by Jo Nesbo
‘Out of curiosity,’ Duff said when he and Tourtell had got some way down the corridor, ‘when Macbeth gave you his ultimatum why didn’t you tell him Kasi was your son?’
Tourtell shrugged. ‘Why tell the person pointing a gun at you it isn’t loaded? They’ll only start looking around for another weapon.’
The doctor was waiting for them outside a closed door. He opened it.
‘Just him,’ Tourtell said, pointing to Duff.
Duff stepped inside.
Lennox was as white as the sheets he was lying between. Tubes and wires led from his body to drip bags on a stand and machines emitting beeps. He looked like a surprised child, staring up at Duff with wide-open eyes and mouth. Duff took his hat and glasses off.
Lennox blinked.
‘We need you to go public and say Macbeth is behind this,’ Duff said. ‘Are you willing to do that?’
Thin, shiny saliva ran from one corner of Lennox’s mouth.
‘Listen, Lennox. I’ve got two minutes, and—’
‘Macbeth’s behind this,’ Lennox said. His voice was hoarse, husky, as though he had aged twenty years. But his eyes cleared. ‘He ordered Seyton, Olafson and me to execute Tourtell. Because he wanted to take over the reins of the town. And because he thinks Tourtell is Hecate’s informant. But he isn’t.’
‘So who is the informant?’
‘I’ll tell you if you do me a favour.’
Duff breathed hard through his nose. Concentrated on controlling his speech. ‘You mean I might have to owe you a favour?’
Lennox closed his eyes again. Duff saw a tear forced out. Pain from his wound, Duff assumed.
‘No,’ Lennox whispered in a fading voice.
Duff leaned forward. There was a nauseous, sweet smell coming from Lennox’s mouth, like the acetone breath of a diabetic, as he whispered, ‘I’m Hecate’s informant.’
‘You?’ Duff tried to digest the information, tried to make it fit.
‘Yes. How do you think Hecate slipped through our fingers all these years, how he was always a step ahead?’
‘You’re a spy for both—’
‘—Hecate and Macbeth. Without Macbeth knowing. But that’s how I know Tourtell’s not in Hecate’s pocket. Or Macbeth’s. But it wasn’t me who warned Hecate, so there must be another informant as well. Someone close to Macbeth.’
‘Seyton?’
‘Maybe. Or perhaps not a man.’
‘A woman? Why do you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Something invisible, something that’s just there.’
Duff nodded slowly. Raised his eyes and looked into the darkness outside the window.
‘How does it feel?’
‘How does what feel?’
‘To say it out loud finally. That you’re a traitor. Is it a relief or does it weigh more heavily on you when the words make you realise it’s true, the damage is your fault?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I was wondering about it myself,’ Duff said. The sky outside was dark, covered, giving no answer or sign. ‘How it would feel to tell my family everything.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Lennox said. ‘We don’t. Because we’d rather destroy ourselves than see the pain in their faces. But you didn’t have the chance to choose.’
‘Yes, I did. I chose. Every day. To be unfaithful.’
‘Will you help me, Duff?’
Duff was torn out of his thoughts. Blinked. He needed to sleep soon. ‘Help?’
‘A favour. The pillow. Put it over my face and hold it there. It’ll look as if I died of my wounds. And will you tell my children that their father, murderer and traitor that he was, repented?’
‘I . . .’
‘You’re the only person I know who might understand me, Duff. That you can love someone so much and still betray them. And when it’s too late, it’s too late. All you can do is . . . what is right, but it’s too late.’
‘Like saving the life of the mayor.’
‘But that isn’t enough, is it, Duff?’ Lennox’s dry laughter turned into a bout of coughing. ‘A last desperate act which, seen from the outside, is a sacrifice, but which deep down you hope will be rewarded with the forgiveness of your sins and the opening of heaven’s gates. But that’s too much, Duff. You don’t think you can ever make amends for everything, do you.’
‘No,’ Duff said. ‘No, I can’t make amends. But I can start by forgiving you.’
‘No!’ Lennox said.
‘Yes.’
‘No, you can’t! Don’t do that, don’t . . .’ His voice crumbled away. Duff looked at him. Small shiny tears rolled down his white cheeks.
Duff took a deep breath. ‘I’ll consider not forgiving you on one condition, Lennox.’
Lennox nodded.
‘That you agree to give a radio interview this evening in which you tell everything and clear Malcolm.’
Lennox raised a hand with difficulty and wiped his cheeks. Then he placed his tear-wet hand round Duff’s wrist. ‘Ring Priscilla and ask her to come here.’
Duff nodded, got up and freed his wrist. Looked down at Lennox for a last time. Wondering if he saw a man who had changed or was just taking the easiest way out.
‘Well?’ Tourtell said, getting up from a chair against the corridor wall when Duff came out.
‘He’s confirmed that Macbeth was trying to kill you and he’ll do the interview,’ Duff said. ‘But Hecate has an informant, an infiltrator close to Macbeth. It could be anyone at police HQ . . .’
‘Anyway,’ Tourtell boomed as they hurried down the corridor, ‘with Lennox’s statement Macbeth’s finished! I’ll ring Capitol and have a federal arrest warrant issued.’
A nurse came towards them. ‘Mr Mayor, sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve had a call from Agnes, your maid. She says Kasi still hasn’t come home.’
‘Thank you,’ Tourtell said. They continued walking. ‘You’ll see, he’s gone to some friends and is waiting until the coast is clear.’
‘Probably,’ Duff said. ‘Your maid . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve never had servants, but I assume that after a while they become part of the furniture. You speak freely and don’t think they’ll repeat stuff that shouldn’t go beyond your four walls, isn’t that right?’
‘Agnes? Yes. Yes, at least when I was sure I could trust her. But that took time.’
‘And yet you can never know for sure what another person thinks and feels, can you?’
‘Hm. You’re wondering if Macbeth has a personal secretary at HQ who might . . .’
‘Priscilla?’ Duff said. ‘Well, as you said, it takes time to trust someone.’
‘And?’
‘You said you played blackjack in a private room as Macbeth and Lady made plans to kill Hecate. But doesn’t it need a fourth person?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Blackjack. Don’t you need a croupier?’
‘Jack?’
‘Yes, Lady?’ Jack took his hand away. It had been casually placed on Billy’s arched back as the two of them stood over the guestbook and Jack had explained how new customers should be entered.
‘I have to talk to you about something, Jack. Let’s go upstairs.’
‘Of course. Will you hold the fort, Billy?’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Bonus.’
Jack smiled and knew he held the newly employed boy’s eyes a moment too long. Then he dashed up the stairs after Lady.
‘What do you think of the new boy?’ she asked after he had caught her up.
‘Bit early to say, ma’am. A little young and inexperienced, but he doesn’t seem impossible.’
‘Good. We need two waiters for the restaurant. The two who came today were utterly hopeless. H
ow are young people going to survive in this world if they can’t take things seriously and learn something? Do they think everything’s going to be served to them on a silver platter?’
‘True,’ Jack said and went into the suite, Lady holding the door open for him. Turning, he saw she had closed the door and collapsed in tears on a chair.
‘Lady, what’s the matter?’
‘Lily,’ she sobbed. ‘Lily. He said her name.’
‘Lily? As in the flower, ma’am?’
Lady hid her face in her hands, and sobs racked her body.
Jack was at a loss to know what to do. He went towards her but then stopped. ‘Would you like . . . to talk about it?’
‘No!’ she exclaimed. Took a tremulous breath. ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it. Dr Alsaker wanted to talk about it. He’s crazy, did you know that? He told me himself. But that doesn’t make him a bad psychiatrist, he says, more the opposite. I don’t need words, Jack, I’ve heard them all. My own and those of others, and they don’t soothe any more. I need medicine.’ She sniffed and wiped under her eyes carefully with the back of her hand. ‘Quite simply, medicine. Without it I can’t be the person I have to be.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Lady, Jack.’ She looked at the mascara smeared on her hand. ‘The woman who lives and lets die. But Macbeth has stopped using medicine and so there’s nothing here. Imagine. He’s stronger than me. You wouldn’t have guessed that, would you? So you’ll have to go and buy some for me, Jack.’
‘Lady . . .’
‘Otherwise everything will collapse here. I hear a child crying all the time, Jack. I go into the gaming room and smile and talk.’ Tears started rolling again. ‘Talk loudly and laugh to drown out the sound of the crying child, but now I can’t do it any longer. He knew the name of my child. He said my final words to her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hecate. He knew. The words I said before I smashed the head with the questioning blue eyes. In another life, my little Lily. I’ve never told that to a living soul. Never! At least not in a conscious state. But perhaps when I’ve been dreaming. Perhaps when I’ve been sleepwa—’ She stopped. Frowned as if she had realised something.
‘Hypnosis,’ Jack said. ‘You said it during the hypnosis. Hecate knows it from Dr Alsaker.’
‘Hypnosis?’ She nodded slowly. ‘Do you think so? Do you think Alsaker betrayed me? And was paid for it, you mean?’
‘People are greedy, that’s their nature, ma’am. Without greed man wouldn’t have won the fight on earth. Just look what you’ve created, ma’am.’
‘You mean it’s down to greed ?’
‘Not for money, ma’am. I think different people are greedy for different things. Power, sex, admiration, food, love, knowledge, fear . . .’
‘What are you greedy for, Jack?’
‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I like happy, satisfied customers. Yes, I’m greedy for the happiness of others. Such as your own, ma’am. When you’re happy, I’m happy.’
She fixed him with her gaze. Then she got up, went over to the mirror and grabbed the hairbrush lying on the table beneath. ‘Jack . . .’
He didn’t like the sound of her voice but met her eyes in the mirror. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You ought to know something about loneliness.’
‘You know I do, ma’am.’
She started to brush her long flame-red hair, which men had been attracted by or had taken as a warning, according to circumstances. ‘But do you know what is lonelier than never having anyone? It is believing you had someone, but then it turns out that the person you thought was your closest friend never was.’ The brush got stuck, but she forced it through the thick unruly hair. ‘That you’ve been deceived the whole time. Can you imagine how lonely that is, Jack?’
‘No, I can’t, ma’am.’
Jack looked at her. He didn’t know what to do or say.
‘Be happy you haven’t been deceived, Jack.’ She put down the brush and passed him some notes. ‘You’re like a suckerfish: you’re too small to be deceived, you can only deceive. The shark lets you hang on because you clean off other, worse, parasites. In return, it takes you across the oceans of the world. And that’s how you travel, to the mutual benefit of both, and the relationship is so intimate and close that it can be confused with friendship. Until a bigger, healthier shark swims by. Go on, Jack. Go and buy me some brew.’
‘Are you sure, ma’am?’
‘Say you want something that works. Something strong. That can take you up high and far away. So high that you would crush your skull if you fell. For who wants to live in a cold, friendless world like this one?’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’
He closed the door behind him without a sound.
‘Oh, I’m sure you know where to find it, Jack Bonus,’ she whispered to the reflection in the mirror. ‘Say hello to Hecate, by the way.’ A tear ran down her cheek, in the salty trail of the previous one. ‘My good, dear Jack. My poor little Jack.’
‘Mr Lennox?’
Lennox opened his eyes. Looked at his watch. An hour and a half to midnight. His eyelids went again. He had begged for more morphine. All he wanted was sleep, even the tormented sleep of the guilty.
‘Mr Lennox.’
He opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw was a hand holding a microphone. Behind it he glimpsed something yellow. Slowly it came into focus. A man in a yellow oilskin jacket sitting on a chair beside a hospital bed.
‘You?’ he whispered. ‘Of all the reporters in this world they sent you?’
Walt Kite straightened his glasses. ‘Tourtell, Malcolm and the others know that I . . . that I . . .’
‘That you’re in Macbeth’s pocket?’ Lennox lifted his head from the pillow. They were alone in the room. He squirmed to reach the alarm button by the bed head, but the radio reporter placed his hand over it.
‘No need,’ Kite said calmly.
Lennox tried to pull Kite’s hand away from the alarm, but he didn’t have the strength.
‘So that you can feed me to Macbeth?’ Lennox snorted. ‘The way you fed Angus to us?’
‘I was in the same predicament as you, Lennox. I had no choice. He threatened my family.’
Lennox gave up and slumped back. ‘And what do you want now? Have you got a knife with you? Poison?’
‘Yes. This.’ Kite waved the microphone.
‘Are you going to kill me with that ?’
‘Not you, but Macbeth.’
‘Oh?’
Walt Kite put down the microphone, unbuttoned his jacket and wiped the fug from his glasses.
‘When Tourtell rang I knew they had enough to get him. Tourtell persuaded the doctor to give me five minutes, so we have to hurry. Give me the story, and I’ll go straight to the radio station and broadcast it, raw and unedited.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘I can do it before midnight. And it’s enough for some people to hear it. Hear that it’s irrefutably your voice. Listen, I’m breaking all the principles of good journalism – the right to respond, the duty to check statements – to save—’
‘Your own skin,’ Lennox said. ‘To swap sides again. To be sure you’re on the winning team.’
He saw Kite open his mouth and close it again. Swallow. And blink behind his still fugged-up glasses.
‘Admit it, Kite. It’s fine. You’re not alone. We’re not heroes. We’re completely normal people who perhaps dream about being heroes, but confronted with the choice between life and the principles we sound off about, we’re pretty normal.’
Kite flashed a brief smile. ‘You’re right. I’ve been an arrogant, big-mouthed, cowardly moralist.’
Lennox drew breath, no longer sure whether it was him or the morphine talking. ‘But if you had the chance do you think
you could do things any differently?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Could you be a different person? Could you make yourself sacrifice something for a higher entity than your own esteem?’
‘Such as what?’
‘Such as doing something which is really heroic because it will reduce the respected journalist Kite’s reputation to rubble?’
Macbeth closed his eyes. He hoped that when he opened them again he would wake up from the bad dream and the much-too-long night. All while the voice coming from the radio on the shelf behind his desk droned away. Every rolled ‘r’ sounded like a machine-gun volley.
‘So, Inspector Lennox, to sum up. You maintain that Chief Commissioner Macbeth is behind the murders of Chief Commissioner Duncan and Inspector Banquo, the massacre at the Norse Riders’ club house, the murder of Inspector Duff’s family, plus the execution of Police Officer Angus carried out at Macbeth’s orders by you and Inspector Seyton. And that earlier this afternoon Chief Commissioner Macbeth with the head of SWAT, Inspector Seyton, and Police Officer Olafson were behind the failed attempt on Mayor Tourtell’s life.’
‘That is correct.’
‘With that we say thank you to Inspector Lennox, who was speaking from his bed in St Jordi’s Hospital. This recording has been made with witnesses present so that it can be used in a court of law, even if Lennox is also murdered. And so, dear listeners, finally I will add that I, Walt Kite, was an accessory to the murder of Police Officer Angus in that I placed the integrity you have honoured me with at the disposal of the chief commissioner and murderer, Macbeth. In the law court where I will be judged and in the conversations I will be having with my nearest and dearest, one mitigating circumstance might be that I and my family were threatened. However, professionally, this will not count. I have shown that I can be threatened, used and manipulated to lie to you. I have let myself down and I have let you down, and that means this is the last time you will hear from me, Walt Kite, radio reporter. I will miss you more than you will miss me. Show that you are better citizens than me. Take to the streets and depose Macbeth. Goodnight and God bless our town.’
The signature tune.