by Jo Nesbo
‘The body?’
‘—this.’ Macbeth held up a round piece of metal that glinted in the glare of the TV lamps. ‘This is Malcolm’s police badge, and was found on the seabed by the quay.’
‘Do you think someone has killed him?’
‘Possibly,’ Macbeth said, without batting an eyelid, in the deafening silence that followed. ‘If by someone we include Malcolm himself.’ He ran his eye over the audience and continued: ‘A letter was found on the front seat of his car.’
Macbeth addressed the letter. Cleared his throat.
‘The Norse Riders threatened they would kill my daughter, Julia, if I didn’t help them to kill the chief commissioner. 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. It is signed by the deputy chief commissioner.’
Macbeth looked up at the assembled journalists. ‘The first question we – and I presume you, too – are asking is of course whether the letter is genuine. Our Forensics Unit has confirmed that the letter was written on Malcolm’s typewriter at HQ. The paper bears Malcolm’s fingerprints and the signature is Malcolm’s.’
It was as though the room needed a few seconds to digest the information. Then came shrill voices.
‘Do you know if there’s anything else to confirm Malcolm was behind Duncan’s murder?’
‘How could Malcolm have helped the Norse Riders to murder Duncan?’
‘What’s the connection between Malcolm and the bodyguards?’
‘Do you think there are any other police officers involved?’
Macbeth held up his palms. ‘I won’t answer any questions about Duncan’s murder now, as it is all speculation. Only questions about Malcolm’s disappearance. One at a time, please.’
Silence. Then the only female journalist in the room said, ‘Are we to understand that you’ve found Malcolm’s police badge, but not Malcolm?’
‘We have a muddy seabed to contend with, and the water in our harbour is not the cleanest. A light brass badge doesn’t necessarily sink into the mud the way a body does, and brass reflects light. It will take the divers time to find Malcolm.’
Macbeth watched the journalists as they threw themselves over their pads and made notes.
‘Isn’t the most obvious reason for that the current carrying away the body?’ said a voice with rolled ‘r’s.
‘Yes,’ Macbeth replied, and he spotted the face behind the voice. One of the few who wasn’t taking notes. Walt Kite. He didn’t need to; the radio station microphone was placed in front of Macbeth.
‘If Malcolm killed Duncan and regretted it, why—’
‘Stop.’ Macbeth raised a palm. ‘As I said, I won’t answer any questions about Duncan’s murder until we know more. And now please understand that we have to return to work. The number one priority for us is to investigate this case as quickly and efficiently as we can with the resources at our disposal. We also have to appoint a chief commissioner as soon as possible so that we have continuity in the rest of the work the police are doing for this town.’
‘Is it correct that you’re the acting chief at this moment, Macbeth?’
‘In formal terms, yes.’
‘And in practice?’
‘In practice . . .’ Macbeth paused. Looked down quickly at his sheet. Moistened his lips. ‘We’re a group of experienced unit heads who have already taken the helm, and I’m not afraid to say we are in control. Nor, however, am I afraid to say that filling Duncan’s shoes will take some doing. Duncan was a visionary man, a hero who died in the fight against the powers of evil, who think today they have won a victory.’ He gripped the lectern and leaned forward. ‘But all they have achieved is to make us even more determined that this lost battle will be the start of progress towards the final victory for the power of good. For justice. For security. And through that for rebuilding, re-establishing and regaining prosperity. But we can’t do that alone; to do that we need your trust and the town’s trust. If we have that we will continue the work that Chief Commissioner Duncan started. And I would—’ he stopped to raise his hand as if swearing an oath ‘—like to guarantee personally that we will not stop until we have achieved the goals that Duncan set for this town and all – all – its inhabitants.’
Macbeth let go of the lectern and straightened up. Looked at the faces, which blurred into a sea of eyes and open mouths before him. No, he wasn’t afraid. He saw the effect and was still savouring the sound of his own words. Lady’s words. He had leaned forward exactly when he was supposed to. She had instructed him in front of a mirror and explained how aggressive body language gave the impression of spontaneous passion and hunger for a fight, and that body language was more important than the words he used because it bypasses the brain and speaks directly to the heart.
‘The next press conference is tomorrow morning at eleven here in Scone Hall. Thank you.’
Macbeth collected his papers, and there was a groan of disappointment before a hail of protests and questions. Macbeth peered across the room. He wanted to stay there a couple more seconds. He managed – with some difficulty – to stop the incipient smile at the last moment.
He looks like the bloody captain of a boat, thought Duff, sitting in the front row. A captain fearlessly looking across the stormy sea. Someone has taught him that. It’s not the Macbeth I know. Knew.
Macbeth nodded briefly, marched across the podium and disappeared through the door held open by Priscilla.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Lennox?’ Duff asked while the journalists were still shouting for an encore behind them.
‘I’m moved,’ said the redhead inspector. ‘And inspired.’
‘Exactly. That was more like an election speech than a press conference.’
‘You can interpret it like that or you can interpret it as a clever and responsible tactical move.’
‘Responsible?’ Duff snorted.
‘A town, a country, rests on notions. Notions that banknotes can be exchanged for gold, notions that our leaders think about you and me and not their own good, that crimes will be punished. If we didn’t believe in those notions civilised society would disintegrate in a frighteningly short time. And in a situation where anarchy is knocking on the door Macbeth has just reassured us that the town’s public institutions are fully intact. It was a speech worthy of a statesman.’
‘Or stateswoman.’
‘You think those were Lady’s words, not Macbeth’s?’
‘Women understand hearts and how to speak to them. Because the heart is the woman in us. Even if the brain is bigger, talks more and believes that the husband rules the house, it’s the heart that silently makes the decisions. The speech touched your heart and the brain gladly follows. Believe me, Macbeth doesn’t have it in him; the speech is her work.’
‘So what? We all need a better half. As long as the result is what we want it doesn’t matter if the devil himself is behind it. You’re not jealous of Macbeth, are you, Duff?’
‘Jealous?’ Duff snorted. ‘Why would I be? He looks and speaks like a real leader, and if he acts like one as well, it’s obviously best for all of us that he leads and no one else.’
Chairs scraped back behind them. Macbeth hadn’t returned and their deadline was approaching.
It was an hour to midnight. The wind had dropped, but litter and wreckage from last night’s storm were still being blown through the streets. The damp north-westerly was compressed and accelerated through the corridors of the station concourse, past a bundle lying beside the wall and – a few metres further down – a man with a scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth.
Strega went over to him.
‘Afraid you’ll be recognised, Macbeth?’
&
nbsp; ‘Shh, don’t say my name. I gave a speech this evening and I’m afraid I lost my anonymity.’
‘I saw the evening news, yes. You looked good up there. I believed almost everything you said. But then a handsome face has always had that effect on me.’
‘How come you appear as soon as I show up here, Strega?’
She smiled. ‘Brew?’
‘Have you got anything else? Speed? Cocaine? I’m seeing things and get such terrible dreams from brew.’
‘It was the storm, not brew, that gave you such bad dreams, Macbeth. I don’t touch the stuff, yet I dreamed that all the dogs went mad from the thunder. I saw them going for each other with foam coming from their jaws. And while they were still alive they were eating each other. I was covered in sweat and relieved when I woke up.’
Macbeth pointed at the bundle further up the corridor. ‘There you have your dream.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the corpse of a half-eaten dog, can’t you see?’
‘I think you’re seeing things again. Here.’ She put a little bag in his hand. ‘Brew. Don’t go crazy now, Macbeth. Remember the path is simple, it runs straight ahead.’
As Macbeth passed Bertha and hurried down across the deserted Workers’ Square where it sloped down towards Inverness Casino’s illuminated facade he saw a figure standing in the darkness and rain. And on getting closer he saw to his surprise that it was Banquo.
‘What are you doing here?’ Macbeth said.
‘Waiting for you,’ Banquo said.
‘Midway between Bertha and the Inverness, where neither can give you shelter?’
‘I couldn’t make up my mind,’ Banquo said.
‘Which way to go?’
‘What to do with Malcolm.’
‘You didn’t put the chains around him, is that it?’
‘What?’
‘The divers haven’t found the body yet. Without some weight the current will have taken him.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘No? Let’s go to the Inverness then instead of standing here and getting cold and wet.’
‘For me it’s too late. I’m chilled to the very bottom of my heart. I was waiting for you here because there are journalists outside the casino. They’re waiting for you, the new chief commissioner.’
‘Then we’d better do this quickly. What happened?’
‘I skinned the cat in a different way. You have nothing to fear. Malcolm’s gone for ever and will never come back. And even if he did he has no idea you’ve played a part in this. He thinks Hecate’s behind everything.’
‘What are you talking about? Is Malcolm alive ?’
Banquo shivered. ‘Malcolm thinks I’m in Hecate’s pocket and it was me who influenced Duncan’s bodyguards. I know this wasn’t what we agreed. But I solved our problem and I saved the life of a good man.’
‘Where’s Malcolm now?’
‘Gone.’
‘Where?’ Macbeth said and saw from Banquo’s face that he had raised his voice.
‘I drove him to the airport and put him on a plane to Capitol. From there he’ll go abroad. He knows that if he tries to contact anyone or gives the smallest sign of being alive, his daughter Julia will be liquidated at once. Malcolm is a father, Macbeth. And I know what that means. He will never risk his daughter’s life, never. He’d rather let a town go to the dogs. Believe me, even in the draughtiest attic a flea-bitten Malcolm will wake up every morning hungry, cold and lonely and thank his maker that his daughter can live another day.’
Macbeth raised his hand and then saw something in Banquo’s eyes he had only ever seen once before. Not in all the operations they had carried out together against desperadoes or lunatics who had taken children as hostages. Not the times Banquo had faced an adversary who was bigger, stronger and he knew would – and did – give him a beating. Macbeth had only seen this expression on Banquo’s face once, and it was the time he came home after visiting Vera in hospital and the doctor had told him the result of the latest tests. Fear. Sheer, unadulterated fear. And for that reason Macbeth suspected it wasn’t for himself that Banquo was afraid.
‘Thank you,’ Macbeth said. He laid his hand heavily on Banquo’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, my dear friend, for being kind where I was not. I thought one man was a small sacrifice for such an immense objective as ours. But you’re right: a town can’t be saved from going to the dogs by letting good men die without need. This one could be spared and so he should be spared. And perhaps you’ve saved us both from ending up in hell for such a gross act of cruelty.’
‘I’m so glad you see it that way,’ Banquo exclaimed, and Macbeth could feel the trembling muscles in Banquo’s shoulder relax under his hand.
‘Get off home and sleep now, Banquo. And say hello to Fleance from me.’
‘I will. Goodnight.’
Macbeth crossed the square, pensive. Sometimes good men did die for no need, he thought. And sometimes there was a need. He entered the light from the Inverness, ignored the journalists’ barked questions about Malcolm, about Duncan’s bodyguards, about whether it really was he who had shot them both.
Inside, Lady received him.
‘They broadcast the whole of the press conference live on TV, and you were fantastic,’ she said and hugged him. He wouldn’t let her go again. He held her until he could feel heat returning to his body. Felt the wonderful electric currents down his back as her lips touched his ear and she whispered, ‘Chief Commissioner.’
Home. With her. The two of them. This, this was all he wanted. But to have this you had to merit it. That is how it is in this world. And, he thought, also in the next.
‘Are you home?’
Duff turned in the doorway to the children’s room, to the surprised voice behind him. Meredith had put on a dressing gown and stood with her arms crossed, shivering.
‘Just popped by,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. Doesn’t Ewan want to sleep in his own room?’ He nodded towards his son, who lay curled up in the bed beside his big sister.
Meredith sighed. ‘He’s started going to Emily when he can’t sleep. I thought you would be staying in town while you’re working on these dreadful things?’
‘Yes. Yes, but I had to escape for a while. Get some clean clothes. See if you all still existed. I thought I’d sleep a couple of hours in the guest room and then be on my way.’
‘All right, I’ll make up the bed. Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry. I’ll have a sandwich when I wake up.’
‘I can make you some breakfast. I can’t sleep anyway.’
‘You go and sleep, Meredith. I’ll be up for a bit, then I’ll make up the bed.’
‘As you like.’ She stood there with her arms crossed looking at him, but in the darkness he couldn’t see her eyes. She turned and went.
13
‘BUT I WANT TO KNOW why,’ Duff said, placing his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. ‘Why didn’t Andrianov and Hennessy run off? Why would two treacherous bodyguards first kill their boss and then lie down for a sleep in the adjacent room, covered in blood and evidence from here to hell? Come on, you’re detectives, you must have some bloody suggestions at least!’
He looked around. Several of the Homicide Unit’s twelve detectives sat in the room in front of him, but the only one who opened his mouth did so to yawn. It was Monday morning – perhaps that was why they were so uncommunicative, looked so ill-at-ease and switched off? No, these faces would look just as tired tomorrow unless someone got a grip on things. There was a reason the Homicide Unit had been without a formal leader for the two months that had passed since Duncan had given the previous head an ultimatum: resign or an internal enquiry will be set up to investigate suspected corruption. There were no qualified applicants. Under Kenneth, the Homicide Unit had had the lowest clear-up rate
in the country, and corruption was not the only reason. While the Homicide Unit in Capitol got the best in the field, the Homicide Unit at police HQ had only the dregs: the apathetic and the dysfunctional.
‘This has to be turned round,’ Duncan had said. ‘The success or failure of the Homicide Unit determines to a large extent people’s confidence in the police. That’s why I’m putting one of our finest officers on the case. You, Duff.’
Duncan had known how to serve up bad news to his staff in an inspiring way. Duff groaned. He had a pile of reports beside him worth less than the paper they were written on – meaninglessly detailed interviews with guests at Inverness Casino all telling the same story: they hadn’t seen or heard anything apart from the hellish weather. Duff knew the silence around the table might be because they were simply afraid of his fury, but he didn’t give a damn. This wasn’t a popularity contest, and if they had to be frightened into doing something, fine by him.
‘So we think the guilty bodyguards just slept the sleep of the innocent, do we? As it had been a long day at work. Which of you idiots votes for that?’
No reaction.
‘And who doesn’t believe that?’
‘Not of the innocent,’ said Caithness, who had just breezed in through the door. ‘Of the medicated. Apologies for my late arrival, but I had to pick up this.’ She waved something horribly resembling a report. Which it was, Duff established as it landed in front of the pile on the table with a thud. More precisely, a forensic report. ‘Blood samples taken from Andrianov and Hennessy show they had enough benzodiazepines in their bodies to sleep for twelve hours.’ Caithness sat down on one of the unoccupied chairs.
‘Bodyguards who take sleeping tablets?’ Duff said in disbelief.