Macbeth

by Jo Nesbo

  Duff shrugged.

  ‘And this is my problem, Johnson. Hutch is going to keep trying, but he is the permanent bottom chicken. And I would prefer another bottom chicken, one who would quietly accept his fate. But as Hutch is an ill-natured troublemaker who considers he’s been given enough beatings in life and now it’s someone else’s turn, he’s going to continue to create a bad atmosphere on board. He’s not a bad engineer, but he makes my crew work worse than it would be without him.’

  A loud slurp.

  ‘So why don’t I get rid of him, you say. And you say that because you’re not a seaman and know nothing about Seafarers’ Union employment contracts, which mean I’m stuck with Hutch until I can get something on him that would give me a so-called objective reason to offload him. Physically attacking a colleague would be one such objective reason . . .’

  Duff nodded.

  ‘So? All I need from you is a yes and a signature for the Seafarers’ Union. I can get the rest from the witnesses.’

  ‘We were only playing, Captain. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’ The captain scratched his chin. ‘As I said, I don’t make a habit of delving into my crew’s backgrounds unnecessarily. But I have to say I’ve only seen the grip you had on Hutch used twice before: by the military police and the port police. The common denominator is police. So now I’d like to hear the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘Yes. Did he attack you?’

  Duff eyed the captain. He presumed he had known from the start his real name wasn’t Cliff Johnson and that the galley boy hadn’t worked in any restaurant. All he was asking for was a yes and a false signature. If and when there was ever any discussion of the real identity of this Johnson he would be over the hills and far away.

  ‘I see. Here’s the truth,’ Duff said, watching the captain lean across the table. ‘We were only playing, Captain.’

  The captain leaned back. Put the coffee cup to his mouth. His gaze above the cup was firmly fixed on Duff. Not on Duff’s eyes but higher, on his forehead. The captain’s Adam’s apple went up and down as he swallowed. Then he brought the empty cup hard down on the table.

  ‘Johnson.’

  ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘I like you.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I have no reason to believe you like Hutch any more than the rest of us. But you’re no snitch. That’s bad news for me as a captain, but it shows integrity. And I respect that, so I won’t mention this matter again. You’re seasick and you’re lying, but I could use more people like you in my crew. Thanks for the coffee.’

  The captain got up and left.

  Duff remained seated for a couple of seconds. Then he took the empty cup to the galley and put it in the sink. Closed his eyes, placed his hands on the cold shiny metal and swallowed his nausea. What was he doing? Why hadn’t he told him the truth, that Hutch was a bully?

  He opened his eyes. Saw his reflection in the saucepan hanging from the shelf in front of him. His heart skipped a beat. His hat had ridden up to his hairline without him noticing. Hutchinson must have clipped it when he swung. The scar shone against his skin like a thick white vapour trail after a plane in the sky. The scar. That was what the captain had been staring at before he put down his cup.

  Duff closed his eyes, told himself to relax and think through the whole business.

  Their departure had been so early the newspapers wouldn’t have been out on the streets the day they left, so the captain couldn’t have seen any WANTED pictures of him. Unless he had seen Duff’s face on the TV broadcast of the press conference the evening before. But had there been any sign of shock in the captain’s eyes when he saw the scar – if he had seen it? No. Because the captain was a good actor and didn’t want to show that he had recognised him until they set upon him later? As there was little he could do about that, he decided the captain hadn’t realised, but what about the others? No, he had been standing with his back to them until the captain had ordered them out. Apart from Hutchinson, lying in front of him. If he had seen the scar he didn’t strike Duff as the type to scour the news.

  Duff opened his eyes again.

  In two days, on Wednesday, they would dock.

  Forty-eight hours. Stay low for two days. He must be able to do that.

  The organ music started, and standing between the rows of benches in the cathedral he could feel the hairs rise all over his body. It wasn’t because of the music, nor the priest’s or the mayor’s eulogies, nor Duncan’s coffin being borne down the aisle by six men, nor was it the fact that he hadn’t taken any power. It was because of the dreadful new uniform he was wearing. Whenever he moved, the coarse wool rubbed against his skin and gave him the shivers. His old one had been cheaper material and was more worn-in and comfortable. He could of course have chosen the new black suit delivered to police HQ, which could only have come from Hecate. The quality of the wool cloth was much better, but strangely enough it itched even more than the uniform. Besides, it would have been a breach of tradition to turn up to a police funeral in anything but a uniform.

  The coffin passed Macbeth’s row. Duncan’s wife and two sons followed it with lowered heads, but when one son happened to look up and met his eyes, Macbeth automatically looked down.

  Then they all filed out into the aisle and joined the cortège. Macbeth positioned himself in such a way that he was walking beside Tourtell.

  ‘Fine speech,’ Macbeth said.

  ‘Thank you. I’m really sorry the town hall didn’t agree to the town paying for the funeral. With closed factories and falling tax revenues, I’m afraid such demonstrations of honour are way down the list. Still pretty uncivilised, if you ask me.’

  ‘The town hall has my sympathy.’

  ‘I don’t believe Duncan’s family feel the same way. His wife rang me and said we should have driven his coffin through the streets and given people the opportunity to show how much they cared. They wanted what Duncan wanted.’

  ‘Do you think people would have done that?’

  Tourtell shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know, Macbeth. My experience is that people in this town don’t care about so-called reforms unless they see them putting food on the table or providing enough for an extra beer. I thought change was beginning to take place in the town, but if so the murder of Duncan would have made people seething mad. Instead it seems as if people have accepted that in this town good always loses. The only person who’s opened his mouth is Kite. Are you going to Banquo and his son’s funeral tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. Down in the Workers’ Church. Banquo wasn’t particularly religious, but his wife, Vera, is buried there.’

  ‘But Duff’s wife and children are going to be buried in the cathedral, I’ve been informed.’

  ‘Yes. I won’t be there personally.’

  ‘Personally?’

  ‘We’re going to have officers posted here in case Duff decides to pitch up.’

  ‘Oh yes. You should accompany your children to their graves. Especially if you know you’re partly responsible.’

  ‘Yes, it’s funny how guilt marks you for life, while honour and glory come out in the wash the same night.’

  ‘Now, for a second there, Macbeth, you sounded like a man who knows a bit about guilt.’

  ‘So let me confess right here and now that I’ve killed my nearest and dearest, Tourtell.’

  The mayor stopped for a moment and looked at Macbeth. ‘What was that you said?’

  ‘My mother. She died in childbirth. Let’s keep walking.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He ran away to sea when he heard Mum was pregnant and was never seen again. I grew up in an orphanage. Duff and I. We shared a room. But you’ve probably never seen a room in an orphanage, have you, Tourtell?’

  ‘Oh, I have opened an orphanage or two.’<
br />
  They had come out onto the cathedral steps, where the wet north-westerly gale met them. On the gravel path Macbeth saw the coffin teeter dangerously.

  ‘Well, well,’ Tourtell said. ‘The sea is also a way to escape.’

  ‘Are you criticising my father, Tourtell?’

  ‘Neither of us knew him. I’m just saying the sea is full of them – men who don’t accept the responsibilities nature has placed on them.’

  ‘So men like you and me should take even more responsibility, Tourtell.’

  ‘Exactly. So what have you decided?’

  Macbeth cleared his throat. ‘I can see that for the good of the town it’s best the chief commissioner continues to be chief commissioner and carries on his good, close cooperation with the mayor.’

  ‘Wise words, Macbeth.’

  ‘So long as this cooperation functions of course.’

  ‘And you’re referring to?’

  ‘The rumours that the Obelisk is running a prostitution racket under the auspices of the casino and giving credit illegally to some gamblers.’

  ‘The former is an old accusation, the latter new. But, as you know, it’s difficult to get to the bottom of such rumours, so they tend to stay that way and don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I have a specific suspicions relating to at least two gamblers, and with effective interviewing methods and the promise of an amnesty I’m sure I can establish whether the Obelisk has offered them credit or not. Thereafter the Gambling and Casino Board will presumably have to close the place while the extent of the irregularities is examined more closely.’

  The mayor pulled at the lowest of his chins. ‘You mean close down the Obelisk in return for not standing?’

  ‘I mean only that the town’s political and administrative leaders have to be consistent in their enforcement of laws and regulations. If they don’t want to be suspected of being bought and paid for by those who evade them.’

  The mayor clicked his tongue. Like a child with an olive, Macbeth thought. The kind of food that takes you years to like. ‘We’re not talking about a series of possible irregularities,’ Tourtell said as if to himself. ‘And, as I said, it’s difficult to get to the bottom of such rumours. It can take time.’

  ‘A long time,’ Macbeth said.

  ‘I’ll prepare the board by saying there’s some information on its way which may necessitate closing the casino down. Where’s Lady, by the way? I would imagine, as she and Duncan . . .’

  ‘She doesn’t feel well, I’m afraid. Temporary.’

  ‘I see. Say hello and wish her well. We’d better go down and offer our condolences to the family.’

  ‘You go first. I’ll follow.’

  Macbeth watched Tourtell waddle down the stairs and grasp Mrs Duncan’s hand in both of his, watched his lips move as he inclined his head in the deepest sympathy. He really did look like a turtle. But there was something Tourtell had said. The sea was full of them. Men who had run off.

  ‘Everything OK, sir?’ It was Seyton. He had been waiting outside. He couldn’t stand churches, he said, and that was fine; those who had it in for the chief commissioner would hardly be inside.

  ‘We checked all the passenger boats leaving town,’ Macbeth said, ‘but did anyone think of checking the other ships?’

  ‘For stowaways, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Or simply people who’d got a job on board.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Send a precise description of Duff to all the boats which have left since yesterday. Now.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Seyton took the steps in two strides and disappeared around the corner.

  Meredith. Meredith had ceased to exist. But the scar on his heart was still there. And yet Macbeth wasn’t going to the funeral. Because it was a long time since she had ceased to exist, so long that he had forgotten who she was. So long that he had forgotten who he himself had been then.

  He shifted his weight, felt the material against the inside of his thigh, smelled wet wool. And shivered.

  27

  DUFF STOOD IN THE GALLEY looking at the men in the mess. They had eaten lunch and now they were rolling cigarettes and talking in low voices, laughing, lighting their cigarettes, drinking their coffee. Only one man sat on his own. Hutchinson. A big skin-coloured plaster on his forehead told those who hadn’t been present about the beating he had been given. Hutchinson tried to look as though he were thinking about something that required concentration as he puffed on his roll-up, but his acting ability wasn’t good enough for him to look anything but lost.

  ‘We’ll be docking tomorrow,’ the steward said, who himself had lit a cigarette and was leaning against the cooker. ‘You’ve learned fast. Fancy some more peggy?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you staying on for the next trip?’

  ‘No,’ Duff said. ‘But thank you for asking.’

  The steward shrugged. Duff watched someone who was late for lunch balance his soup dish and make for Hutchinson’s table, look up, see who was sitting there and instead squeeze onto a full table. And Duff saw that Hutchinson had registered this and was now concentrating on his fag even harder while blinking furiously.

  ‘Any of that cheesecake left from yesterday?’

  Duff turned. It was the first engineer; he was standing in the doorway with a hopeful expression on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ the steward said. ‘All gone.’

  ‘Hang about,’ Duff said. ‘I think I wrapped up a small slice.’ He went into the freezer room, found a plate wrapped in foil and came back. Passed it to the first engineer. ‘It’s a bit cold.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said the first engineer, licking his lips. ‘I like it cold.’

  ‘One thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hutchinson . . .’

  ‘Hutch?’

  ‘Yes. He looks a bit . . . erm downcast. I was wondering about something the captain said to me. He said he was a good engineer. Is that right?’

  The first engineer rocked his head from side to side looking at Duff a little uncertainly. ‘He’s good enough.’

  ‘Perhaps it’d be a good idea to tell him.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘He’s good enough.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think he needs to hear it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. If you build people up they just want more money and longer breaks.’

  ‘When you were a young engineer did you have a first engineer who gave you the feeling you were doing a good job?’

  ‘Yes, but I was.’

  ‘Try and remember how good you really were then.’

  The first engineer stood with his mouth ajar.

  At that moment the boat rolled. Screams came from the mess, and there was a loud bang behind Duff.

  ‘Fuckin’ Ada!’ the steward shouted, and when Duff turned he saw the big soup tureen had fallen on the floor. Duff stared at the thick, green, pea soup oozing out. Without warning his stomach lurched, he felt the nausea in his throat and just managed to grab the doorframe as it spurted from his mouth.

  ‘Well, rookie,’ said the first engineer, ‘any other good advice?’ He turned and left.

  ‘Bloody hell, Johnson. Haven’t you finished with all that?’ the steward groaned, handing Duff a kitchen roll.

  ‘What happened?’ Duff asked, wiping his mouth.

  ‘Hit a swell,’ the steward said. ‘It happens.’

  ‘Have a breather. I’ll clean up here.’

  When Duff had finished scrubbing the floor, he went into the mess to collect the dirty crockery. Only three guys were sitting at one table, plus Hutch, who hadn’t stirred from his place.

  Duff listened to their chit-chat as he piled dishes and glasses on a tray.

  ‘That breaker must have come from an
earthquake or a landslide or something,’ one of them said.

  ‘Perhaps it was a nuclear test,’ suggested one of the others. ‘The Soviets are supposed to have some shit going on in the Barents Sea and shock waves apparently go all the way round the world.’

  ‘Any messages about that, Sparks?’

  ‘No.’ Sparks laughed. ‘The only excitement is a search for a guy with a white scar right across his face.’

  Duff stiffened. Kept piling dishes as he listened.

  ‘Yeah, it’s gonna be good to get ashore tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it hell. Missus says she’s pregnant again.’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’

  Good-natured laughter around the table.

  Duff turned with the tray in his hands. Hutchinson had lifted his head and suddenly sat bolt upright. The few times they had met after their skirmish Hutchinson had looked down and avoided Duff’s face, but now he was staring at Duff with wide-open eyes. Like a vulture that has unexpectedly and happily spotted a helpless, injured animal.

  Duff shoved open the door to the galley with his foot and heard it clatter behind him. Put the tray down on the worktop. Damn, damn, damn! Not now, not with less than twenty-hours to land.

  ‘Not too fast here,’ Caithness said, looking through the windscreen.

  The taxi driver took his foot off the accelerator, and they drove slowly past the Obelisk, where people were streaming into the street from the main entrance. Two police cars were parked on the pavement. The blue lights rotated idly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Lennox said and thrust his blue face between the two front seats. He was – like Caithness – still wearing his uniform, as the taxi had collected them from outside the church straight after Duncan’s funeral. ‘Has the fire alarm gone off?’

  ‘The Gambling and Casino Board closed the place today,’ Caithness said. ‘Suspicion of breaching the Casino Act.’

  They saw one of the policemen leading out an angrily gesticulating man in a light suit and flowery shirt with impressive sideburns. It looked as if the man was trying to explain something to the policeman, who was obviously turning a deaf ear.