by Jo Nesbo
‘Thank you again, but I’m very sure,’ Seyton said.
‘Fine, but when he’s been arrested and brought ashore, we take over.’
‘Absolutely. As long as you keep an eye on the gangway and the ship.’
‘He won’t get away, Inspector.’ The Capitol policeman pointed to the plain-clothes policemen in two rowing boats fifty metres from the quay. The officers were pretending to fish, but were ready to catch Duff if he jumped overboard.
Seyton nodded. It wasn’t so long since he had been standing waiting in another harbour office. That time it had been Duff who had refused help, the stupid idiot. But the roles were changed now. And he would make sure Duff knew. He would make him feel it. For some endlessly long seconds. The Capitol Police knew nothing of Macbeth’s orders of course: Duff was not to be brought but carried ashore. In a body bag.
The Glamis reversed, and the sea was whipped white below the surface, then the white water rose and bubbled like champagne. Seyton loaded his MP-5. ‘Olafson. Ricardo. Ready?’
The two SWAT men nodded. They had drawings of the boat showing the cabin where Duff was.
Hawsers were thrown from the Glamis onto the quay, one from the bow and one from the stern, coiled around bollards and tightened. The side of the boat pushed gently against screaming tyres. A gangway was lowered.
‘Now,’ Seyton said.
They ran out across the quay and up the gangway. The crew stared at them open-mouthed; the captain had obviously managed to keep the secret. They rushed down an iron ladder past what was labelled the first mate’s cabin. Further down. And further down. Stopped outside the door of cabin 12.
Seyton listened but heard only his own breathing and the rumble of the engines. Ricardo had taken up a position further down the corridor where he could keep an eye on the nearby doors, in case Duff was in a different cabin, heard them and tried to make a getaway.
Seyton switched on his torch and nodded to Olafson. Then he went in. The torch was redundant; there was enough light inside. Duff was lying on the lower bunk, turned to the wall with a blanket over him. He was wearing the green hat the captain said ‘Johnson’ never took off and always kept pulled down to his big glasses. Apart from once when it had ridden up and the captain had seen the scar. Seyton took out the gun that would be placed in Duff’s hand and fired two shots into the wall behind them. The explosions temporarily deprived him of hearing, and for a couple of seconds all Seyton heard was a high-pitched squeak. Duff had gone rigid in his bunk. Seyton put his mouth to Duff’s ear.
‘They screamed,’ he said. ‘They screamed, and it was wonderful to hear. You can scream a little too, Duff. Because I’ve decided to shoot you in the stomach first. For old acquaintance’s sake, you arrogant prick.’
A strong smell rose from Duff. Seyton breathed it in. But it wasn’t the delicious scent of fear. It was . . . sweat. Stale, old masculine sweat. Older than the few days that Duff had been missing.
The man in the bunk turned his face to him.
It wasn’t Duff’s face.
‘Eh?’ said the man, and the blanket fell off revealing a naked chest and a hairy forearm.
Seyton put the barrel of his machine gun to the man’s forehead. ‘Police. What are you doing here and where’s Duff?’
The man sniffed. ‘I’m sleeping, as you can see. And I have no idea who Duff is.’
‘Johnson,’ Seyton said, pressing the muzzle into the man’s brow so hard his head fell back onto the pillow.
Another sniff. ‘The galley boy? Have you checked the galley? Or the other cabins? We just take any bunk that’s free on this trip. What’s Johnson done, eh? Something serious by the look of it. If you’re gonna make a dent in my head you’d better shoot, arsehole.’
Seyton pulled his gun away.
‘Olafson, take Ricardo and search the boat.’ Seyton studied the bloated face in front of him. Smelled him. Was the man really so unafraid or was it the composite stench of other body functions that drowned the smell of fear?
Olafson was still standing behind him.
‘Search the boat!’ Seyton yelled. And heard Olafson and Ricardo’s boots pounding down the corridor and the sound of cabin doors being pulled open.
Seyton stretched. ‘What’s your name and why are you wearing Johnson’s hat?’
‘Hutchinson. And you can have the hat. You look like you need something to wank in.’
Seyton hit out. The gun opened the skin on the man’s cheek and blood leaked out. But the guy didn’t turn a hair even though his eyes filled with tears.
‘Answer me,’ Seyton hissed.
‘I woke up cold and was going to put on my T-shirt. I left it on the chest over there. Both my T-shirt and cap were gone; instead there was this hat. It was cold, so I took it, OK?’ Hutchinson’s voice shook, but the hatred shone through the tears. Fear and hatred, hatred and fear, it was always the same, Seyton thought, wiping the blood off the muzzle of his MP-5.
Angry voices came from the corridor. Seyton already knew. They would search the whole boat, every nook and cranny, in vain. Duff had already gone.
30
DUFF HURRIED DOWN BROAD AVENUES past magnificent old buildings, through parks, passing street musicians and portrait painters. A smiling couple at a pavement restaurant pointed him in the right direction when he showed them the address on the slip of paper. Stared at his beard, which had started to come unstuck on one side. Duff, trying not to run, passed Capitol Cathedral.
Hutchinson had turned round.
Turned round as he was on his way down the ladder. Came back up. Had listened to Duff’s story. And even when Duff told him details he himself would not have believed if someone else had told him, Hutchinson had kept nodding as if in recognition. As though nothing was alien to him with regard to what humans were capable of doing to one another. And when Duff had finished, the engineer presented an escape plan. Without any hesitation, so simple and obvious Duff assumed the engineer must have hatched it for himself at some point. Duff would put on Hutchinson’s clothes and stand by the railing ready.
‘Just make sure you have your back to the bridge so the captain can’t see your face and thinks it’s me. The boatman will leave the ladder to you if you’re standing ready. Throw it out early, climb down and stand at the bottom when the pilot’s boat comes alongside. Tell him you need to be ashore before the Glamis docks because you have to pick up a spare part at the shipping office which we need for the winch that tightens the hawsers on the quay.’
‘Why?’
‘Eh?’
‘Why are you doing this for me?’
Hutchinson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was on the detail to load up the ammo boxes. There was a skinny, bald police bloke with his arms crossed who looked as if he wanted to spit on us as we loaded them onto his truck.’
Duff waited. For the rest of his explanation.
‘People do things for each other,’ Hutchinson said and sniffed. ‘It seems.’ Sniff. ‘And if I’ve understood you right, you’re alone against—’ he pointed to the decks above them ‘—them. And I know a bit about how that feels.’
Alone. Them.
‘Thank you.’
‘No worries, Johnson.’ The engineer shook Duff’s hand. Briefly, almost shyly. And then he ran his hand over the plaster on his forehead. ‘Next time I’ll be ready, and it’ll be your turn for a beating.’
‘Of course.’
Duff was east of the centre now.
‘Sorry. District 6?’
‘Over there.’
He passed a kiosk with a news-stand. The houses were becoming smaller, the streets narrower.
‘Tannery Street?’
‘Down to the lights and the second or third left.’
A police siren rose and sank. They had a different sound here in the capital, not so harsh or sharp. And a different tune. Not
as gloomy, not so piercingly disharmonious.
‘Dolphin?’
‘The nightclub? Isn’t it closed? Anyway, do you see that café there? Right next to it.’ But the eyes lingered too long on the scar, trying to remember something.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’
Number 66 Tannery Street.
Duff studied the names next to the bells by the rotting big wooden door. None of them meant a thing to him. He pulled at the door. Open. Or to be more precise, a smashed lock. It was dark inside. He stood still until his pupils began to widen. A staircase. Wet newspaper, smell of urine. Sound of tuberculous coughing from behind a door. A sound like a hard wet slap. Duff set off up the stairs. There were two front doors on every floor, as well as a low door on every landing. He rang one of the doorbells. From inside came the angry barking of a dog and shuffling steps. A small, almost comical, wrinkled lady opened the door. No safety chain.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Hello, I’m Inspector Johnson.’
She eyed him sceptically. Duff assumed she could smell Hutchinson from the Esso T-shirt. The scent appeared to have quietened the little fluffball of a dog anyway.
‘I’m looking for—’ Yes, what was he looking for? ‘—someone a friend of mine, Banquo, gave me an address for.’
‘Sorry, young man. I don’t know any Banquo.’
‘Alfie?’
‘Oh, Alfie. He lives on the second floor, right-hand side. Excuse me, but you . . . erm . . . you’re losing your beard.’
‘Thank you.’
Duff tore off the beard and glasses as he went up to the second floor. The door to the right had no name on it, just a bell with a button hanging from a spiral metal spring.
Duff knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. Another wet slap from the ground floor. He pulled at the door. Locked. Should he wait and see if anyone came? It was a better alternative than showing his face on the street.
Low cough. The sound came from behind the low door on the landing. Duff walked down the five steps and turned the door knob. It moved a little, as though someone was holding on to it on the inside. He knocked.
No answer.
‘Hello? Hello, is anyone there?’
He held his breath and put his ear to the door. He heard something which sounded like the rustle of paper. Someone was hiding in there.
Duff went down the stairs with loud, heavy footsteps, took off his shoes on the floor below and tiptoed back.
He grabbed the door knob and gave it a sharp pull. Heard something go flying as the door swung open. A piece of string.
He stared at himself.
The picture wasn’t particularly big and positioned to the right at the bottom of the page underneath the headline.
The newspaper was lowered, and Duff stared into the face of an old man with a long, unkempt beard. He was sitting leaning forward with his trousers around his ankles.
A splash box. Duff had seen them before, in the old workers’ blocks of flats along the river. He assumed they got their name from the sound made when shit from the upper floors hit the container on the ground floor. Like a wet slap.
‘Sorry,’ Duff said. ‘Are you Alfie?’
The man didn’t answer, just stared at Duff. Then he slowly turned the page of the newspaper, looked at the photo and back up at Duff. Moistened his lips. ‘Louder,’ he said, pointing to his ear with one hand.
Duff raised his voice. ‘Are you Alfie?’
‘Louder.’
‘Alfie!’
‘Shh. Yes, he’s Alfie.’
Perhaps it was because of the shouting that Duff didn’t hear someone come. He just felt a hard object being pressed against the back of his head, and there was something vaguely familiar about the voice that whispered in his ear: ‘And yes, this is a gun, Inspector. So don’t move; just tell me how you found us and who sent you.’
Duff made to turn, but a hand pushed his face forward again, to face Alfie, who clearly regarded the situation as resolved and had resumed his reading.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ Duff said. ‘I found the impression of an address on a notepad in Banquo’s car. And no one sent me. I’m alone.’
‘Why have you come here?’
‘Because Macbeth’s trying to kill me. I’m fairly sure he had Banquo and Fleance killed. So if Banquo had an address he thought was a safe haven, it might be good for me too.’
A pause. For thought, it seemed.
‘Come with me.’
Duff was turned, but in such a way that the person with the gun was still behind him. Then he was prodded up the stairs to the door where he had rung the bell. It was now open, and he was pushed into a big room that smelled stale even though the windows were wide open. The room contained a large table with three chairs, a kitchen counter with a sink, a fridge, a narrow bed, a sofa and a mattress on the floor. And one other person. He was sitting on a chair with his forearms and hands on the table and staring straight at Duff. The glasses were the same, also the long legs protruding from under the table. But there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the beard. Or his face had become thinner.
‘Malcolm,’ Duff said. ‘You’re alive.’
‘Duff. Sit down.’
Duff sat down on the chair opposite the deputy chief commissioner.
Malcolm took off his glasses. Cleaned them. ‘So you thought I drowned myself after I took Duncan’s life, did you?’
‘At first I thought so. Until I realised that Macbeth was behind Duncan’s murder. Then I also realised that he had probably drowned you to clear his path to the chief commissioner’s office. And that the suicide letter was a forgery.’
‘Macbeth threatened to kill my daughter if I didn’t sign it. What do you want, Duff?’
‘He says—’ the voice behind Duff started.
‘I heard you,’ Malcolm interrupted. ‘And I see that the newspapers are making out that Macbeth is after you, Duff. But of course you could be working with him, and the scribblings are a plant so you can infiltrate us.’
‘Killing my family was a cover operation?’
‘I read about that too, but I don’t trust anything any longer, Duff. If Macbeth and the police really were so keen to catch you they would already have done so.’
‘I was lucky.’
‘And then you came here.’ Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why?’
‘Safe haven.’
‘Safe?’ Malcolm shook his head. ‘You’re a police officer, Duff, and you know that if you can find us that easily then so can Macbeth. A moderately intelligent wanted person sits tight. He doesn’t visit other people also on the wanted list. So give me a better answer. Why here?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Let me hear you say it. The gun’s pointing at where you have, or don’t have, a bleeding heart.’
Duff gulped. Why had he come here? It had been a lot to hope for. But it had also been the only hope he had. The odds had been poor, but the calculation simple. Duff took a deep breath.
‘Banquo was supposed to meet me to tell me something the night he died. And he was the last person to see you the day you disappeared. I thought there was a chance I might find you here. And we could help each other. I have proof Macbeth killed Duncan. Macbeth knows and that’s why he’s trying to kill me.’
Malcolm arched an eyebrow. ‘And how can we help each other? You don’t imagine the police here in Capitol can help us, do you?’
Duff shook his head. ‘They’ve been instructed to arrest us and send us back to Macbeth at once. But we can bring Macbeth down together.’
‘To avenge your family.’
‘Yes, that was my first thought.’
‘But?’
‘There’s something bigger than revenge.’
‘The chief co
mmissioner’s job?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
Duff nodded towards the open window. ‘Capitol is an elegant town, isn’t she? It’s difficult not to like her. To fall in love with her even – such a smiling blonde beauty with sunshine in her eyes. But you and I can never love her, can we? For we’ve given our hearts to the foul, rotten city up on the west coast. I’ve disowned her, thought she didn’t mean anything to me. Me and my career were more important than the town that has done nothing but darkened our moods, corrupted our hearts and shortened our lives. Absurd, wasted love, I thought. But that’s how it is. Too late we realise who we really love.’
‘And you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for a town like that?’
‘It’s easy.’ Duff smiled. ‘I’ve lost everything. There’s not much left to sacrifice other than my life. What about you, Malcolm?’
‘I have my daughter to lose.’
‘And you can only save her if we bring Macbeth down. Listen. You’re the man who can carry on Duncan’s work. And that’s why I’m here to follow you, if you’re willing to take over as chief commissioner and rule justly.’
Malcolm eyed him cautiously. ‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Malcolm laughed. ‘Thank you for the moral support, Duff, but let me make a few things clear first.’
‘Yes?’
‘The first is I’ve never liked you.’
‘Understandable,’ Duff said. ‘I’ve never paid a thought to anyone else but myself. I’m not saying I’m a changed man, but what has happened has definitely given me new insights. I’m still not a clever man, but perhaps a little less stupid than I was.’
‘Possibly, although you may only be saying what you want me to hear. But what I don’t want to hear is any conversion nonsense. You might be slightly changed, but the world is the same.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m pleased you regard me as relatively decent. But if I’m going to have you as part of my team I have to know your angel wings don’t prevent you from keeping your feet on the ground. Surely you don’t think you can get to me without turning a blind eye to some things? Accepting some . . . established practices for who gets away with something and who doesn’t, and who gets the brown envelopes. If you take everything from a badly paid policeman overnight how are you going to get his loyalty? And isn’t it better to win a few small battles now and then rather than to insist on always losing the big ones?’