy while I sort this out.’
‘You’ve got three minutes,’ Macbeth said. ‘Don’t touch the blood. It’s semi-coagulated and will leave prints. OK?’
She angled back her head and smiled at him. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘There you are.’
And he knew what she meant. At last he was there. The zone.
Standing in front of the door to the Inverness, Duff shivered and longed to be back in Caithness’s warm bed. He was about to press the bell a second time when the door opened.
‘Sir, the entrance to the casino is down there.’
‘No, I’m here to collect Chief Commissioner Duncan.’
‘Oh, right. Come in. I’ll ring and say you’re here. Inspector Duff, isn’t it?’
Duff nodded. They had really first-class staff at the Inverness. He sank down into one of the deep armchairs.
‘No answer, sir,’ said the receptionist. ‘Neither there nor in his bodyguards’ room.’
Duff looked at his watch. ‘What’s the chief commissioner’s room number?’
‘Two thirteen, sir.’
‘Would you mind if I went up to wake him?’
‘Not at all.’
Duff was on his way up the stairs when a familiar figure came bounding down towards him.
‘Morning, Duff,’ Macbeth called cheerily. ‘Jack, could you go to the kitchen and get us both a cup of strong coffee.’
The receptionist went off.
‘Thanks, Macbeth, but I’ve been told to collect Duncan.’
‘Is it that urgent? And aren’t you a bit early?’
‘We’ve arranged a time to be home, and I remembered that Kenneth Bridge was still out of action, so we’ll have to take the detour over the old bridge.’
‘Relax.’ Macbeth laughed, grabbing Duff under the arm. ‘She won’t be setting a stopwatch, will she? And you look exhausted, so if you’re driving you’ll need some strong coffee. Come on, let’s sit down.’
Duff hesitated. ‘Thanks, my friend, but that’ll have to wait.’
‘A cup of coffee and she won’t notice the smell of whisky quite as easily.’
‘I’m considering becoming a teetotaller like you.’
‘Are you?’
‘Booze leads to three things: a colourful nose, sleep and pissing. In Duncan’s case, obviously sleep. I’ll go up and—’
Macbeth held on to his arm. ‘And booze is lust’s dupe, I’ve heard. Increases your lust but reduces performance. How was your night? Tell me. Slowly and in detail.’
Duff arched an eyebrow. Slowly and in detail. Was he using the interrogation term from their police college days as a jokey parody or did he know something? No, Macbeth didn’t talk in riddles. He didn’t have the patience or the ability. ‘There’s not much to tell. I stayed with a cousin.’
‘Eh? You never told me you had any family. I thought your grandfather was the last relation you had. Look, here’s the coffee. Just put it on the table, Jack. And try ringing Duncan again.’
Reassured that the receptionist was on the case, Duff went down the steps and greedily reached for the coffee. But stayed standing.
‘The family, yes,’ Macbeth said. ‘It’s a source of a constant guilty conscience, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, maybe,’ said Duff, who had burned his tongue with his first sip and was now blowing on the coffee.
‘How are they? Are they enjoying Fife?’
‘Everyone enjoys Fife.’
‘Duncan still isn’t answering his phone, sir.’
‘Thanks, Jack. Keep trying. Lots of people will have heavy heads this morning.’
Duff put down his cup. ‘Macbeth, I think I’ll wake him first and drink coffee afterwards, so we can get going.’
‘I’ll go up with you. He’s next to us,’ Macbeth said, taking a sip of his coffee. He spilled it on his hand and jacket sleeve. ‘Whoops. Have you got a paper towel, Jack?’
‘I’ll just—’
‘Hang about, Duff. That’s it, yes. Thanks, Jack. Come on, let’s go.’
They walked up the stairs.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Duff asked.
‘No. Why?’
‘I’ve never seen you climb stairs so slowly.’
‘I might have pulled a muscle during the Norse Rider chase.’
‘Hm.’
‘Otherwise. Sleep well?’
‘No,’ Duff said. ‘It was a terrible night. Thunder, lightning and rain.’
‘Yes, it was a bad night.’
‘So you didn’t sleep either?’
‘Well, I did—’
Duff turned and looked at him.
‘—after the worst of the storm had died down,’ Macbeth finished. ‘Here we are.’
Duff knocked. Waited and knocked again. Grabbed the door knob. The door was locked. And he had a sense, a sense something was not as it should be.
‘Is there a master key?’
‘I’ll go and ask Jack,’ Macbeth said.
‘Jack!’ Duff shouted. And then again, from the bottom of his lungs: ‘Jack!’
After a few seconds the receptionist’s head appeared over the edge of the stairs. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have you got a master key?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come here and open the door at once.’
The receptionist ran up t
o them, taking short steps, rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key, put it in the lock and twisted.
Duff opened the door.
They stood staring. The first person to speak was the receptionist.
‘Holy shit.’
Macbeth examined the scene, conscious of the door threshold pressing against the sole of his foot, and heard Duff smash the glass of the fire alarm, which immediately began to howl. The dagger had been removed from the right-hand side of Duncan’s neck and Lady had added a stab on the left. The gun on the duvet had also been removed. Otherwise everything appeared to be how it had been.
‘Jack!’ Duff called over the howl. ‘Get everyone out of their rooms and assemble them in reception now. Not a word about what you’ve seen, all right?’
‘All r-right, sir.’
Doors down the corridor opened. Out of the closest came Lady, barefoot and in her dressing gown.
‘What’s up, darling? Is there a fire?’
She was good. They were back following the plan, he was still in the zone, and Macbeth felt at this second, at this moment, with everything apparently in chaos, that everything was actually on track. Right now he and the woman he loved were unbeatable, right now they were in total control – of the town, fate, the orbit of the stars. And he felt it now, it was like a high, as strong as anything Hecate could offer.
‘Where on earth are his bodyguards?’ Duff shouted, furious.
They hadn’t imagined it would be Duff in the role of witness to what was about to happen, but one of the more perplexed and frightened overnight guests they had placed in neighbouring rooms, such as Malcolm. But now Duff was here he was impossible to ignore.
‘In here, darling,’ Macbeth said. ‘You too, Duff.’
He pushed them into Duncan’s room and closed the door. Took his service pistol from the holster on his trouser belt. ‘Listen carefully now. The door was locked and there was no sign of a break-in. The only person who has a master key to this room is Jack . . .’
‘And me,’ said Lady. ‘I think so anyway . . .’
‘Apart from that, there’s only one possibility.’ Macbeth pointed to the door to the adjacent room.
‘His own bodyguards?’ Lady said in horror and put a hand to her mouth.