by Jo Nesbo
Macbeth cocked his gun. ‘I’m going in to check.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Duff said.
‘No, you won’t,’ Macbeth said. ‘This is my business, not yours.’
‘And I choose to ma—’
‘You’ll choose to do what I tell you, Inspector Duff.’
Macbeth initially saw surprise in Duff’s face. Afterwards it slowly sank in: the head of Organised Crime outranked the head of Homicide.
‘Take care of Lady, will you, Duff?’
Without waiting for an answer Macbeth opened the door to the guards’ room, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The bodyguards were still in their chairs. One of them grunted; perhaps the fire alarm was penetrating the heavy veil of drugs.
Macbeth struck him with the back of his hand.
One eye half-opened, its gaze floated around the room and landed on Macbeth. It remained there before gradually taking in his body.
Andrianov registered that his black suit jacket and white shirt were covered with blood, then he felt that something was missing. The weight of his gun in its holster. He put a hand inside his jacket and down into the holster, where his fingers found instead of his service pistol cold sharp steel and something sticky . . . The bodyguard removed his hand and looked at it. Blood? Was he still dreaming? He groaned, a section of his brain received what it interpreted as signals of danger, and he desperately tried to collect himself, automatically looked around, and there, on the floor beside his chair he saw his gun. And his colleague’s gun, beside the chair where he lay, apparently asleep.
‘What . . .’ Andrianov mumbled, looking into the muzzle of the gun held by the man in front of him.
‘Police!’ the man shouted. It was Macbeth. The new head of . . . of . . . ‘Hold the guns where I can see them or I’ll shoot.’
Andrianov blinked in his confusion. Why did it feel as if he was lying in a bog? What had he taken?
‘Don’t point that gun at me!’ Macbeth shouted. ‘Don’t . . .’
Something told Andrianov that he shouldn’t reach for the gun on the floor. The man in front of him wouldn’t shoot him if he sat still. But it didn’t help. Perhaps all the hours, days, years as a bodyguard had created an instinct, a reaction which was no longer steered by will, to protect without a thought for your own life. Or perhaps that was just how he was and why he had applied to work in this branch of service.
Andrianov reached out for the gun, and his life and reasoning were interrupted by a bullet that bored through his forehead, brain and the back of the chair and didn’t stop until it met the wall with the golden-thread wallpaper that Lady had bought for a minor fortune in Paris. The explosion sent a convulsion through his colleague’s body, but he never managed to regain consciousness before he too got a bullet through the forehead.
Duff made for the door as the first shot went off.
But Lady held him back. ‘He said you—’
A second shot rang out, and Duff freed himself from her grasp. Ripped open the door and charged in. And stood in the middle of the floor looking around. Two men, each in a chair with a third eye in his forehead.
‘Norse Riders,’ Macbeth said, putting the smoking gun back in its holster. ‘Sweno’s behind this.’
There was shouting and banging on the corridor door.
‘Let them in,’ Macbeth said.
Duff did as he was told.
‘What’s going on?’ Malcolm gasped, out of breath. ‘Heavens above, are they . . . ? Who . . . ?’
‘Me,’ said Macbeth.
‘They pulled their guns,’ Duff said.
Malcolm’s eyes jumped in bewilderment from Duff back to Macbeth. ‘On you? Why?’
‘Because I was going to arrest them,’ Macbeth said.
‘What for?’ Lennox asked.
‘Murder.’
‘Sir,’ Duff said, looking at Malcolm, ‘I’m afraid we have bad news.’
He could see Malcolm’s eyes narrowing behind the square glasses as he leaned forward like a boxer bracing himself for the punch he wouldn’t see yet sensed was on its way. Everyone turned to the figure that had appeared in the doorway to the next room.
‘Chief Commissioner Duncan is dead,’ Lady said. ‘Stabbed with a knife while he was sleeping.’
The last sentence made Duff automatically turn towards Macbeth. Not because it said anything he didn’t already know, but because it was an echo of the same sentence uttered early one morning in an orphanage so many years ago.
Their eyes met for a brief instant before both of them looked away.
PART TWO
10
THE MORNING CHIEF COMMISSIONER DUNCAN was found dead in bed at Inverness Casino was the second time in its history that Lady had immediately ordered the building to be cleared of customers and a CLOSED sign to be hung up outside.
Caithness arrived with everyone she could muster from Forensics and they closed the whole of the first floor.
The other officers who had stayed the night gathered around the roulette table in the empty gaming room.
Duff looked at Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm sitting at the end of the makeshift conference table. He had taken off his glasses, perhaps to clean them, at least that was what he was doing as he stared fixedly at the green felt, as though answers to all the questions lay there. Malcolm was the highest-ranking officer present, and Duff had occasionally wondered whether the reason he walked with such a stoop was that Malcolm, a bureaucrat surrounded by people with practical police experience, felt he was on such thin ice that he automatically leaned forward to catch any advice, any whispered hints. And perhaps Malcolm’s wan complexion was not down to the previous night’s drinking but the fact that he had suddenly become acting chief commissioner.
Malcolm breathed on his glasses and kept cleaning them. He didn’t look up. As though he didn’t dare meet the gazes directed at him, colleagues waiting for him to speak.
Duff was perhaps too harsh. Everyone knew that in chiselling out Duncan’s programme Malcolm had been both the chisel and the hammer. But could he lead them? The others had years of experience leading their respective units, while Malcolm had spent days running two stooped paces behind Duncan like a kind of overpaid assistant.
‘Gentlemen,’ Malcolm said, staring at the green felt. ‘A great man has left us. And at this juncture that’s all I intend to say about Duncan.’ He put on his glasses, raised his head and studied those around the table. ‘As chief commissioner he would not have allowed us to sink into sentimentality and despair at such a pass, he would have demanded that we did what we’re employed to do: find the guilty party, or parties, and put them under lock and key. Tears and commemorative words will have to come afterwards. At this meeting let’s plan and coordinate what to do first. The next meeting will be at HQ at six this evening. I suggest the first thing you do after this meeting is to ring your wives and so on—’
Malcolm’s gaze landed on Duff, but Duff couldn’t work out if there was any intentional subtext.
‘—and say you’re unlikely to be home for a while.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Because first of all you’re going to arrest the person who took Chief Commissioner Duncan from us.’ Long pause. ‘Duff, you’ve got the Homicide Unit. I want an interim report for the meeting in an hour, including whatever Caithness and her team have or haven’t found at the crime scene.’
‘Right.’
‘Lennox, I want a full background check on the bodyguards and details of their movements before the murder. Where they were, who they spoke to, what they bought, any changes in their bank accounts, some tough questioning of family and friends. Requisition any resources you need.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Macbeth, you’ve already contributed a lot to this case, but I need more. See if Organised Crime can link this with the big players, those who would profit most
from getting rid of Duncan.’
‘Isn’t it pretty obvious?’ Macbeth said. ‘We’ve dumped Sweno’s dope in the river, killed two and arrested half the Norse Riders. This is Sweno’s revenge, and—’
‘It’s not obvious,’ Malcolm said.
The others stared at the deputy chief commissioner in surprise.
‘Sweno has everything to gain by Duncan continuing his project.’ Malcolm tapped on some gambling chips that had been left on the cloth after the hasty evacuation. ‘What was Duncan’s first promise to this town? He was going to arrest Hecate. And now, with the Norse Riders down for the count, Duncan would have focused all the police resources on precisely that. And if Duncan had succeeded what would he have done?’
‘He would have cleaned up the market for Sweno so that he could make a comeback,’ Lennox said.
‘Quite honestly,’ Macbeth said, ‘do you really think a vindictive Sweno would think that rationally?’ Malcolm raised an eyebrow a fraction. ‘A man from the working classes, with no education or any other help, who has run one of the most profitable businesses in this town for more than thirty years. Could he be financially rational? Is he capable of putting aside a thirst for revenge when he can see what’s good for business?’
‘OK,’ Duff said. ‘Hecate’s the one with the most to gain from Duncan’s removal, so you assume he’s behind this.’ He was looking at Malcolm.
‘I’m not assuming anything, but Duncan’s extreme prioritisation of the hunt for Hecate has been, as we know, much debated, and from Hecate’s point of view anyone who succeeds Duncan would be preferable.’
‘Especially if his successor were someone Hecate had tabs on,’ Duff said. Realising at once what he had insinuated, he closed his eyes. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘That’s fine,’ Malcolm said. ‘We can speak and think freely here, and what you said follows from my reasoning. Hecate might think he would have an easier time than under Duncan. So let’s show him how wrong he is.’ Malcolm pushed all the chips onto black. ‘So our provisional hypothesis is Hecate, but let’s hope we know more by six o’clock. To work.’
Banquo could feel sleep letting go. Felt the dream letting go. Felt Vera letting go. He blinked. Was it the church bells that had woken him? No. There was someone in the room. A person sitting by the window and looking down at the framed photograph, who, without looking up, asked, ‘Hangover?’
‘Macbeth? How . . . ?’
‘Fleance let me in. He’s taken over my room, I see. Even the winkle-pickers you bought me.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘And there was me thinking pointed shoes were way out of fashion.’
‘That was why you left them here. But Fleance will wear anything if he knows it was once yours.’
‘Books and school stuff everywhere. He’s hard-working, he’s got the right attitude to get to the top.’
‘Yes, he’s getting there.’
‘But, as we know, that’s not always enough to get to the top. You’re one of many, so it’s a question of opportunity. Having the skill and the courage to strike when the opportunity presents itself. Do you remember who took this picture?’
Macbeth held it up. Fleance and Banquo under the dead apple tree. The shadow of the photographer falling across them.
‘You did. What do you want?’ Banquo rubbed his face. Macbeth was right: he did have a hangover.
‘Duncan’s dead.’
Banquo’s hands dropped to the duvet. ‘What was that you said?’
‘His bodyguards stabbed him in the neck while he was asleep at the Inverness last night.’
Banquo felt nausea on the march and had to breathe in several times to stop himself throwing up.
‘This is the opportunity,’ Macbeth said. ‘That is, it’s a parting of the ways. From here one way goes to hell and the other to heaven. I’m here to ask which you’ll choose.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to know if you’ll follow me.’
‘I’ve already answered that. And the answer’s yes.’
Macbeth turned to him. Smiled. ‘And you can say that without asking whether it’ll lead to heaven or hell?’ His face was pale, his pupils abnormally small. Had to be the sharp morning light because if Banquo hadn’t known Macbeth better he would have said he was back on dope. But the moment he was about to push that thought away the certainty broke over him like a sudden freezing-cold deluge.
‘Was it you?’ Banquo said. ‘Was it you who killed him?’
Macbeth tilted his head and studied Banquo. Studied him the way you study a parachute before you jump, a woman before you try to kiss her for the first time.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I killed Duncan.’
Banquo had difficulty breathing. Squeezed his eyes shut. Hoping that Macbeth, that this would be gone when he opened them again. ‘And what now?’
‘Now I have to kill Malcolm,’ he heard Macbeth say. ‘That is, you have to kill Malcolm.’
Banquo opened his eyes.
‘For me,’ Macbeth said. ‘And for my crown prince, Fleance.’
11
BANQUO SAT IN THE FRUGAL light of the cellar listening to Fleance stamping to and fro upstairs. The boy wanted to go out. Meet friends. Maybe a girl. It would be good for him.
Banquo let the chain slide through his fingers.
He had said yes to Macbeth. Why? Why had he crossed this boundary so easily? Was it because of Macbeth’s promise that he was of the people, with the people and for the people, in a way that an upper-class man like Malcolm could never be? No. It was because you simply couldn’t say no when it was about a son. And even less when it was about two.
Macbeth had described it as following fate’s call, clearing a path to the chief commissioner’s office. He hadn’t said anything about Lady being the brains behind it. He hadn’t needed to. Macbeth preferred simple plans. Plans that didn’t require too much thinking in critical situations. Banquo closed his eyes. Tried to imagine it. Macbeth taking over as chief commissioner and running the town with absolute power, the way Kenneth had done but with the honest aim of making the town a better place for all its inhabitants. If you want to make all the drastic changes that are needed, the slowness of democracy and the free rein it gives simple-mindedness are no good. A strong, just hand. And so, by the time Macbeth is too old, he will let Fleance take over at the helm. By then Banquo will have died of old age, happy. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t imagine it.
Banquo heard the front door slam.
But it’s obvious, even if visions of this nature take time to become completely clear.
He put on his gloves.
It was half past five and the rain was hammering down on the cobblestones and on the windscreen of Malcolm’s Chevelle 454 SS as he wound his way through the streets. He was aware it was stupid to buy a petrol guzzler in the middle of an oil crisis, and even if he had bought it second-hand for what he considered a reasonable price, he had fallen short in the responsibility argument. First of all, with his ecology-conscious daughter, then with Duncan, who had underscored the significance of leaders showing moderation. In the end Malcolm had said what he felt: he had loved these American exaggerations of cars ever since he was a boy, and Duncan had said that at least it showed economists were humans too.
He had quickly popped home to have a shower and change his clothes, which fortunately didn’t take long because it was a Sunday and there was very little traffic. A large press gathering awaited him at the entrance to HQ, probably hoping for a comment or a better picture than they would get at the press conference at half past seven. The mayor, Tourtell, had already been on TV to make a statement. ‘Incomprehensible’, ‘tragedy’, ‘our thoughts go out to the family’ and ‘the town must stand united against this evil’ was what he had said, only accompanied by a great many more words. Malcolm’s, by con
trast, minimal comment had been to ask the press for their understanding; his focus was now on the investigation, and he referred them to the press conference.
Malcolm drove down the ramp to the basement garage, nodded to the guard, who opened the barrier, and swung in. The distance from your parking slot to the lift was in direct proportion to your place in the hierarchy. And when Malcolm backed into his slot it struck him that, from a formal point of view, he could have actually parked in the one that was closest.
He was about to take out the ignition key when the door on the passenger side opened and someone slipped into the back, sliding over behind the driver’s seat. And for the first time since Duncan’s murder Malcolm confronted the thought. With the chief commissioner’s job came not only a parking slot closer to the lift but also a death threat, whenever, wherever; security was a privilege accorded to those who parked further away.
‘Start up the car,’ the person in the back seat said.
Malcolm looked in the rear-view mirror. The person had moved so quickly and so soundlessly that he could only conclude SWAT training was effective. ‘Anything wrong, Banquo?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ve uncovered plans for an attack on your life.’
‘Inside police HQ?’
‘Yes. Drive slowly, please. We have to get away. We don’t know who is involved in the force yet, but we think they’re the same people who killed Duncan.’
Malcolm knew he should be frightened. And he was. But not as frightened as he could have been. Often it was trivial situations – like standing on a ladder or being surrounded by angry wasps – that could trigger pathetic panic-like reactions. But now, just like this morning, it was as though the situation didn’t permit that type of fear; on the contrary it sharpened your ability to think fast and rationally, strengthened your resolve and, paradoxically, calmed him down.
‘If that’s the case, how do I know you’re not one of them, Banquo?’
‘If I’d wanted to kill you, you would already be dead, sir.’
