Macbeth

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Thank you for your confidence, Hecate, but I really don’t know.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Hecate, gently tapping his stick on the carpet as he observed one of the boys remove the wire from the cork of a new bottle of champagne. ‘You see, I’ve begun to suspect Duncan has only one weak point.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The length of his life.’

  Bonus recoiled in his chair. ‘I really hope you haven’t invited me here to ask me to . . .’

  ‘Not at all, my dear flounder. You’ll be allowed to lie still in the mud.’

  Bonus heaved a sigh of relief as he watched the boy struggle with the cork.

  ‘But,’ Hecate said, ‘you have the gifts of ruthlessness, disloyalty and influence that give you power over the people I need to have power over. I hope I can rely on you when help is needed. I hope you can be my invisible hand.’

  There was a loud bang.

  ‘There we are!’ Bonus laughed, patting the boy on the back as he tried to get as much of the unrestrained champagne into the glasses.

  Duff lay still on the tarmac. Beside him his men stood equally still watching the Norse Riders, less than ten metres away, preparing to leave. Sivart and Sweno stood in the darkness outside the cone of light, but Duff could see the young officer’s body shaking and Sweno’s sabre blade, which rested against Sivart’s throat. Duff could see that the least pressure or movement would pierce the skin, the artery and drain the man’s blood in seconds. And Duff could feel his own panic when he considered the consequences. Not only the consequences of having one of his men’s blood on his hands and record, but the consequences of his privately orchestrated actions failing miserably just as the chief commissioner was about to appoint a head of Organised Crime. Sweno nodded to one of the Norse Riders, who dismounted from his motorbike, stood behind Sivart and pointed a gun at his head. Sweno pulled down his visor, stepped into the light, spoke to the man with the sergeant’s stripes on his leather jacket, straddled his bike, saluted with two fingers to his helmet and rode off down the quayside. Duff had to control himself not to loose off a shot at him. The sergeant gave some orders and a second later the motorbikes growled off into the night. Only two unmanned motorbikes were left after the others had followed Sweno and the sergeant.

  Duff told himself not to give way to panic, told himself to think. Breathe, think. Four men in Norse Rider regalia were left on the quay. One stood behind Sivart in the shadows. One stood in the light keeping the police covered with an assault rifle, an AK-47. Two men, presumably the pillion riders, got into the lorry. Duff heard the continuous strained whine as the ignition key was turned and for a second he hoped that the old iron monster wouldn’t start. Cursed as the first low growl rose to a loud rumbling rattle. The lorry moved off.

  ‘We’ll give them ten minutes,’ shouted the man with the AK-47. ‘Think of something pleasant in the meantime.’

  Duff stared at the lorry’s rear lights slowly fading into the darkness. Something pleasant? A mere four and a half tons of drugs heading away from him, along with what would have been the biggest mass arrest this side of the war. It didn’t help that they knew Sweno and his people had been there right in front of them if they couldn’t tell the judge and jury they had seen their faces and not just fourteen sodding helmets. Something pleasant ? Duff closed his eyes.

  Sweno.

  He’d had him here in the palm of his hand. Shit, shit, shit!

  Duff listened. Listened for something, anything. But all that could be heard was the meaningless whisper of the rain.

  ‘Banquo’s got the guy holding the lad in his sights,’ Macbeth said. ‘Have you got the other one, Olafson?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You have to shoot at the same time, OK. Fire on the count of three. Banquo?’

  ‘I need more light on the target. Or younger eyes. I might hit the boy as it is.’

  ‘My target has lots of light,’ Olafson whispered. ‘We can swap.’

  ‘If we miss and our lad is killed, we’d prefer it if it was Banquo who missed. Banquo, what’s the maximum speed of a fully loaded Stalin lorry, do you reckon?’

  ‘Hm. Sixty maybe.’

  ‘Good, but time’s getting short to achieve all our objectives. So we’d better do a bit of improvising.’

  ‘Are you going to try your daggers?’ Banquo asked Macbeth.

  ‘From this distance? Thanks for your confidence. No, you’ll soon see, old man. As in see.’

  Banquo looked up from his binoculars and discovered that Macbeth had stood up and grabbed the pole on to which the light on the roof was bolted. The veins in Macbeth’s powerful neck stood out and his teeth shone in either a grimace or a grin, Banquo couldn’t decide which. The pole was screwed down to withstand the feisty north-westerlies that blew for eight of the year’s twelve months, but Banquo had seen Macbeth lift cars out of snowdrifts before now.

  ‘Three,’ Macbeth groaned.

  The first screws popped out of their sockets.

  ‘Two.’

  The pole came loose and with a jerk tore the cable away from the wall below.

  ‘One.’

  Macbeth pointed the light at the gangway.

  ‘Now.’

  It sounded like two whiplashes. Duff opened his eyes in time to see the man with the automatic weapon topple forward and hit the ground helmet first. Where Sivart stood there was now light, and Duff could see him clearly and also the man behind him. He was no longer holding a gun to Sivart’s head but resting his chin on Sivart’s shoulder. And in the light Duff also saw the hole in the visor. Then, like a jellyfish, he slid down Sivart’s back to the ground.

  Duff turned.

  ‘Up here, Duff!’

  He shaded his eyes. A peal of laughter rang out behind the dazzling light and the shadow of a gigantic man fell over the quay.

  But the laughter was enough.

  It was Macbeth. Of course it was Macbeth.

  2

  A SEAGULL SWEPT IN OVER Fife through the silence and moonlight under a cloud-free night sky. Below, the river shone like silver. On the west of the river – like an immense fortress wall – a steep black mountain rose to the sky. Just short of the top a monastic order had once erected a large cross, but as it had been put up on the Fife side the silhouette appeared to be upside down to the residents of the town. From the side of the mountain – like a drawbridge over the fortress moat – jutted an impressive iron bridge. Three hundred and sixty metres long and ninety metres high at its tallest point. Kenneth Bridge, or the new bridge as most people called it. The old bridge was by comparison a modest but more aesthetically pleasing construction further down the river, and it meant a detour. In the middle of the new bridge towered an unlovely marble monument in the shape of a man, meant to represent former Chief Commissioner Kenneth, erected at his own orders. The statue stood inside the town boundary by a centimetre as no other county would give the rogue’s posthumous reputation a centimetre of land for free. Even though the sculptor had complied with Kenneth’s order to emphasise his visionary status by creating a characteristic horizon-searching pose, not even the most benevolent of artists could have refrained from drawing attention to the chief commissioner’s unusually voluminous neck and chin area.

  The seagull flapped its wings to gain height, hoping for better fishing on the coast across the mountain, even though that meant crossing the weather divide. From good to bad. For those wishing to travel the same way there was a two-kilometre-long narrow black hole from the new bridge through the mountain. A mountain and a partition many appeared to appreciate – neighbouring counties referred to the tunnel as a rectum with an anal orifice at each end. And indeed as the seagull passed over the mountain peak it was like flying from a world of quiet harmony into a freezing-cold filthy shower falling onto the foul-smelling town beneath. And as if to show its contempt t
he seagull shat, then continued to swerve between the gusts of wind.

  The seagull shit hit the roof of a shelter, below which an emaciated trembling boy crept onto a bench. Although the sign beside the shelter indicated it was a bus stop the boy wasn’t sure. So many bus routes had been stopped over the last couple of years. Because of the decreasing population, the mayor said, the fathead. But the boy had to get to the central station for brew; the speed he had bought from some bikers was just crap, icing sugar and potato flour rather than amphetamine.

  The oily wet tarmac glinted beneath the few street lamps that still worked, and the rain lay in puddles on the potholed road leading out of town. It had been quiet, not a car to be seen, only rain. But now he heard a sound like a low gurgle.

  He raised his head. Pulled on the string of his eyepatch, which had slipped over from his empty eye cavity and now covered the remaining eye. Perhaps he could hitch a lift to the centre?

  But no, the sound came from the wrong direction.

  He drew up his knees again.

  The gurgle rose to a roar. He couldn’t be bothered to move, besides he was already drenched, so he just covered his head with his arms. The lorry passed, sending a cascade of filthy water into the bus shelter.

  He lay there thinking about life until he realised it was wiser not to.

  The sound of another vehicle. This time?

  He struggled upright and looked out. But no, it was coming from the town too. Also at great speed. He stared into the lights as they approached. And the thought came into his head: one step into the road and all his problems were solved.

  The van passed him without going into any of the potholes. Black Ford Transit. Cops, three of them. Great. You don’t want a lift with them.

  ‘There it is, ahead of us,’ Banquo said. ‘Step on it, Angus!’

  ‘How do you know it’s them?’ Olafson asked, leaning forward between the front seats of the SWAT Transit.

  ‘Diesel smoke,’ Banquo said. ‘My God, no wonder there’s an oil crisis in Russia. Get right behind them so that they can see us in their rear-view mirror, Angus.’

  Angus maintained his speed until they reached the black exhaust. Banquo rolled down his window and steadied his rifle on the wing mirror. Coughed. ‘And now alongside, Angus!’

  Angus pulled out and accelerated. The Transit drew alongside the snorting, groaning lorry.

  A puff of smoke came from the lorry window. The mirror under Banquo’s rifle barrel broke with a crack.

  ‘Yes, they’ve seen us,’ Banquo said. ‘Get behind them again.’

  The rain stopped suddenly and everything around them became even darker. They had driven into the tunnel. The tarmac and the hewn black walls seemed to swallow the lights of the headlamps; all they could see was the lorry’s rear lights.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Angus asked. ‘The bridge at the other end, and if they pass the middle . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Banquo said, lifting his rifle. The town stopped by the statue, their area of jurisdiction stopped, the chase stopped. In theory of course they could carry on, it had happened before: enthusiastic officers, rarely in the Narco Unit though, had arrested smugglers on the wrong side of the boundary. And every time they’d had a nice fat juicy case thrown out of court and had to face censure for gross misjudgement in the course of duty. Banquo’s Remington 700 recoiled.

  ‘Bull’s eye,’ he said.

  The lorry began to swerve in the tunnel; bits of rubber flew off the rear wheel.

  ‘Now you’ll feel what a heavy steering wheel is really like,’ Banquo said and took aim at the other rear tyre. ‘Bit more distance, Angus, in case they go straight into the tunnel wall.’

  ‘Banquo!’ came a voice from the back seat.

  ‘Olafson?’ Banquo said, slowly pressing the trigger.

  ‘Car coming.’

  ‘Whoops.’

  Banquo lifted his cheek off the rifle as Angus braked.

  In front of them the ZIS-5 veered from side to side, alternately showing and cutting off the headlights of the oncoming car. Banquo heard the horn, the desperate hooting of a saloon car that saw a lorry bearing down on it and knew it was too late to do anything.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Olafson said in a lisped whisper.

  The sound of the horn rose in volume and frequency.

  Then a flash of light.

  Banquo automatically glanced to the side.

  Caught a glimpse of the back seat in the car, the cheek of a sleeping child, resting against the window.

  Then it was gone, and the dying tone of the horn sounded like the disappointed groan of cheated spectators.

  ‘Faster,’ Banquo said. ‘We’ll be on the bridge in no time.’

  Angus jammed his foot down, and they were back in the cloud of exhaust.

  ‘Steady,’ Banquo said while aiming. ‘Steady . . .’

  At that moment the tarpaulin on the back of the lorry was pulled aside, and the Transit’s headlamps lit up a flatbed piled with plastic bags containing a white substance. The window at the back of the driver’s cab had been smashed. And from the top of a gap between the kilo bags pointed a rifle.

  ‘Angus . . .’

  A brief explosion. Banquo caught sight of a muzzle flash, then the windscreen whitened and fell in on them.

  ‘Angus!’

  Angus had taken the point and swung the wheel sharply to the right. And then to the left. The tyres screamed and the bullets whined as the fire-spitting muzzle tried to track their manoeuvres.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Banquo shrieked and fired at the other tyre, but the bullet just drew sparks from the wing.

  And suddenly the rain was back. They were on the bridge.

  ‘Get him with the shotgun, Olafson,’ Banquo yelled. ‘Now!’

  The rain pelted through the hole where the windscreen had been, and Banquo moved so that Olafson could lay the double-barrelled gun on the back of his seat. The barrel protruded above Banquo’s shoulder, but disappeared again at the sound of a thud like a hammer on meat. Banquo turned to where Olafson sat slumped with his head tipped forward and a hole in his jacket at chest height. Grey upholstery filling fluffed up when the next bullet went right through Banquo’s seat and into the seat beside Olafson. The guy on the lorry had got his eye in now. Banquo took the shotgun from Olafson’s hands and in one swift movement swung it forward and fired. There was a white explosion on the back of the lorry. Banquo let go of the shotgun and raised his rifle. It was impossible for the guy on the lorry to see through the thick white cloud of powder, but from the darkness rose the floodlit white marble statue of Kenneth, like an unwelcome apparition. Banquo aimed at the rear wheel and pulled the trigger. Bull’s eye.

  The lorry careered from side to side, one front wheel mounted the pavement, a rear wheel hit the kerb, and the side of the ZIS-5 struck the steel-reinforced fence. The scream of metal forced along metal drowned the vehicles’ engines. But, incredibly, the driver in front managed to get the heavy lorry back on the road.

  ‘Don’t cross the bloody boundary, please!’ Banquo yelled.

  The last remnant of rubber had been stripped from the lorry’s rear wheel rims and a fountain of sparks stood out against the night sky. The ZIS-5 went into a skid, the driver tried desperately to counter it, but this time he had no chance. The lorry veered across the road and skidded along the tarmac. It was practically at the boundary when the wheels gained purchase again and steered the lorry off the road. Twelve tons of Soviet military engineering hit Chief Commissioner Kenneth right under the belt, tore him off the plinth and dragged the statue plus ten metres or so of steel fencing along before tipping over the edge. Angus had managed to stop the Transit, and in the sudden silence Banquo observed Kenneth falling through the moonlight and slowly rotating around his own chin. Behind him came the ZIS-5, bonnet first, with a tail of white powder like some da
mned amphetamine comet.

  ‘My God . . .’ the policeman whispered.

  It felt like an eternity before everything hit the water and coloured it white for an instant, and the sound reached Banquo with a slight time delay.

  Then the silence returned.

  Sean stamped his feet on the ground outside the club house, staring out through the gate. Scratched the NORSE RIDERS TILL I DIE tattoo on his forehead. He hadn’t been so nervous since he was in the hospital delivery room. Wasn’t it just typical that he and Colin had drawn the short straw and had to stand guard on the night when excitement was at fever pitch? They hadn’t been allowed to string along and collect the dope or go to the party either.

  ‘Missus wants to call the kid after me,’ said Sean, mostly to himself.

  ‘Congrats,’ said Colin in a monotone, pulling at his walrus moustache. The rain ran down his shiny pate.

  ‘Ta,’ said Sean. Actually he hadn’t wanted either. A tattoo that would stamp him for life or a kid he knew would do the same. Freedom. That was the idea of a motorbike, wasn’t it? But the club and then Betty had changed his notion of freedom. You can only truly be free when you belong, when you feel real solidarity.

  ‘There they are,’ Sean said. ‘Looks like everything’s gone well, eh?’

  ‘Two guys missing,’ Colin said, spitting out his cigarette and opening the high gate with barbed wire on top.

  The first bike stopped by them. The bass rumbled from behind the horn helmet. ‘We were ambushed by the cops, so the twins will come a bit later.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Colin said.

  The bikes roared through the gate one after the other. One of the guys gave a thumbs up. Good, the dope was safe, the club saved. Sean breathed out with relief. The bikes rolled across the yard past the shed-like single-storey timber house with the Norse Rider logo painted on the wall and disappeared into the big garage. The table was laid in the shed; Sweno had decided that the deal should be celebrated with a piss-up. And after a few minutes Sean heard the music turned up inside and the first shouts of celebration.