by Jo Nesbo
Malcolm nodded. Something about Banquo’s tone told him that the physically smaller and much older man would probably have been able to do so with his bare hands if he so wished.
‘So where are we going?’
‘To the container harbour, sir.’
‘Why not home to—’
‘You don’t want your family caught up in this mess, sir. I’ll explain when we’re there. Drive. I’ll slump down in the seat. Best no one sees me and realises you’ve been informed.’
Malcolm drove out, received a nod from the guard, the barrier was lifted and he was back out in the rain.
‘I have a meeting in—’
‘That’ll be taken care of.’
‘And the press conference?’
‘That too. What you should think about now is you. And your daughter.’
‘Julia?’ Malcolm could feel it now. The panic.
‘She’ll be taken care of, sir. Just drive now. We’ll soon be there.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Whatever has to be done.’
Five minutes later they drove through the gates of the container harbour, which in recent years had been left open as all attempts to keep the homeless and thieves out had achieved had been smashed fences and locks. It was Sunday and the quay was deserted.
‘Park behind the shed there,’ Banquo said.
Malcolm did as instructed, parking beside a Volvo saloon.
‘Sign this,’ Banquo said, holding a sheet of paper and a pen between the front seats.
‘What is it?’ Malcolm said.
‘A few lines written on your typewriter,’ Banquo said. ‘Read it aloud.’
‘The Norse Riders threatened they would kill my daughter—’ Malcolm stopped.
‘Carry on,’ Banquo said.
Malcolm cleared his throat. ‘—Julia, if I didn’t help them to kill the chief commissioner,’ he read. ‘But now they have a hold on me and they’ve told me to perform other services for them, too. I know that for as long as I’m alive the threat to my daughter will always be there. That is why – and because of the shame I feel for what I’ve done – I’ve decided to drown myself.’
‘That is in fact true,’ Banquo said. ‘Only the signature on that letter can save your daughter.’
Malcolm turned to Banquo on the back seat. Stared into the muzzle of the gun he was holding in his gloved hand.
‘There isn’t any attempt on my life. You lied.’
‘Yes and no,’ Banquo said.
‘You tricked me into coming here so that you could kill me and dump me in this canal.’
‘You’ll drown yourself, as it says in the letter.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because the alternative is that I shoot you in the head now, drive to your house and then the suicide letter looks like this.’ Banquo passed him another sheet of paper. ‘Just the ending has been changed.’
‘For as long as my daughter and I are alive, the threat will always be there. That’s why I’ve chosen to take our lives and spare her the shame of what I’ve done and a life of endless fear.’ Malcolm blinked. He understood the words, they made sense, yet still he had to reread the letter.
‘Sign now, Malcolm.’ Banquo’s voice sounded almost comforting.
Malcolm closed his eyes. It was so quiet in the car that he could hear the creak of the trigger springs in Banquo’s gun. Then he opened his eyes, grabbed the pen and signed his name on the first letter. Metal rattled on the back seat. ‘Here,’ said Banquo. ‘Put them around your waist under your coat.’
Malcolm appraised the tyre chains Banquo held out. A weight.
He took them and wrapped them around his waist while his brain tried to find a way out.
‘Let me see,’ Banquo said, tightening the chains. Then he threaded through a padlock and clicked it shut. Placed the signed letter on the passenger seat and on top a key Malcolm assumed was for the padlock.
‘Come on.’ They got out into the rain. With his gun Banquo prodded Malcolm along the edge of the quay following a narrow canal that cut in from the main docks. Containers stood like walls on both sides of the canal. Even if people were out walking on the quay they wouldn’t see Malcolm and Banquo where they were.
‘Stop,’ Banquo said.
Malcolm stared across the black sea, which lay flat, beaten down and tamed by the lashing rain. Lowered his gaze and looked down into the oil-covered greenish-black water, then turned his back to the sea and fixed his eyes on Banquo.
Banquo raised his gun. ‘Jump, sir.’
‘You don’t look like someone intending to kill, Banquo.’
‘With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you know what such people look like.’
‘True enough. But I’m a fairly good judge of character.’
‘Have been up to now.’
Malcolm stretched his arms out to the side. ‘Push me then.’
Banquo moistened his lips. Changed his grip on the gun.
‘Well, Banquo? Show me the killer in you.’
‘You’re cool for a suit, sir.’
Malcolm lowered his arms. ‘That’s because I know something about loss, Banquo. Just like you. I’ve learned that we can afford to lose most things. But then there are some we cannot, that will stop us existing even more than if we lose our own lives. I know that you lost your wife to the illness which this town has given to its inhabitants.’
‘Oh yes? How do you know that?’
‘Because Duncan told me. And he did so because I lost my first wife to the same illness. And we talked about how we could help to create a town where this wouldn’t happen, where even the town’s most powerful industrial magnates would face trial for breaking the law, where a murder is a murder, whether it’s with a weapon or by gassing the town’s inhabitants until their eyes go yellow and they smell like a corpse.’
‘So you’ve already lost the unloseable.’
‘No. You can lose your wife and your life still has meaning. Because you have a child. A daughter. A son. It’s our children who are unloseable, Banquo. If I save Julia by dying now, that’s the way it has to be, it’s worth it. And there will be others after me and Duncan. You might not believe me, but this world is full of people who want what is good, Banquo.’
‘And who decides what is good? You and the other big bosses?’
‘Ask your heart, Banquo. Your brain will deceive you. Ask your heart.’
Malcolm saw Banquo shift his weight from one foot to the other. Malcolm’s mouth and throat were dry, he was already hoarse. ‘You can hang as many chains on us as you like, Banquo, it won’t make any difference because we’ll float to the surface. What is good rises. I swear I’m going to float to the surface somewhere and reveal your misdeeds.’
‘They aren’t mine, Malcolm.’
‘Hecate. Yours. You’re in the same boat. And we both know which river that boat will cross and where you’ll soon end up.’
Banquo nodded slowly. ‘Hecate,’ he said. ‘Exactly.’
‘What?’
Banquo seemed to be staring at a point on Malcolm’s forehead. ‘You’re right, sir. I work for Hecate.’ Malcolm tried to decipher Banquo’s faint smile. Water was running down his face as though he were crying, Malcolm thought. Was he hesitating? Malcolm knew he would have to continue talking, to make Banquo talk, because every word, every second prolonged his life. Increased the fading tiny chance that Banquo might change his mind or someone might appear.
‘Why drowning, Banquo?’
‘Eh?’
‘Shooting me in the car and making it look like suicide would be easier.’
Banquo shrugged. ‘There are many ways to skin a cat. The crime scene is underwater. No traces if they suspect murder. And drowning is nicer. Like going to sleep.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I know. I almost drowned twice in my youth.’
The barrel of Banquo’s gun had sunk a fraction. Malcolm estimated the distance between them.
Malcolm swallowed. ‘Why did you almost drown, Banquo?’
‘Because I grew up on the east side of town and never learned to swim. Isn’t it funny that here in a town on the edge of the sea there are people who die if they fall in? So I tried to teach my boy to swim. The odd thing is he didn’t learn either. Perhaps because it was a non-swimmer trying to teach him. If we sink, they sink, that’s how our fates are passed on. But people like you can swim, Malcolm.’
‘Hence the chains, I assume.’
‘Yes.’ The gun barrel was raised again. The hesitation was gone and the determination back in Banquo’s eyes. Malcolm took a deep breath. The chance had been there and now it wasn’t.
‘Good people or not,’ Banquo said, ‘you have the buoyancy we lack. And I have to be sure you will stay under the water. And never rise to the surface again. If you don’t I won’t have done my job. Do you understand?’
‘Understand?’
‘Give me your police badge.’
Malcolm took the brass badge from his jacket pocket and gave it to Banquo, who immediately threw it. It flew over the edge of the quay, hit the water and sank. ‘It’s brass. It’s shiny but will sink right to the bottom. That’s gravity, sir, it drags everything with it into the mud. You have to disappear, Malcolm. Disappear for ever.’
In the meeting room Macbeth looked at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes past six. The door opened again, and a person Macbeth recognised as Lennox’s assistant stuck her head in, said it still wasn’t possible to get in contact with Malcolm; all they knew was he arrived at HQ, turned round in the garage and left, and no one, not even his daughter Julia, knew where he was.
‘Thanks, Priscilla,’ Lennox said and turned to the others. ‘Then I think we should start this meeting by—’
Macbeth knew this was the moment. The moment Lady had spoken about, the moment of the leadership void, when everyone would unconsciously regard the person who took the initiative as the new leader. For that reason his interruption came over loud and clear.
‘Excuse me, Lennox.’ Macbeth turned to the door. ‘Priscilla, could you organise a search for Malcolm and his car? For the time being, radio only patrol cars. And phrase it as low key as possible. HQ wishes to contact him ASAP. That kind of thing, thank you.’ He turned to the others. ‘Sorry to requisition your assistant, Lennox, but I think most of us here share my unease. OK, let’s start the meeting. Anyone object if I chair it until Malcolm arrives?’
He scanned the table. Caithness. Lennox. Duff. Saw how they had to think before they concluded what Lennox said stiffly after a clearing of the throat: ‘You’re the next in command, Macbeth. Away you go.’
‘Thank you, Lennox. Would you mind, by the way, closing the window behind you? Let’s start with the bodyguards. Has Anti-Corruption got anything there?’
‘Not yet,’ Lennox said, trying to close the latches. ‘There’s nothing to suggest irregularities or anything one might deem suspicious. In fact, the lack of irregularities is the only suspicious thing.’
‘Nothing suspicious, new connections, no sudden purchasing of luxury goods or bank account movements?’
Lennox shook his head. ‘They seem as clean as shining armour.’
‘My guess is they were clean,’ Duff said. ‘But even the cleanest knights can be poisoned and corrupted if you can find the chink in their armour. And Hecate found that gap.’
‘Then we can, too,’ Macbeth said. ‘Keep searching, Lennox.’
‘I will.’ His tone suggested a space for sir at the end. It wasn’t spoken, but everyone had heard it.
‘You mentioned you spoke to the undercover guys in your old section, Duff?’
‘They say the murder came as a shock to everyone working on the street. No one knew anything. But everyone takes it as a foregone conclusion that Hecate’s behind it. A young guy down at the central station mentioned something about a police officer asking for dope – I don’t know if it was one of our undercover drugs men, but it definitely wasn’t either of the bodyguards. We’ll continue to look for clues that could lead us to where Hecate is. But it’s – as we know – at least as hard as finding Sweno.’
‘Thanks, Duff. Crime scene investigation, Caithness?’
‘Predicted finds,’ she said, looking at the notes in front of her. ‘We’ve identified various fingerprints in the deceased’s room and they match those of the three maids, the bodyguards and those who were in the room – Lady, Macbeth and Duff. As well as a set of prints we couldn’t identify for a while, but now we have a match with the prints of the previous occupants of the room. So when I say predicted finds that’s not exactly true; usually hotel rooms are full of unidentified fingerprints.’
‘The owner of the Inverness takes cleaning very seriously,’ Macbeth said drily.
‘Pathology confirms that the direct cause of death was two stab wounds. The wounds match the daggers that were found. And although the daggers were cleaned on the sheet and the bodyguards’ own clothing there was still more than enough blood on the blades and handles to establish it came from the deceased.’
‘Can we say Duncan?’ Macbeth asked. ‘Instead of deceased.’
‘As you wish. One dagger is bloodier than the other as it was the one that cut the dece— erm Duncan’s carotid artery, hence the splash of blood over the duvet, as you can see on this photograph.’ Caithness pushed a black-and-white photo into the middle of the table, which the others dutifully examined. ‘Full autopsy report will be ready tomorrow morning. We can say more then.’
‘More about what?’ Duff asked. ‘What he had for dinner? As we all know, we had the same. Or what illnesses he had that he didn’t die of? If we’re going to keep up the pace it’s essential now that we focus on information that’s important.’
‘An autopsy,’ Caithness said, and Macbeth noticed the quiver in her voice, ‘can confirm or deny the assumed sequence of events. And I’d assume that was pretty important.’
‘It is, Caithness,’ Macbeth said. ‘Anything else?’
She showed some more photos, talked about other medical and technical evidence, but none of it pointed in a direction that was different from the general consensus around the table: that the two bodyguards had killed Duncan. There was also agreement that the guards didn’t seem to have a motive, therefore other forces must have been behind the murder, but the consequent discussion about whether anyone else apart from Hecate could have been responsible was brief and unproductive.
Macbeth suggested postponing the press conference until ten o’clock pending the location and briefing of Malcolm. Lennox pointed out that nine was a better time for the press as they had early deadlines on a Sunday.
‘Thank you, Lennox,’ Macbeth said. ‘But our agenda is what counts and not sales figures early tomorrow.’
‘I think that’s stupid,’ Lennox said. ‘We’re the new management team, and it’s unwise to make ourselves unpopular with the press at the very first opportunity.’
‘Your view has been noted,’ Macbeth said. ‘Unless Malcolm appears and says anything to the contrary, we meet here at nine and go through what has to be said at the press conference.’
‘And who will give the press conference?’ Duff asked.
Before Macbeth had the chance to answer, the door opened. It was Priscilla, Lennox’s assistant.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said. ‘A patrol car has reported that Malcolm’s car is parked at the container harbour. It’s empty and there’s no sign of Malcolm.’
Macbeth felt the silence in the room. Savoured the knowledge that they didn’t share. And the control it gave him.
‘Where in the container harbour?’ Macbeth asked.
‘On the quay by one o
f the canals.’
Macbeth nodded slowly. ‘Send divers.’
‘Divers?’ Lennox said. ‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’
‘I think Macbeth’s right,’ Priscilla interrupted, and the others turned to her in astonishment. She gulped. ‘They found a letter on the car seat.’
12
THE PRESS CONFERENCE STARTED AT ten precisely. When Macbeth entered Scone Hall and walked to the podium, flashes fired off from all angles and cast grotesque fleeting shadows of him on the wall behind. He placed his papers on the lectern in front of him, looked down at them for a few seconds, then coughed and scanned the full rows of seats. He had never enjoyed speaking in front of audiences. Once, long ago, the very thought of it had been worse than the most hazardous mission. But it had got better. And now, this evening, he felt happy. He would enjoy it. Because he was in control and knew something they didn’t. And because he had just inhaled a line of brew. That was all he needed.
‘Good evening, I’m Inspector Macbeth, head of the Organised Crime Unit. As you know, Chief Commissioner Duncan was found murdered at Inverness Casino this morning at 6.42. Immediately afterwards the two provisional suspects in the case, Duncan’s bodyguards Police Officer Andrianov and Police Officer Hennessy, were shot and killed by the police in the adjacent room when they resisted arrest. An hour ago you were given a detailed account of the course of events, our current findings and assumptions about the case, so this can be dealt with quickly. But I would like to add a couple of things of a more technical nature.’
Macbeth held his breath and one journalist was unable to restrain himself:
‘What do you know about Malcolm?’ the question resounded.
‘Is he dead?’ another journalist lobbed in.
Macbeth looked down at his notes. Put them to the side.
‘If these questions mean the press considers we’ve covered our responsibility to report on the murder of Chief Commissioner Duncan, we can now talk about the disappearance of the deputy chief commissioner.’
‘No, but first things first,’ shouted one of the older journalists. ‘We have deadlines looming.’
‘OK,’ Macbeth said. ‘Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm didn’t show up – as you appear to know – at our meeting in police HQ at six. On a day when the chief commissioner has been found dead that is of course disturbing. So we instigated a search, and Malcolm’s car was located this afternoon in the container harbour. Subsequently the area was searched, also by divers. And they found—’