Macbeth

by Jo Nesbo

  Duff looked at the man with the beard as if to make sure this really was Malcolm. ‘You mean, don’t go after Hecate but his small competitors?’

  ‘I mean, be realistic, my dear Duff. No one gains anything with a chief commissioner who doesn’t know how things work in this world. We have to make a better and cleaner town than those who came before us, Duff, but for this job we damn well have to be paid.’

  ‘Take payment, you mean?’

  ‘We can’t win against Hecate, Duff. Not yet. In the meantime we can let him pay some of our wages so that we’re equipped to fight all the other crime in the town. God knows there’s enough of it.’

  At first Duff felt a weariness. And a strange relief. The fight was over; he could give in, could rest now. With Meredith. He shook his head. ‘I can’t accept that. You aren’t the person I’d hoped you were, Malcolm, so that’s my last hope gone.’

  ‘Do you think there are better men? Are you a better man?’

  ‘Not me, but I’ve met men in the belly of a boat who are better than you or me, Malcolm. So now I’m going to leave. You’d better make up your mind whether you’re going to let me go or shoot me.’

  ‘I can’t let you go now as you know where I am. Unless you swear not to reveal my whereabouts.’

  ‘A promise between traitors wouldn’t be worth much, Malcolm. I still won’t swear though. Please shoot me in the head – I have a family waiting for me.’

  Duff got up, but Malcolm did too, put both hands on his shoulders and forced him back down onto the chair.

  ‘You’ve asked me quite a few questions, Duff. And in an interview the questions are often truer and more revealing than the answers. I’ve been lying to you, and your questions were the right ones. But I wasn’t sure if your righteous indignation was genuine until now, when you were willing to take a bullet for a clean police force and town.’

  Duff blinked. His body was so heavy all of a sudden, he was close to fainting.

  ‘There are three men in this room,’ Malcolm said. ‘Three men willing to sacrifice everything to carry on what Duncan stood for.’ He put on the glasses he had been cleaning. ‘Three men who may not be better than any others – perhaps we’ve already lost so much that it doesn’t cost us much to sacrifice the rest. But this is the seed and the logic of the revolution, so let’s not get carried away by our own moral excellence. Let’s just say we have the will to do the right thing irrespective of whether the fuel powering our will is a sense of justice—’ he shrugged ‘—a family man’s lust for revenge, a traitor’s shame, the moral exaltation of a privileged person or a God-fearing horror of burning in hell. For this is the right path and what we need now is the will. There are no simple paths to justice and purity, only the difficult one.’

  ‘Three men,’ Duff said.

  ‘You, me and . . . ?’

  ‘And Fleance,’ Duff said. ‘How did you manage it, lad?’

  ‘My father kicked me out of the car and off the bridge,’ the voice said behind him. ‘He taught me how to do what he never succeeded in teaching Macbeth. How to swim.’

  Duff looked at Malcolm, who sighed then smiled. And to his surprise Duff felt himself smiling too. And felt something surge up his throat. A sob. But he realised it was laughter, not tears, only when he saw Malcolm also burst into laughter and then Fleance. The laughter of war.

  ‘Wozzup?’

  They turned to see old Alfie standing in the doorway with a bewildered expression on his face and the newspaper in his hand, and they laughed even louder.

  31

  LENNOX WAS STANDING BY THE window staring out. Weighing the grenade in his hand. Angus, Angus. He still hadn’t told anyone about the meeting at Estex. Why, he didn’t know. He only knew he hadn’t done a thing all day. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Whenever he tried to read a report he lost concentration. It was as though the letters moved and made new words. Reforming became informing and portrayal became betrayal. Whenever he lifted the phone to make a call the receiver weighed a ton and he had to cradle it again. He had tried to read the newspaper and found out that old Zimmerman was standing for mayor. Zimmerman was neither controversial nor charismatic; he was respected for his competence, as far as that went, but he was not a serious challenger to Tourtell. Lennox had also started reading an article about the increase in drug trafficking, which according to the UN had turned it into the biggest industry after arms dealing, before realising he was only looking at sentences, not reading them.

  Eight days had gone by since Duff had evaded capture in Capitol. When Lennox and Seyton had stood before him in the chief commissioner’s office Macbeth had been so furious that he was literally foaming at the mouth. White bubbles of saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth as he ranted on about what an idiot he had been made to look in the capital. And if Lennox and Seyton had done their jobs and caught Duff while he was still in town then this would never have happened. And yet Lennox felt this paradoxical relief that Duff was still alive and free.

  There wasn’t much light left outside, but his eyes smarted. Perhaps he needed an extra shot today. Just to get through this one day; tomorrow everything would be better.

  ‘Is that really a hand grenade or is it supposed to be an ashtray?’

  Lennox turned to the voice at the door.

  Macbeth was in an odd pose, leaning forward with his arms down by his sides as though he were standing in a strong wind. His head was bowed, his pupils at the top of his eyes as he stared at Lennox.

  ‘It was thrown at my grandfather in the First World War.’

  ‘Lies.’ Macbeth grinned, coming in and closing the door behind him. ‘That’s a German Model 24 Stielhandgranate, stick grenade. It’s an ashtray.’

  ‘I don’t think my grandfather—’

  Macbeth took the grenade out of Lennox’s hand, grasped the cord at the end of the handle and began to pull.

  ‘Don’t!’

  Macbeth raised an eyebrow and eyed the frightened head of the Anti-Corruption Unit, who continued: ‘It will d-detonate—’

  ‘—your grandfather’s story?’ Macbeth put the cord back into the handle and placed the grenade on the table. ‘We can’t have that, can we. So what were you thinking about, Inspector?’

  ‘Corruption,’ Lennox said, putting the grenade in a drawer. ‘And anti-corruption.’

  Macbeth pulled the visitor’s chair forward. ‘What is corruption actually, Lennox? Is a solemnly committed revolutionary paid to infiltrate our state machinery corrupt? Is an obedient but passive servant who does nothing but receive his regular and somewhat unreasonably high salary in a system he knows is based on corruption corrupt?’

  ‘There are many grey areas, Chief Commissioner. As a rule you know yourself if you’re corrupt or not.’

  ‘You mean it’s a matter of feelings?’ Macbeth sat down, and Lennox followed suit so as not to tower over him.

  ‘So if you don’t feel corrupt because the family you’re providing for is dependent on your income, you’re not corrupt? If the motive is good – for the family or town’s benefit – we can just paraphrase the word corruption – say, well, pragmatic politics, for instance.’

  ‘I think it’s the other way round,’ Lennox said. ‘I think when you know greed and nothing else is at the root, then you resort to paraphrases for yourself. While the morally justified crime requires no paraphrase. We can live with it going by its right name. Corruption, robbery, murder.’

  ‘So this is what you do? Spend your time in here thinking,’ Macbeth said, holding his chin in his fingertips. ‘Wondering whether you’re corrupt or not.’

  ‘Me?’ Lennox chuckled. ‘I’m talking about the people we investigate of course.’

  ‘And yet we always talk about ourselves. And I’d still maintain that desperate situations make people call their own corruption by another name. And the payment you receive to take adv
antage of your position is not money but charity. Life. Your family’s life, for instance. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Lennox said.

  ‘Let me give you an example,’ Macbeth said. ‘A radio reporter who is known for his integrity is contacted by a young police officer who thinks he has a story to tell that could bring down a chief commissioner. What this perfidious officer, let’s call him Angus, doesn’t know is that this radio reporter has a certain . . . relationship with the chief commissioner. The reporter, with good reason, fears for his family if he doesn’t do as this chief commissioner wishes. So the reporter informs said chief commissioner about the officer’s seditious plans. The reporter promises to get back to the young officer, and the chief commissioner tells the reporter to meet the officer where no one can see or hear them. Where the boss or his people can . . . well, you know.’

  Lennox didn’t answer. He wiped his hands on his trousers.

  ‘So the boss is safe. But he wonders, naturally enough, who the corrupt person is here: the young officer, the radio reporter or . . . or who, Lennox?’

  Lennox cleared his throat, hesitated. ‘The chief commissioner?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Macbeth shook his head. ‘The third person. The one who should have informed the chief commissioner right from the start. The third person who knew about Angus’s plans, who isn’t part of them yet still is, indirectly, for as long as he fails to go to his boss and fails to save him. Which he hasn’t done yet. Because he has to think. And think. And while he’s thinking, he’s becoming corrupt himself, or isn’t he?’

  Lennox tried to meet Macbeth’s eyes. But it was like staring at the sun.

  ‘The meeting at Estex, Lennox. I don’t know when you were considering telling me about it.’

  Lennox couldn’t stop blinking. ‘I . . . I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes, it’s difficult to stop. Thoughts just come, don’t they? And no matter how free we think our will is, it’s governed by thoughts, bidden or unbidden. Tell me who came to you, Lennox.’

  ‘This person—’

  ‘Say the name.’

  ‘He’s—’

  ‘Say the name!’

  Lennox took a deep breath. ‘Police Officer Angus.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘You know Angus. Young. Impulsive. And with all that’s happened recently anyone can react a little irrationally. I thought that before I came to you with these serious accusations I’d try to talk some common sense into him. Let him cool down a bit.’

  ‘And in the meantime keep me in ignorance? Because you assumed that your judgement of the situation was better than mine? That I wouldn’t let Angus, whom I employed in SWAT, have another chance? That I would have his overheated, though otherwise innocent, head chopped off straight away?’

  ‘I . . .’ Lennox searched for words to complete his sentence.

  ‘But you’re wrong, Lennox. I always give my subordinates two chances. And that rule applies to both you and Angus.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that.’

  ‘I believe in magnanimity. So I would have forgotten the whole business if Angus had shown signs of regret and refused to meet the reporter when he rang to set up a second meeting. I wouldn’t have given it another thought. Life would have gone on. Unfortunately Angus didn’t do that. He accepted. And I don’t have a third cheek.’

  Macbeth got up and walked to the window.

  ‘Which brings me to your second chance, Lennox. My reporter has been informed that you and Seyton are going to this meeting. It’ll take place at the Estex factory this evening, where Angus believes there will also be a photographer to take pictures of a furnace where he believes a child’s body has been burned. And there you will personally punish the traitor.’

  ‘Punish?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to mete out the punishment at your own discretion. My only demand is that death should be the outcome.’ Macbeth turned to Lennox, who was breathing through his mouth.

  ‘And afterwards Seyton will help you dispose of the body.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Third chances probably exist. In heaven. How’s your family by the way?’

  Lennox opened his mouth, and a sound emerged.

  ‘Good,’ Macbeth said. ‘Seyton will pick you up at six. Depending on the punishment you choose it should all be over within an hour and a half, so I suggest you ring your charming wife to say you’ll be a little late for tea. I’ve been told her shopping indicates she’s giving you black pudding.’

  Macbeth closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

  Lennox put his head in his hands. A mollusc. A creature without a bone in his body.

  A fix. He had to have a shot.

  Macbeth crashed his heels down on the floor as he strode along the corridor. Trying to drown the voice shouting he had to have power. Or brew. Or anything. He had managed to stay clean for more than a week now. It would get worse before it got better, but it would get better. He had done it before and would do it again. There was just the awful sweat – it stank, stank of displeasure, fear and pain. But it would pass. Everything would pass. Had to pass. He walked into the anteroom to his office.

  ‘Chief Commissioner—’

  ‘No messages, no phone calls, Priscilla.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Not now. Later.’

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  Macbeth pulled up sharp. ‘You let someone in—’ he pointed to the office door ‘—there?’

  ‘She insisted.’

  Macbeth looked at Priscilla’s desperate expression.

  ‘It’s your wife.’

  ‘What?’ came his astonished response. He did up the lowest button on his uniform and went into his office.

  She was standing behind his desk examining the painting on the wall. ‘Darling! You really have to do something about the art in here.’

  Macbeth stared at Lady in disbelief. She was wearing a plain, elegant outfit under a fur coat; she had obviously come straight from the hairdresser’s and looked relaxed and energetic. He approached her with caution. ‘How . . . are you, darling?’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I can see this picture is propaganda, but what’s it trying to say actually?’

  Macbeth couldn’t take his eyes off her. Where was the crazy woman he had seen yesterday? Gone.

  ‘My love?’

  Macbeth gazed at the painting. Saw the workers’ coarse features. ‘It was put there by someone else. I’ll get it changed. I’m so glad you feel better. Have you . . . taken your medicine?’

  She shook her head. ‘No medicine. I’ve stopped my medicine. All of it.’

  ‘Because there’s none left?’

  She smiled fleetingly. ‘I saw the drawer was empty. You’ve stopped too.’ She sat in his chair. ‘This is a bit . . . cramped, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Macbeth sat down on one of the visitor’s chairs. Perhaps her madness had just been a labyrinth and she had found her way out.

  ‘Glad you agree. I had a chat with Jack this morning. About the plan you made regarding the mayoral elections.’

  ‘Yes. Well, what do you think?’

  She pouted and waggled her head. ‘You’ve done the best you can do, but you’ve forgotten one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your thinking is that we should leak information about Tourtell’s relationship with this boy just before the elections. And then you, the Sweno-killer, will quickly fill the vacuum before people go to the ballot box.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Macbeth, full of enthusiasm.

  ‘The problem is that the vacuum was filled when Zimmerman announced that he was standing.’

  ‘That bore? No one cares about him.’

  ‘Zimmerman doesn’t have great appeal, it’s true, but people know him a
nd know what they can expect. So they feel safe with him. And it’s important for people to feel safe in these dramatic times. That’s why Tourtell will be re-elected.’

  ‘Do you really think Zimmerman could beat me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lady said. ‘Unless you’re officially supported by a Tourtell who has not been damaged by scandal and you’ve also dealt with Hecate. Get those two things organised and you’re unbeatable.’

  Macbeth felt a wearied relief. She was out of the labyrinth. She was here, back with him.

  ‘Fine, but how?’

  ‘By giving Tourtell an ultimatum. He can either voluntarily withdraw, giving advancing age and poor health as reasons, and lend you his unreserved, official support. Or we can force him to withdraw by threatening to unmask him as the perverted pig he is, after which he’ll be arrested and thrown into jail, where he knows what happens to pederasts. Shouldn’t be the most difficult decision to make.’

  ‘Hm.’ Macbeth scratched his beard. ‘We’ll have made an enemy.’

  ‘Tourtell? On the contrary. He understands power struggles and will be grateful we gave him a merciful alternative.’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘No need, darling. There’s nothing to consider. Then there’s the puppeteer, Hecate. It’s time he was got rid of.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that’s wise, darling. Remember he’s our guarantor and will support us if we come up against opponents.’

  ‘Hecate still hasn’t demanded his pound of flesh for making you chief commissioner,’ Lady said. ‘But soon the day of reckoning will come. And then you’ll do this.’ She raised an elbow as though it were attached to a string. ‘And this.’ A foot shot out. ‘Do you want to be Hecate’s puppet, my love? Curtailing the campaign against him won’t be enough; he’ll want more and more, and in the end everything – that’s what people such as him are like. So the question is whether you want to let Hecate control the town through you? Or—’ she placed her elbows on the desk ‘—do you want to be the puppeteer yourself? Be the hero who caught Hecate and became mayor?’