by Jo Nesbo
‘I only wanted to help you catch the man that took my eye.’
‘Who was it?’
The boy snorted. ‘The same guy that’s busting your arse. Don’t you know who’s behind all this shit? There’s only one person in this town who can kill a chief commissioner and get away with it, and that’s the Invisible Hand.’
Hecate?
14
MACBETH DROVE ALONG THE DIRTY road between the old factories. The cloud hung so low and Monday-grey over the chimneys that it was difficult to see which were smoking, but some of the gates had CLOSED signs or chains secured across them like ironic bow ties.
The press conference had passed painlessly. Painlessly because he had been too high to feel anything. He had concentrated on sitting back in a relaxed manner with his arms crossed and leaving the questions to Lennox and Caithness. Apart from those directed at him personally, which he had answered with, ‘We cannot comment on that at the present time,’ delivered with an expression that said they had much too much information and were in full control. Calm and assured. That was the impression he hoped he had given. An acting chief commissioner who did not allow himself to be affected by the hysteria around him, who answered journalists’ shrill questions – ‘Doesn’t the public have the right to know?’ – with a somewhat resigned, tolerant smile.
Although then Kite, the reporter with the rolled ‘r’s, had said in his radio programme right after the press conference that the acting chief commissioner had yawned a lot, seemed uninvolved and looked at his watch a lot. But to hell with Kite. In the Patrols Section they definitely thought the new chief commissioner was involved enough as he had personally dropped in and redirected the patrols from District 2 West to District 1 East. He explained it was time the neighbourhoods of normal people were also patrolled. It was an important signal to send: the police didn’t prioritise districts with money and influence. And if Kite had been annoyed, Banquo had at least been happy to receive a dinner invitation with instructions to bring along Fleance.
‘Good for the lad to get used to mixing with the big boys,’ Macbeth had said. ‘And then I think you should decide what you’d like to do. Take over SWAT, Organised Crime or become the deputy chief commissioner.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t get stressed now, Banquo. Just give it some thought, OK?’
And Banquo had chortled and shaken his head. Gentle, as always. As though he didn’t have an evil thought in his mind. Or at least he didn’t have a conscience about having one. Well, tonight the traitor would meet his maker and destroyer.
No one was on the gate of the Norse Riders’ club house. They probably didn’t have anyone left to stand guard.
Macbeth got out of his car and went into the club-room. Stopped in the doorway and looked around. It felt like a strangely long time ago since he had stood there beside Duff and scanned the same room. Now the long table had gone, and at the bar stood three men with low-slung paunches in the club’s leather jackets and two women with high-slung breasts. One was holding a baby, who was wriggling around under a muscular maternal arm tattooed with the name SEAN.
‘Colin, isn’t that the . . . ?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ said the completely bald man with the walrus moustache in a low voice. ‘That’s the one who got Sean.’
Macbeth remembered the name from the report. It was strange how he kept forgetting the names of people he met, but never those that appeared in reports. Sean. He was the one who had been on guard at the gate, the one Macbeth had knifed in the shoulder and whom they had used as a hostage, one of those who was still in custody.
The man glared at the police officer in slack-jawed fury. Macbeth took a deep breath. It was so quiet he could hear the floorboards creak under his heels as he walked over to the bar. He addressed the leather jacket behind the counter and caught himself thinking as he opened his mouth that he shouldn’t have sniffed that last line before leaving HQ. Brew had a tendency to make him cocky. And his concern was confirmed by what came out: ‘Hello, not many people here, where is everybody? Oh, yes, that’s right. In the slammer. Or the morgue. A Glendoran, please.’
Macbeth saw the barman’s eyes flit across, knew an attack was imminent from his left and he still had oceans of time. Macbeth had always had good reflexes, but with brew he was like a fly – he could yawn, scratch his back and study his watch with its incredibly slow second hand while a fist was on its way. But then, as Colin with the walrus moustache thought he was about to connect, Macbeth swayed back, and the fist that was heading for his newly trimmed temple met air. Macbeth lifted and swung his elbow to the side, barely felt the impact, only heard a groan, the crunch of cartilage, staggering footsteps and bar stools toppling over.
‘On the rocks,’ Macbeth said.
Then he turned to the man beside him, in time to see he had clenched his right hand and drawn his shoulder back to deliver a punch. As it arrived, Macbeth lifted his hand and met Colin’s halfway. But instead of the expected crunch of bone on bone,there came the smooth sound of steel in flesh followed by a dull thud when Colin’s knuckles hit the hilt. Then his long drawn-out scream when he saw the dagger running up through his clenched hand into his forearm. Macbeth pulled out the dagger with a jerk.
‘ . . . and some soda.’
The man with the walrus moustache fell to his knees.
‘What the hell is going on?’ said a voice.
This came from the door to the garage. The man had a big beard and a leather jacket with three chevrons on each shoulder. Plus a sawn-off shotgun in his hands.
‘I’m ordering,’ Macbeth said, turning to the barman, who still hadn’t moved.
‘Ordering what?’ said the man, coming closer.
‘Whisky. Among other things.’
‘And what else?’
‘You’re the sergeant. You run the shop when Sweno’s not here, don’t you? By the way, where’s he hiding this time?’
‘Say what you came to say and get outta here, cop scum.’
‘I won’t hear a bad word about the place, but the service could be friendlier and quicker. What about you and me doing this in peace and quiet, in a back room, Sarge?’
The man looked at Macbeth for some moments. Then he lowered the gun barrel. ‘There’s not much more damage you can do here anyway.’
‘I know. And Sweno’s going to like my commission, I can guarantee you that.’
The sergeant’s little office – for that’s what it was – had posters of motorbikes on the walls and a very small selection of engine parts on the shelves. With a desk, telephone and in and out trays. And a chair for visitors.
‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, cop.’
‘My order is for a hit job.’
If the sergeant was shocked he didn’t show it. ‘Wrong address. We don’t do that stuff for cops any more.’
‘So the rumour’s true? You used to do hit jobs for Kenneth’s men?’
‘If there was nothing else . . .’
‘Only this time it isn’t a competitor you would have to dispatch into the beyond,’ Macbeth said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘It’s two cops. And the payment is your Norse Riders being set free immediately afterwards and all charges dropped.’
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. ‘And how would you do that?’
‘Procedural error. Spoiled evidence. This shit happens all the time. And if the chief commissioner says we haven’t got a case, we haven’t got a case.’
The sergeant crossed his arms. ‘Carry on.’
‘The person who has to be dispatched is the guy who ensured the dope you were going to live off ended up in the river. Inspector Banquo.’ Macbeth watched the sergeant nod slowly. ‘The other is a cop sprog who will be in the same car.’
‘And why are they to be expedited?’
‘Is that important?’
‘Usu
ally I wouldn’t ask, but this is police officers we’re talking about, and that means there’s going to be loads of trouble.’
‘Not with these ones. We know Inspector Banquo is working with Hecate, we just can’t prove it, so we have to get rid of him another way. This is the best option from our point of view.’
The sergeant nodded again. Macbeth had counted on him understanding this logic.
‘How do we know you’ll keep your part of a potential deal?’
‘Well,’ Macbeth said, squinting at the calendar girl above the sergeant’s head. ‘We have five witnesses in the bar who can vouch for Acting Chief Commissioner Macbeth being here in person and giving you a commission. You don’t think I’d want to give you any reason to make that public, do you?’
The sergeant leaned back in his chair so far it touched the wall, studying Macbeth while making growling noises and pulling at his beard. ‘And when and where would this job potentially take place?’
‘Tonight. You know Gallows Hill in District 2 West?’
‘That’s where they hanged my great-great-grandfather.’
‘On the main road above the lanes where the West Enders go shopping there’s a big junction.’
‘I know the one you mean.’
‘They’ll be in a black Volvo at the lights some time between half past six and ten to seven. Probably at exactly a quarter to. He’s a punctual man.’
‘Hm. There are always a lot of patrol cars there.’
Macbeth smiled. ‘Not tonight there won’t be.’
‘Oh, really? I’ll think about it and give you an answer at four.’
Macbeth laughed. ‘Sweno will think about it, you mean. Great. Pick up a pen, and I’ll give you my phone number and the registration number of the Volvo. And one more thing.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘I want their heads.’
‘Whose?’
‘The two cops. I want their heads. Delivered to the door.’
The sergeant stared at Macbeth as if he considered him insane.
‘The customer requires a receipt,’ Macbeth said. ‘Last time I ordered a hit job I didn’t ask for a receipt and that was an error. I didn’t get what I ordered.’
Late in the afternoon Duff made a decision.
His thoughts had been churning for hours in a brain where the traffic felt as slow-moving as that on the road in front of him and the way ahead as full of choices. They still hadn’t replaced the railings on Kenneth Bridge, so the traffic eastbound was being redirected to the old bridge and the queue backed up to District 2, where Duff’s car moved forward at a snail’s pace from junction to junction, which all threw up the question: left, right, straight ahead, what’s the fastest?
Duff’s own particular junction was this.
Should he go to Macbeth and the others with what he had found out on the quayside? Should he keep it to himself? But suppose the one-eyed boy wasn’t telling the truth or Banquo was able to deny the accusations? What would the consequences be for Duff if in this chaotic situation he made false accusations against Banquo, who, with Macbeth, had suddenly become a powerful figure?
Duff could of course simply present the information the way he had been given it and let Lennox and Macbeth evaluate it themselves, but then he would lose the chance to register a badly needed personal triumph by single-handedly arresting and unmasking Banquo.
On the other hand, he couldn’t afford another blunder after his raid on the container harbour. It had cost him the Organised Crime appointment; another blunder could easily cost him his job.
Another junction: Organised Crime would be up for grabs again if Macbeth became chief commissioner, and if Duff seized the opportunity now, dared and won, the unit could be his.
He had weighed up asking Caithness for her opinion, but then the cat would be out of the bag, he couldn’t play innocent and would be forced to do something. Take a risk.
The way he had chosen in the end was one where he didn’t risk much, but where he would still get the credit if it all went as he hoped.
Duff turned off the little railway bridge and into the yard in front of the modest brick building on the other side. It had taken him more than three quarters of an hour to cover the short distance from HQ to Banquo’s address.
‘Duff,’ said Banquo, who opened the door seconds after Duff had rung the bell. ‘What gives?’
‘A party by the looks of it,’ Duff said.
‘Yes, and that’s why I can’t decide whether to take this or not.’ Banquo held up the holster with his service gun.
‘Leave it behind. It’ll only make a bulge in your suit. But that tie knot is no good.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Banquo said, pressing his chin down against his white shirt collar in a futile attempt to see the knot. ‘It’s been good enough for fifty years, ever since I was confirmed.’
‘That’s a poor man’s knot, Banquo. Come on, let me show you . . .’
Banquo warded off Duff’s helping hand by covering the knot. ‘I am a poor man, Duff. And I assume you came here to get help, not offer it.’
‘That’s true enough, Banquo. Can I come in?’
‘I’d have liked to offer you help and coffee, but I’m afraid we’re on our way out.’ Banquo put his gun holster on the hat shelf behind him and called up the stairs: ‘Fleance!’
‘Coming!’ was the response.
‘We can go outside in the meantime,’ Banquo said, buttoning up his coat.
They stood on the covered white steps. Rain gurgled cheerily down from the gutters while Banquo offered Duff a cigarette and lit his own when the inspector declined.
‘I was back in the container harbour today,’ Duff said. ‘I met a boy, one of our young drug addicts, who wanted to talk to me. He’s got only one eye. He told me how he lost the other one.’
‘Mmhm.’
‘He’d been driven crazy with his craving for dope but was broke. Down at central station he met an old man and begged him for some money. The old man had a walking stick with a gold tip.’
‘Hecate?’
‘The old man stopped, took out a bag which he dangled in front of the boy and said it was top-quality brew straight from the pot. The boy could have it if he would do two things for him. The first was to answer the question: which sense would you be most afraid to lose? When the boy replied it would be his eyesight, the old man said he wanted one of his eyes.’
‘That was Hecate.’
‘When the boy asked the old man why he wanted his eye, Hecate answered that he had everything, so all that was left for him was what was most valuable to the buyer, not to himself. And after all it was only half his eyesight, well, not even that. And think how much more valuable his second eye would be afterwards. Indeed loss and gain would almost be equal.’
‘I don’t understand that.’
‘Maybe not, but that’s the way some people are. They desire power itself more than what it can give them. They’d rather own a worthless tree than the edible fruit that grows on it. Just so that they can point to it and say, “That’s mine.” And then cut it down.’
Banquo blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘What did the boy decide to do?’
‘He was helped by a man-woman, who was with the old man, to take out the eye. And when he got his shot afterwards all the pain he had ever known was gone – it smoothed all the scars, removed all the bad memories. The boy said it was so wonderful that even today he can’t say he has any regrets. He’s still chasing after it, the perfect shot.’
‘And what was he after today when you met him?’
‘The same. Plus the person who had taken his eye just because he could.’
‘He’ll have to take his place in the queue of Hecate-chasers.’
‘He was thinking instead that he would help us catch Hecate.’
‘And how would a poor brew sla
ve do that?’
‘Malcolm’s so-called suicide letter tries to finger the Norse Riders. But the boy thinks Hecate’s behind everything. Both the letter and the murder of Duncan. And Hecate’s in league with Malcolm. And perhaps others in the force.’
‘A popular theory nowadays.’Banquo flicked the ash off the cigarette and looked at his watch. ‘Was he paid for that?’
‘No,’ Duff said. ‘He wasn’t paid for anything until he told me he’d seen Malcolm down on the quay before he went missing. And he’d been with you.’
The cigarette on its way to Banquo’s mouth stopped. He laughed. ‘Me? I don’t believe it.’
‘He described you and your car.’
‘Neither I nor my car was there. And I find it difficult to believe you could have paid public money for such a claim. So which of you is bluffing? This junkie then or you now?’
A gust of cold wind blew, and Duff shivered. ‘The boy says he saw Malcolm and an older man he’d seen with Macbeth. A Volvo saloon.And a gun. Wouldn’t you have paid for that information, Banquo?’
‘Only if I was desperate.’ Banquo stubbed his cigarette out on the iron railing which flanked the steps. ‘And not even then if it concerned a police colleague.’
‘Because you always rate loyalty very high, don’t you?’
‘A police force cannot function without the loyalty of individuals. It’s a prerequisite.’
‘So how far does your loyalty to the force stretch?’
‘I’m a simple man, Duff, and I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘If you mean what you say about loyalty then you have to give us Malcolm. For the sake of the force.’
Duff pointed out into the grey soup of rain and mist in front of them. ‘For this town’s sake. Where is Duncan’s murderer hiding in Capitol?’
Banquo blew the ash from the cigarette end and put it in his coat pocket. ‘I know nothing about Malcolm. Fleance! Sorry, Inspector, but we’re going out to dinner.’
Duff ran after Banquo, who had walked down the three steps into the rain. ‘Speak to me, Banquo! I can see you’re weighed down by guilt and a bad conscience. You’re not an evil, cunning person. You’ve just been led into temptation by someone higher in rank than you by trusting their judgement. And so you’ve been betrayed. He has to be arrested, Banquo!’
