by Jo Nesbo
Now they had too much room. He could hear the radio on downstairs and knew Fleance was doing his schoolwork. Fleance was conscientious, he wanted so much to do well. It was some consolation that those who found school easy and got off to a good start often lost their enthusiasm when life became tougher. And then students like Fleance, who was forced to employ strict working routines and knew that learning required effort, got their turn. Yes, it would all be fine. And, who knows, perhaps the boy would meet a girl and start a family. Here in this house, for example. Perhaps new and better times were coming. Perhaps they would be able to help Duncan even more, now that Macbeth was in charge of fighting organised crime in this town. The news had come as a huge surprise to Banquo and most at HQ. Down in the SWAT cellar Ricardo had put it bluntly: he couldn’t imagine Macbeth and Banquo sitting behind their desks in suits and ties. Drawing diagrams and presenting budgets. Or making polite conversation at cocktail parties with chief commissioners, council members and other fine folk. But they would see. There wouldn’t be any lack of will. And perhaps it was now the turn of people like Macbeth, who were used to having to put in a shift, to achieve their aims.
There was no one else at HQ apart from Duff who knew how addicted to speed Macbeth had been when he was a teenager, how crazy it had made him, how hopelessly lost he had been. Banquo had been on the beat, tramping round the rain-lashed streets, when he came across the boy curled up on a bench in a bus shelter, out of his head on dope. He woke him, wanting to move him on, but there was something about his pleading brown eyes. Something in his alert movements when he stood up, something about his fit, compact body that told Banquo he was going to waste. Something that might have been developing. Something that could still be saved. Banquo took the fifteen-year-old home that night, got him some dry clothes. Vera fed him and they put him to bed. The next day, a Sunday, Vera, Banquo and the boy drove through the tunnel, came out into sunshine on the other side and went for a long walk in the green hills. Macbeth talked with a stammer at first, then less so. He had grown up in an orphanage and dreamed about working in a circus. He showed them how he could juggle and then took five paces from a tall oak and threw Banquo’s penknife into the tree, where it quivered. The boy found it more difficult to show them the scars on his forearm and talk about them. That didn’t happen until later, when he knew Banquo and Vera were people he could trust. Even then he only said it had started after he fled the home, not how or what triggered it. After that there were more Sundays, more conversations and walks. But Banquo remembered the first especially well because Vera had whispered to him on the way home, ‘Let’s make a son like him.’ And when, four years later, a proud Banquo had accompanied Macbeth to police college, Fleance had been three and Macbeth clean for just as long.
Banquo turned and looked at the photograph on the bedside table. It was of him and Fleance; they were standing under the dead apple tree in the garden. Fleance’s first day at police college. He was wearing his uniform, it was early morning, the sun was out, and the shadow of the photographer fell across them.
He heard a chair scrape and Fleance stomping around. Angry, frustrated. It wasn’t always easy to grasp everything straight off. It took time to acquire understanding. Like it took time and willpower to renounce drugs, the escape you had become so addicted to. Like it took time to change a town, to redress injustice, to purge the saboteurs, the corrupt politicians and the big-time criminals, to give the town’s citizens air they could breathe.
It had all gone quiet downstairs. Fleance was back at his desk.
It was possible if you took one day at a time and did the work that was required. Then one day the trains might run again.
He listened. All he heard was silence. And rain. But if he closed his eyes, wasn’t that Vera’s breathing beside him in bed?
Caithness’s panting slowly subsided.
‘I have to call home,’ Duff said, kissing her sweaty forehead and swinging his legs out of bed.
‘Now?’ she exclaimed. He could see from the way she bit her lower lip that it had come out more angrily than she had intended. Who said he didn’t understand people?
‘Ewan had toothache yesterday. I have to see how he is.’
She didn’t answer. Duff walked naked through the flat. He usually did as it was an attic flat and no one could see in. Besides, being seen naked didn’t bother him. He was proud of his body. Perhaps he was especially fond of his body because he had grown up feeling ashamed of the scar that divided his face. The flat was large, larger than you would have imagined a young woman working in the state sector would have. He had offered to help her with the rent as he spent so many nights there, but she said her father took care of that side of things.
Duff went into the study, closed the door after him and dialled the Fife number.
He listened to the rain drumming on the attic window right above his head. She answered after the third ring. Always after the third ring. Regardless of where she was in the house.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘How did it go with the dentist?’
‘He’s better now,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if it was toothache.’
‘Oh? What was it then?’
‘There are other things that can hurt. He was crying, and when I asked him why, he wouldn’t tell me and said the first thing that came into his head. He’s in bed now.’
‘Hm. I’ll be home tomorrow and then I’ll have a chat with him. What’s the weather like?’
‘Clear sky. Moonlight. Why?’
‘We could go to the lake tomorrow, all of us. For a swim.’
‘Where are you, Duff?’
He stiffened, there was something about her intonation. ‘Where? At the Grand, of course.’ And added in an exaggeratedly cheery voice, ‘Beddy-byes for tired men, you know.’
‘I rang the Grand earlier this evening. They said you hadn’t booked in.’
He stood up straight with the phone in his hand.
‘I rang you because Emily needed help with some maths. And, as you know, I’m not that good at putting two and two together. So where are you?’
‘In my office,’ Duff said, breathing through his mouth. ‘I’m sleeping on the sofa in the office. I’m up to my ears in work. I’m sorry I said I was at the Grand, but I thought you and the children didn’t need to know how hard things were at the moment.’
‘Hard?’
Duff gulped. ‘All the work. And I still didn’t get the Organised Crime post.’ He curled his toes. He could hear how pathetic he sounded, as though he were asking her to let him off the hook out of sympathy.
‘Well, you got the Homicide Unit anyway. And a new office, I hear.’
‘What?’
‘On the top floor. I can hear the rain drumming on a window. I’ll ring off then.’
There was a click and she was gone.
Duff shivered. The room was chilly. He should have put on some clothes. Shouldn’t have been so naked.
Lady listened to Macbeth’s breathing and shivered.
It was as though a chill had passed through the room. A ghost. The ghost of a child. She had to get out of the darkness that weighed down on her, force her way out of the mental prison that had imposed itself on her mother and grandmother, up into the light. Fight for her liberation, sacrifice whatever had to be sacrificed to be the sun. To be a star. A shining mother who was consumed in the process and gave life to others. The centre of the universe as she burned up. Yes. Burned. As her breath and skin burned now, forcing the cold from the room. She ran a hand down her body, feeling her skin tingle. It was the same thought, the same decision as then. It had to be done, there was no way round it. The only way was onwards, straight on at whatever lay in their path, like a bullet from a gun.
She laid a hand on Macbeth’s shoulder. He was sleeping like a child. It would be the last time. She shook him.
He turned to her, mumbling,
put out his hands. Always ready to serve. She held his hands firmly in hers.
‘Darling,’ she whispered, ‘you have to kill him.’
He opened his eyes; they shone at her in the darkness.
She let go of his hands.
Stroked his cheek. The same decision as then.
‘You have to kill Duncan.’
6
LADY AND MACBETH HAD FIRST met one late summer’s evening four years ago. It had been one of those rare days when the sun shone from a cloudless sky and Lady was sure she had heard a bird singing in the morning. But when the sun had set and the night shift came on an evil moon had risen above Inverness Casino. She had been standing outside the main entrance to the casino, in the moonlight, when he rolled up in a SWAT armoured vehicle.
‘Lady?’ he said, looking straight into her eyes. What did she see? Strength and determination? Maybe. Or perhaps it was because that was what she wanted to see at that moment.
She nodded. Thinking he seemed a little too young. Thinking the man behind him, an elderly man with white hair and calm eyes, looked more suited for the job.
‘I’m Inspector Macbeth. Any changes in the situation, ma’am?’
She shook her head.
‘OK, is there anywhere we can see them from?’
‘The mezzanine.’
‘Banquo, assemble the men and I’ll recce.’
Before they went up the stairs to the mezzanine the young officer whispered that she should take off her high heels to make less noise. That meant she was no longer taller than him. On the mezzanine they first kept to the back, by the windows looking out over Workers’ Square, so that they couldn’t be seen from the gaming room below. Halfway along they moved towards the balustrade. They were partially hidden by the rope to the central chandelier and the genuine suit of Maximilian armour from the sixteenth century which she had bought at an auction in Augsburg. The idea was that when gamblers saw it up there it would give them an unconscious sense of being either protected or watched. Their own conscience would determine which. Lady and the officer crouched and peered down into the room, where twenty minutes earlier customers and staff had fled in panic. Lady had been standing on the roof looking up at the full moon and instinctively felt the evil when she heard the crash and screams from down below. She went down, grabbed one of the fleeing waiters, who said that some guy had fired a gun into the chandelier and was holding Jack.
She had already calculated the cost of a new chandelier, but it was obvious that would be nothing compared to the cost of the gun – which was at present pointing at the head of Jack, her best croupier – being fired one more time. After all, part of what her casino offered was safe excitement and relaxation; for a while you didn’t need to think about the crime in the streets outside. If the impression was created that Inverness Casino couldn’t offer that, the gaming room would be as empty as it was now. The only two people left were sitting at the blackjack table below the mezzanine on the other side. Poor Jack was ramrod-stiff and as white as a sheet.
Right behind him, holding a gun, sat the customer.
‘It would be hard to get a shot in from such a distance as long as he’s hiding behind your croupier,’ Macbeth whispered, taking out a little telescope from his black uniform. ‘We have to get closer. Who is he and what does he want?’
‘Ernest Collum. He says he’ll kill my croupier unless he’s given back everything he’s lost at the casino.’
‘And is that a lot?’
‘More than we have in cash here. Collum’s one of the addicts. An engineer and a number-crunching genius, so he knows the odds. They’re the worst. I’ve told him we’ll try and get the money, but the banks are closed, so it could take a while.’
‘We don’t have much time. I’m going in.’
‘How do you know?’
Macbeth moved back from the balustrade and tucked the telescope inside his uniform. ‘His pupils. He’s high and he’s going to shoot.’ He pressed a button on his walkie-talkie. ‘Code Four Six. Now. Take command, Banquo. Over.’
‘Banquo in command. Over.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Lady said, following Macbeth.
‘I don’t think—’
‘This is my the casino. My Jack.’
‘Listen, ma’am—’
‘Collum knows me, and women calm him down.’
‘This is a police matter,’ Macbeth said and ran down the stairs.
‘I’m coming,’ Lady said and ran after him.
Macbeth came to a halt and stood in front of her.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
‘No, you look at me,’ she said. ‘Do I look as if I’m not going with you? He’s expecting me to bring the money.’
He looked at her. He had a good look. Looked at her in a way other men had looked at her. But also in a way no men or women had looked at her. They looked at her with fear or admiration, respect or desire, hatred, love or subservience, measured her with their eyes, judged her, misjudged her. But this young man looked at her as though he had finally found something. Which he recognised. Which he had been looking for.
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘But keep your mouth shut, ma’am.’
The thick carpet muffled the sound of their feet as they entered the room.
The table where the two men were sitting was less well illuminated than usual because of the smashed chandelier. Jack’s face, stiffened into a mask of transfixed shock, didn’t change when he saw Lady and Macbeth coming towards him. Lady noticed the hammer of the gun rise.
‘Who are you?’ Collum’s voice was thick.
‘I’m Inspector Macbeth from SWAT,’ said the policeman, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. Laying both palms on the table so that they were visible. ‘My job is to negotiate with you.’
‘There’s nothing to negotiate, Inspector. I’ve been cheated by this bloody casino for years. It has ruined me. They fix the cards. She fixes the cards.’
‘And you’ve arrived at that conclusion after taking brew?’ Macbeth asked, tapping his fingers soundlessly on the felt. ‘It distorts reality, you know.’
‘The reality, Inspector, is that I have a gun and I see better than ever, and if you don’t give me the money I’ll first shoot Jack here, then you, as you’ll try to draw a gun, and then Lady, so-called, who will at that point either try to flee or overpower me, but it will be too late for both. Then possibly myself, but we’ll have to see whether I’m in a better mood after dispatching you three to hell and blowing this place sky-high.’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t see any money, and these negotiations are thereby called off. So let’s get started . . .’
The hammer rose higher. Lady automatically grimaced and waited for the bang.
‘Double or quits,’ Macbeth said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Collum said. Immaculate pronunciation. Immaculate shave and immaculate dinner suit with a pressed white shirt. Lady guessed his underclothes were clean too. He had known this was unlikely to finish with him leaving the casino holding a suitcase full of money. He would be carried out as bankrupt as when he came in. But, well, immaculate.
‘You and I play a round of blackjack. If you win, you get all the money you’ve lost here, times two. If I win, I get your gun with all the bullets and you drop all your demands.’
Collum laughed. ‘You’re bluffing!’
‘The suitcase with the money you asked for has arrived and is in the police vehicle outside. The owner has said she’s willing to double up if we agree. Because we know there’s been some jiggery-pokery with the cards, and fair’s fair. What do you say, Ernest?’
Lady looked at Collum, at his left eye, which was all that was visible behind Jack’s head. Ernest Collum was not a stupid man; quite the opposite. He didn’t believe the story about the suitcase. And yet. Sometimes it seemed as if it was the most intelligent customers who refused
to see the inevitability of chance. Given enough time everyone was doomed to lose against the casino.
‘Why would you do this?’ Collum said.
‘Well?’ Macbeth said.
Collum blinked twice. ‘I’m the dealer and you’re a player,’ he said. ‘She deals.’
Lady looked at Macbeth, who nodded. She took the pack, shuffled and laid two cards in front of Macbeth face up.
A six. And the king of hearts.
‘Sweet sixteen.’ Collum grinned.
Lady laid two cards in front of Collum, one face up. Ace of clubs.
‘One more,’ Macbeth said, stretching out a hand.
Lady gave him the top card from the pack. Macbeth held it to his chest, sneaked a look. Glanced up at Collum.
‘Looks like you’ve bust, sweet sixteen,’ Collum said. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Oh, I’m pretty happy with my hand,’ Macbeth said. Smiling at Collum. Then he threw the card to the right, where the table was in part-shadow. Collum automatically leaned across a fraction to see the card better.
The rest happened so fast Lady remembered it as a flash. A flash of a hand in motion, a flash of steel that caught the light as it flew across the table, a flash of Collum’s one eye staring at her, wide open in aggrieved protest, light glistening in a cascade of blood streaming out both sides of the blade that sliced his carotid artery. Then the sounds. The muffled sound of the gun hitting the thick, much-too-expensive carpet. The splash of blood landing on the table. Collum’s deep gurgle as his left eye extinguished. Jack’s one quavering sob.
And she remembered the cards. Not the ace, not the six. But the king of hearts. And, half in shadow, the queen of spades. Both sprayed with Ernest Collum’s blood.
