Macbeth

25

‘Our finest-quality wool,’ the assistant said, respectfully stroking the material of the black suit on the clothes hanger.

Outside the windows of the outfitters it was drizzling and on the river the waves had started to settle after the gales of the previous days.

‘What do you think, Bonus?’ Hecate said. ‘Would it fit Macbeth?’

‘I thought you were going for a dinner jacket, not a dark suit.’

‘You never wear, as of course you know, a dinner jacket in church, and Macbeth has many funerals to attend this week.’

‘So no dinner jacket today?’ the assistant asked.

‘We need both, Al.’

‘I’d just like to point out that if this is for the gala banquet, full evening dress is de rigueur, sir.’

‘Thank you, Al, but this isn’t the royal palace, just the local town hall. What do you say, Bonus, aren’t tails a bit—’ Hecate clicked his tongue ‘—pretentious?’

‘Agreed,’ Bonus said. ‘It’s when the new rich dress themselves in old-money attire that they really look like clowns.’

‘Good, a dark suit and a dinner jacket. Will you send a tailor to Inverness Casino, Al? And put everything on my account.’

‘It will be done, sir.’

‘And then we need a dinner jacket for this gentleman.’

‘For me?’ Bonus said in astonishment. ‘But I’ve already got a wond—’

‘Thank you. I’ve seen it and, believe me, you need a new one.’

‘Do I?’

‘Your position requires an impeccable appearance, Bonus, and you’re working for me, what’s more.’

Bonus didn’t answer.

‘Will you run and get me some more dinner jackets, Al?’

‘Right away,’ said the assistant, and dutifully ran a few bow-legged steps to the stairs down to the shop.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Hecate said. ‘And I admit that dressing you up is a way of displaying my power, the way kings dress up their soldiers and servants. But what can I say? I like it.’

Bonus had never been one-hundred-per-cent sure if the abnormally white, even teeth in the old man’s smile were his own. If they were dentures, they were quite eccentric because they came equipped with three big gold crowns.

‘Speaking of displayed power,’ Hecate said, ‘that attractive young boy who was at the dinner at the Inverness, is his name Kasi?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fifteen and a half,’ Bonus said.

‘Hm. That’s young.’

‘Age is—’

‘I have no moral scruples, but neither do I have your taste for young boys, Bonus. I’m just pointing out that that’s illegally young. And that it could potentially cause great harm. But I see this makes you uncomfortable, so let’s change the topic of conversation. Lady is sick, I understand?’

‘That’s what the psychiatrist says. Serious psychosis. It can take time. He’s afraid she might be suicidal.’

‘Don’t doctors take an oath?’

‘Dr Alsaker may also soon be in need of a new dinner jacket.’

Hecate laughed. ‘Just send me the bill. Can he cure her?’

‘Not without hospitalisation,’ he says. ‘But we don’t want that, do we?’

‘Let’s wait and see. I believe it’s well known that Lady is one of the chief commissioner’s most important advisers, and during these critical days there would be unfortunate consequences if it became public knowledge that she’d gone mad.’

‘So psychosis is...?’

‘Yes?’

Bonus swallowed. ‘Nothing.’ What was it about Hecate that always made him feel like a dithering teenager? It was more than the display of real power; there was something else, something that terrified Bonus but he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t what he could see in Hecate’s eyes, it was more what he couldn’t see. It was the blood-curdling certainty of a nothingness. Wasteland and numbingly cold nights.

‘Anyway,’ Hecate said, ‘what I wanted to discuss was Macbeth. I’m concerned about him. He’s changed.’

‘Really?’

‘I fear he’s hooked. Not so strange, maybe, after all it is the world’s most addictive dope.’

‘Power?’

‘Yes, but not the type that comes in powder form. Real power. I didn’t think that he would be hooked quite so quickly. He’s already managed to divest himself of any emotions that tie him to morality and humanity; now power is his new and only lover. You heard the radio interview the other day. The brat wants to be mayor.’

‘But in practice the chief commissioner has more power.’

‘As chief commissioner he will of course make sure that real power is returned to the town hall before he occupies the mayoral office. Truly, Macbeth is dreaming of taking over this town. He thinks he is invincible now. And that he can challenge me too.’

Bonus looked at Hecate in surprise. He had folded his hands over the golden top of his stick and was studying his reflection.

‘Yes, Bonus, it should be the other way round: it should be you telling me that Macbeth is after me. That’s what I pay you for. And now your little flounder brain is wondering how I can know this. Well, just ask me.’

‘I... er... How do you know?’

‘Because he said so on the radio programme you also listened to.’

‘I thought he said the opposite, that pursuing Hecate wouldn’t have the same priority as under Duncan.’

‘And when did you last hear anyone with political ambitions say on radio what they weren’t going to do for the electorate? He could have said he was going to arrest Hecate and create jobs. Sober politicians always promise everything under the sun. But what he said wasn’t meant for voters, it was meant for me, Bonus. He didn’t need to, yet he committed himself publicly and pandered to me. And when people pander you have to watch out.’

‘You think he wants to gain your confidence—’ Bonus looked at Hecate to see if he was on the right track ‘—because he hopes that way you will let him in close and he can then dispose of you?’

Hecate pulled a black hair from a wart on his cheek and studied it. ‘I could crush Macbeth under my heel this minute. But I’ve invested a lot in getting him where he is now, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s a bad investment, Bonus. Therefore I want you to keep your eyes and ears open to find out what he’s planning.’ Hecate threw up his arms. ‘Ah! Look, here’s Al with more jackets. Let’s find one to fit your long tentacle arms.’

Bonus gulped. ‘What if I don’t find out anything?’

‘Then I have no more use for you, dear Bonus.’

It was said in such a casual way and made even more innocuous with a little smile. Bonus’s eyes searched behind the smile. But he found nothing there except night and chill.

‘Look at the watch,’ Dr Alsaker ordered and let his pocket watch swing in front of the patient’s face. ‘You’re relaxing, your arms and legs are feeling heavy, you’re tired and you’re falling asleep. And you won’t wake until I say chestnut.’

She was easy to hypnotise. So easy that Alsaker had to check a couple of times that she wasn’t pretending. Whenever he came to the Inverness he was followed up to the suite by the receptionist, Jack. There she sat ready in her dressing gown — she refused to wear anything else. Her hands were red from compulsive daily scrubbing, and even if she insisted she wasn’t taking anything, he could see from her pupils that she was under the influence of some drug or other. It was one of several disadvantages of being refused permission to admit her to a psychiatric ward, where he could have kept an eye on her medication, sleep and meals and observed her behaviour.

‘Let’s begin where we left off last time,’ Alsaker said, looking at his notes. Not that he needed them to remember; the details were of such a brutal nature they had seared themselves into his memory. He needed his notes to believe what she had actually told him. The first lines were not unusual; on the contrary they were a common refrain in many similar cases. ‘Unemployed, alcoholic father and depressive and violent mother. You grew up by the river in what you call a hovel or a rats’ nest. Literally. You told me your first memories were watching rats swimming towards your house when the sun set, and you remember thinking it was the rats’ house. You slept in their bed, you had eaten their food, when they came up into your bed you understood why they bit you.’

Her voice was soft and low. ‘They just wanted what was theirs.’

‘And your father said the same when he got into your bed.’

‘He just wanted what was his.’

Alsaker skimmed his notes. It wasn’t the first abuse case he had treated, but this one had some details that were particularly disturbing.

‘You became pregnant when you were thirteen and gave birth to a child. Your mother called you a whore. She said you should chuck the misbegotten child into the river, but you refused.’

‘I just wanted to have what was mine.’

‘So you and the child were thrown out of the house, and you spent the next night with the first man you met.’

‘He said he’d kill the baby if it didn’t stop screaming, so I took it into the bed. But then he said it ruined his concentration because it was watching.’

‘And while he was sleeping you stole money from his pockets and food from the kitchen.’

‘I just took what was mine.’

‘And what is yours?’

‘What everyone else has.’

‘What happened then?’

‘The river ran dry.’

‘Come on, Lady. What happened then?’

‘More factories were built. More workers came to town. I earned a bit more money. Mum came to see me and told me Dad was dead. His lungs. It had been a painful death. I told her I’d have liked to have been there to see his pain.’

‘Don’t skirt around it, Lady. Get to the point. What happened to the baby?’

‘Have you seen how babies’ faces change, almost from one day to the next. Well, suddenly, one day it had his face.’

‘Your father’s.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you do then?’

‘I gave it extra milk so that it was smiling blissfully at me when it fell asleep. Then I smashed its head against the wall. A head smashes easily, you know? How fragile a human life is.’

Alsaker swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘Did you do it because the child’s face was like your father’s?’

‘No. But it finally made it possible.’

‘Does that mean you’d been thinking about it for a while?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Can you tell me why you say of course ?’

She was silent for a moment. Alsaker saw her pupils twitch, and this reminded him of something. Frogspawn. A tadpole trying to break free from a sticky egg.

‘If you want to achieve your aims you have to be able to renounce what you love. If the person you climb with to reach the peak weakens, you have to either encourage him or cut the rope.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? If he falls he’ll drag both of you down. If you want to survive, your hand has to do what your heart refuses to do.’

‘Kill the person you love?’

‘The way Abraham sacrificed his son. Let the blood flow. Amen.’

Alsaker shivered and took notes. ‘What is there at the peak that you want?’

‘The peak is the top. Then you’re up. Higher than everything and everyone.’

‘Do you have to go there?’

‘No. You can crawl around in the lowlands. On the rubbish heap. In the muddy riverbed. But once you’ve started climbing there’s no way back. It’s the peak or the abyss.’

Alsaker put down his pen. ‘And for this peak you’re willing to sacrifice everything — also what you love? Is survival above love?’

‘Naturally. But recently I’ve seen that we can live without love. So all this survival will be the death of me, Doctor.’

Her eyes had a sudden clarity which for an instant made Alsaker think she wasn’t psychotic after all. But it may have been just the hypnosis or a temporary awakening. Alsaker had seen this many times before. How a patient in deep psychosis or depression can apparently perk up, like a drowning person coming to the surface with an effort of will, giving both relatives and an inexperienced psychiatrist hope. They can stay afloat for several days, only to use this last effort of will to do what they had been threatening or just sink back into the darkness whence they came. But no, it must have been the hypnosis because now the frogspawn membrane was over her eyes again.

‘It says in the paper here that after the radio interview people are waiting for you to announce you’re standing in the mayoral election,’ Seyton said. He had spread the newspaper over a coffee table and was dropping his fingernail clippings onto it.

‘Let them write,’ Macbeth said, looking at his watch. ‘Tourtell should have been here ten minutes ago.’

‘But will you, sir?’ There was a loud, clear snip as the long, pointed nail on his forefinger was cut.

Macbeth shrugged. ‘You have to ponder something like that. Who knows? When the idea matures it might feel different.’

The door creaked. In the narrow opening Priscilla’s sweet over-made-up face appeared. ‘He’s here, sir.’

‘Good. Let him in.’ Macbeth stood up. ‘And get us some coffee.’

Priscilla smiled, and her eyes disappeared into her chubby cheeks, then she disappeared too.

‘Shall I go?’ Seyton asked, making a move to rise from the sofa.

‘You stay,’ Macbeth said.

Seyton resumed his nail-cutting.

‘But stand up.’

Seyton rose to his feet.

The door opened wide. ‘Macbeth, my friend!’ roared Tourtell, and for a moment Macbeth wondered whether the doorway would be wide enough. Or his ribs strong enough, when the mayor slapped his chunky hand against his back.

‘You’ve really got things buzzing here, Macbeth.’

‘Thank you. Please, take a seat.’

Tourtell nodded briefly to Seyton and sat down. ‘Thank you. And thank you, Chief Commissioner, for receiving me at such short notice.’

‘You’re my employer, so it’s me who should feel honoured that you’ve made the time. And, importantly, that you’ve come here instead of the other way round.’

‘Oh, that. I don’t like to give people the feeling they’ve been summoned.’

‘Does that mean I’ve been summoned?’ Macbeth asked.

The mayor laughed. ‘Not at all, Macbeth. I only wanted to see how things were going. Whether you were finding your feet. I mean it is a bit of a transition. And with all that’s happened in the last few days...’ Tourtell rolled his eyes. ‘That could have been a mess.’

‘Do you mean it has? Been a mess?’

‘No, no, no. Not at all. I think you’ve tackled everything beyond all expectation. After all, you’re new to this game.’

‘New to the game.’

‘Yes. Things move fast. You have to react on the hoof. Comment. And then you can say things you don’t even think.’

Priscilla came in, put a tray on the table, poured coffee, curtseyed awkwardly and left.

Macbeth sipped his coffee. ‘Hm. Is that a reference to the radio interview?’

Tourtell reached for the bowl of sugar lumps, took three and put one in his mouth. ‘Some of what you said could be interpreted as criticism of the town council and me. And that’s fine — we appreciate a chief commissioner who calls a spade a spade — no one wears a muzzle here. The question is of course whether the criticism came across as a bit harsher than it was meant. Or what?’

Macbeth placed his forefinger under his chin and stared into the air pensively. ‘I didn’t consider it overly harsh.’

‘There you go. That’s exactly what I thought. You didn’t mean to be harsh! You and I, we want the same things, Macbeth. What’s best for the town. To get the wheels moving, to bring down unemployment. A lower jobless rate we know from experience will bring down crime and hit the drugs trade, which in turn reduces property crime. Soon prisoner numbers are drastically down, and everyone asks themselves how Chief Commissioner Macbeth has achieved what none of his predecessors managed. As you know, a mayor can only serve two terms of office. So after I’ve been elected, hopefully, and then finished my second term, it’s a new man’s turn. And then perhaps the town will feel this is the kind of man they need, someone who has produced results as a chief commissioner.’

‘More coffee?’ Macbeth poured the brown liquid into Tourtell’s already full cup until it ran over into the saucer. ‘Do you know what my friend Banquo used to say? Kiss the girl while she’s in love.’

‘Which means?’ Tourtell said, staring at the saucer.

‘Feelings change. The town loves me now. And four years is a long time.’

‘Maybe. But you have to choose your battles, Macbeth. And your decision now is whether to challenge the incumbent mayor — which historically seldom leads to success — or wait for four years and be supported in the election by the departing mayor — which historically very often leads to success.’

‘That kind of promise is easily made and more easily broken.’

Tourtell shook his head. ‘I’ve based my long political career on strategic alliances and cooperation, Macbeth. Kenneth made sure that the chief commissioner’s office had such extensive powers that I as mayor was — and am — completely dependent on the chief commissioner’s goodwill. Believe me, I know a broken promise would cost me dear. You’re an intelligent man and you learn quickly, Macbeth, but you lack experience in the complicated tactical game called politics. Instant popularity and a couple of juicy sound bites on radio aren’t enough. My support isn’t enough either, but it’s more than you can hope to achieve on your own.’

‘You wouldn’t have come here to persuade me not to throw my hat in the ring for the upcoming elections if you didn’t see me as a serious challenger.’

‘You might think so,’ Tourtell said, ‘because you still don’t have enough experience of politics to see the bigger picture. And the bigger picture is that when I continue as mayor and you as chief commissioner over the next four years, then the town will have a problem if its two most powerful men have had an agonising electoral struggle which makes it difficult for them to work together. And it would also make it impossible for me to support your candidature later. I’m sure you understand.’

I’m sure you understand. Ever so slightly condescending. Macbeth opened his mouth to object, but the thought that was supposed to form the words didn’t come.

‘Let me make a suggestion,’ Tourtell said. ‘Don’t stand for election, and you won’t have to wait four years for my support.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The day you arrest Hecate — which will be an immense victory for us both — I’ll go public and say I hope you’ll be my successor at the elections in four years. What do you say to that, Macbeth?’

‘I think I said on the radio that Hecate isn’t our top priority.’

‘I heard you. And I interpreted that as you saying you didn’t want the pressure that Duncan put on himself and the police by making such optimistic and all-too-specific promises. Now, the day you arrest him will simply be a bonus. That’s what you’ve planned, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ Macbeth said. ‘Hecate’s a difficult man to arrest, but if the opportunity should offer itself—’

‘My experience, I’m afraid to say, is that opportunities don’t offer themselves,’ Tourtell said. ‘They have to be created and then grasped. So what’s your plan for arresting Hecate?’

Macbeth coughed, played with his coffee cup. Tried to collect his thoughts. He had noticed he could suddenly have difficulty doing this, as though it were too much: there were too many balls to keep in the air at once, and when one ball fell, they all fell, and he had to start anew. Was he taking too much power? Or too little? Macbeth’s eyes sought Seyton’s, who had sat down at the coffee table, but there was no help to be found there. Of course not. Only she could help him. Lady. He would have to give up the drugs, talk to her. Only she could blow away the fog, clarify his thinking.

‘I want to lure him into a trap,’ Macbeth said.

‘What kind of trap?’

‘We haven’t got the details worked out yet.’

‘We’re talking about the town’s number-one enemy, so I would appreciate it if you keep me informed,’ Tourtell said and stood up. ‘Perhaps you could give me the plan in broad outline at Duncan’s funeral tomorrow? Along with your decision regarding the election.’

Macbeth took Tourtell’s outstretched hand without getting up. Tourtell nodded to the wall behind him. ‘I’ve always liked that painting, Macbeth. I’ll find my own way out.’

Macbeth watched him. Tourtell seemed to have grown every time he saw him. He hadn’t touched the coffee. Macbeth swivelled on his chair to face the picture. It was big and showed a man and a woman, both dressed as workers, walking hand in hand. Behind them came a procession of children and behind that the sun was high in the sky. The bigger picture. He guessed Duncan had hung it; Kenneth had probably had a portrait of himself. Macbeth angled his head to one side but still couldn’t work out what it meant.

‘Tell me, Seyton. What do you think?’

‘What I think? To hell with Tourtell. You’re more popular than he is.’

Macbeth nodded. Seyton was like him, not a man with an eye for the bigger picture. Only she had that.

Lady had locked herself in her room.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Macbeth said.

No answer.

‘Darling!’

‘It’s the child,’ Jack said.

Macbeth turned to him.

‘I took it from her. It was beginning to smell, and I didn’t know what else to do. But she thinks you ordered me to take it.’

‘Good. Well done, Jack. It’s just that I needed her advice on a case and... Well...’

‘She can hardly give you the advice you need in the state she’s in right now, sir. May I ask — no. Sorry, I was forgetting myself. You aren’t Lady, sir.’

‘Did you think I was Lady?’

‘No, I just... Lady usually airs her thoughts with me and I help in any way I can. Not that I have much to offer, but sometimes hearing yourself say something to someone can clear your mind.’

‘Hm. Make us both a cup of coffee, Jack.’

‘At once, sir.’

Macbeth went to the mezzanine. Looked down into the gaming room. It was a quiet evening. He saw none of the usual faces. Where were they?

‘At the Obelisk,’ Jack said, passing Macbeth a cup of steaming coffee.

‘What?’

‘Our regulars. They’re at the Obelisk. That was what you were wondering, wasn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I was in the Obelisk yesterday and I counted five of them. And spoke to two of them. Turns out I’m not the only one spying. The Obelisk’s got its people here too. And they’ve seen who our regular customers are and have offered them better deals.’

‘Better deals?’

‘Credit.’

‘That’s illegal.’

‘Unofficially, of course. It won’t appear in any of the Obelisk’s ledgers and if they’re confronted they’ll swear blind they don’t give credit.’

‘Then we’d better offer the same.’

‘I think the problem runs deeper than that, sir. Can you see how few there are in the bar downstairs? In the Obelisk there are queues. Beer and cocktails cost thirty-per-cent less, and that not only increases the number of customers and the turnover in the bar, it makes people less guarded in the gaming rooms.’

‘Lady thinks we appeal to a different, more quality-conscious clientele.’

‘The people who go to casinos in this town can be divided broadly into three groups, sir. You have the out-and-out gamblers who don’t care about the quality of the carpets or expensive cognac; they want an efficient croupier, a poker table with visiting country cousins they can fleece and — if it’s possible — credit. The Obelisk has this group. And then you have the country folk I mentioned, who usually come here because we have the reputation of being the real casino. But now they’ve discovered they prefer the simple more fun-filled sinful atmosphere at the Obelisk. These are people who tend to go to bingo rather than the opera.’

‘And we’re the opera?’

‘They want cheap beer, cheap women. What’s the point of an outing into town otherwise?’

‘And the last group?’

Jack pointed down to the room. ‘West Enders. The ones who don’t want to mingle with the dregs. Our last loyal customers. So far. The Obelisk plans to open a new gaming room next year with a dress code, higher minimum stakes and more expensive brands of cognac in the bar.’

‘Hm. And what do you suggest we do?’

‘Me?’ Jack laughed. ‘I’m just a receptionist, sir.’

‘And a croupier.’ Macbeth looked down at the blackjack table where he, Lady and Jack had first met. ‘Let me ask you for some advice, Jack.’

‘A croupier just watches people placing bets, sir. They never give advice.’

‘Fine, you’ll have to listen then. Tourtell came to tell me he didn’t want me to stand as mayor.’

‘Had you planned to do that, sir?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve probably half-thought about doing it and half-rejected it and then half-thought about it again. Especially after Tourtell so patronisingly explained to me what politics was really about. What do you think?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant mayor, sir. Think of all the things you and Lady could do for the town!’

Macbeth studied Jack’s beaming face — the undisguised happiness, the naive optimism. Like a reflection of the person he had once been. And a strange thought struck him: he wished he were Jack, the receptionist.

‘But I have a lot to lose as well,’ Macbeth said. ‘If I don’t stand now Tourtell will support me next time. And Tourtell’s right about the sitting mayor invariably being elected.’

‘Hm,’ Jack said, scratching his head. ‘Unless there’s a scandal just before the elections, that is. A scandal so damaging that the town can’t possibly let Tourtell continue.’

‘For example?’

‘Lady asked me to check out the young boy Tourtell brought to the dinner. My sources tell me Tourtell’s wife has moved to their summer cottage in Fife, while the boy has moved in. And he’s underage, sexually. What we need is concrete evidence of indecent behaviour. From employees in the mayor’s residence, for instance.’

‘But, Jack, this is fantastic!’ Excitement at the thought of skewering Tourtell warmed Macbeth’s cheeks. ‘We gather the evidence, and I get Kite to set up a live election debate, and then I can throw this unseemly relationship straight in Tourtell’s face. He won’t be prepared for that. How about that?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? What do you mean?’

‘I was just thinking, sir, that you yourself moved into the house of a childless man when you were fifteen. The mayor would be able to come back with that.’

Macbeth felt the blood rising in his face again. ‘What? Banquo and I...?’

‘Tourtell won’t hesitate if you throw the first stone, sir. All’s fair in love and war. At the same time it would be unfortunate if it looked as if you’d used your position to spy on Tourtell’s private life.’

‘Hm, you’re right. So how would you do it?’

‘Let me mull it over.’ Jack took a sip of coffee. And another. Then he put his cup down on the table. ‘The information about the boy must be leaked via roundabout means. But if you’re standing against Tourtell you’ll still be suspected of being the source. So the leak should happen before you announce your candidature. In fact, to be sure you avoid suspicion you should perhaps announce you’re not standing, at least not for four years. You’ve got a job to do as chief commissioner first. Then, when the scandal disqualifies Tourtell, you’ll say rather reluctantly that as the town needs a leader at short notice you’ll put yourself at its disposal. You’ll refuse to comment on the Tourtell scandal when journalists ask, showing that you’re above that kind of behaviour, and only focus on how to get the town... er... You used such a good expression on the radio, sir, what was it again?’

‘Back on an even keel,’ Macbeth said. ‘Now I understand why Lady uses you as an adviser, Jack.’

‘Thank you, sir, but don’t exaggerate my significance.’

‘I’m not, but you have an unusually lucid eye for these matters.’

‘It may be easier to be a croupier and observer than a participant, with all the risk and strong emotions involved, sir.’

‘And I think you’re one hell of a croupier, Jack.’

‘And as a croupier I’d advise you to study your cards even more carefully to see if they can be employed better than this.’

‘Oh?’

‘Tourtell promised you his support at the next election if you didn’t stand now, but that won’t be worth much if he’s outed as a paedophile, will it?’

Macbeth stroked his beard. ‘True enough.’

‘So you should ask for something else now. Tell Tourtell you’re not even sure you’ll stand at the next election. And that you’d rather have something specific he can give you now.’

‘For example?’

‘What would you like, sir?’

‘What would I...?’ Macbeth saw Jack motion towards the gaming room. ‘Erm, more customers?’

‘Yes. The Obelisk’s clientele. But as chief commissioner you don’t have the authority to close the Obelisk even if you had proof of illegal credit being given.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘As a croupier I happen to know that the police can charge individuals, but it’s only the Gambling and Casino Board that can close a whole casino, sir. And they’re subject to the jurisdiction of...’

‘The town hall. Tourtell.’

Macbeth could see it clearly now. He didn’t need power; he should flush what he had down the toilet. A bell rang somewhere.

‘Sounds like we’ve got customers, sir.’ Jack got up.

Macbeth grabbed his arm. ‘Just wait till Lady hears what we’ve cooked up. I’m sure it’ll make her feel better in a flash. How can we thank you, Jack?’

‘No need, sir.’ Jack smiled wryly. ‘It’s enough that you saved my life.’

26

Duff swallowed his vomit. it was his fourth day on board, but there was no sign of improvement yet. One thing was the sea, quite another the stale smell in the galley. Inside, behind the swing door, it was a mixture of rancid fat and sour milk; on the other side, in the mess where the men sat eating, it was sweat and tobacco. The steward had left breakfast to Duff, saying he ought to be able to manage that on his own. Put out bread and assorted meats and cheese, boil eggs and make coffee, even a seasick first-timer could cope with that.

Duff had been woken at six, and the first thing he did was to throw up in the bucket beside his bed. He still hadn’t had two nights in the same cabin as lack of berths meant he had had to borrow the beds of those who were on duty. Luckily he had only had lower bunks, so he didn’t have to actually sleep with the bucket. He had just got his sweater over his head when the next wave of nausea came. On his way down to the galley he’d had pit stops to vomit in the toilet beside the first mate’s cabin and in the sink before the last steep staircase.

Breakfast had been served, and those of the crew who were on duty had finished, it seemed. Time to clear away before they started making lunch.

Duff inhaled three stomachfuls of dubious air, got up and went out into the mess.

Four people were sitting at the nearest table. The speaker was a loud, slightly overweight engineer with hairy forearms, an Esso T-shirt stained with oil and sweat rings under his arms and a striped Hull City Tigers cap on his head. When he spoke he sniffed before and afterwards, like a form of inverted commas. What came between them was always denigration of those lower on the ladder. ‘Hey, Sparks,’ the engineer shouted to be sure everyone realised he was referring to the young boy with glasses at the end of the table, ‘hadn’t you better ask the new galley boy if he can heat you up some fish pie so you can stuff your dick in and enjoy the closest you’ll ever get to cunt.’ He sniffed before starting to laugh. This raised no more than short-lived, forced laughter from the others. The young radio-telegrapher smiled fleetingly and ducked his head even lower into his plate. The engineer, whom Duff had heard the others call Hutch, sniffed. ‘But judging by today’s breakfast I doubt you know how to heat up a fish pie, do you, lad?’ Another sniff.

Duff kept his head down, like the telegrapher. That was all he had to do until they reached the docks in Capitol. Keep a low profile, mouth shut, mask on.

‘Tell me, galley boy! Do you call this scrambled egg?’

‘Anything wrong?’ Duff said.

‘Wrong?’ The engineer rolled his eyes and turned to the others. ‘The greenhorn asks me if something’s wrong. Only that this scrambled egg looks and tastes like vomit. Your vomit. From your green, seasick gills.’

Duff looked at the engineer. The guy was grinning, and there was an evil glint in his shiny eyes. Duff had seen it before. Lorreal, the director of the orphanage.

‘I’m sorry the scrambled egg didn’t live up to your expectations,’ Duff said.

‘Didn’t live up to your expectations,’ the engineer mimicked, and sniffed. ‘Think you’re at some posh fuckin’ restaurant, do you? At sea we want food, not muck. What do you reckon, guys?’

The men around him chuckled their agreement, but Duff saw two of them keep their heads down in embarrassment. Presumably they played along so as not to become targets.

‘The steward’s on duty at lunch,’ Duff said, putting plates of food and milk cartons on a tray. ‘Let’s hope it’s better then.’

‘What isn’t any better,’ the engineer said ‘is the way you look. Have you got lice? Is that why you wear that hat? And what about those cunt pubes that pass for a beard? What happened, galley boy? Get your mother’s cunt where others got a face?’

The engineer looked around expectantly, but this time all the others were studying the floor.

‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ Duff said. Knowing he shouldn’t speak. Knowing he had promised himself he wouldn’t. ‘Sparks can stuff his wanger under your arm. That way he can feel what a cunt’s like and you finally get some dick.’

The table went so quiet all that could be heard was the noise of Duff putting the plates of cheese, sausage and cucumber onto the tray. No sniff this time.

‘Let me repeat the bit that might interest you most,’ Duff said, putting down the tray. ‘You finally get some dick.’ He stressed the consonants so that no one would be in any doubt as to what he had said. Then Duff turned to the table. The engineer had risen to his feet and was coming towards him.

‘Take off your glasses,’ he said.

‘Can’t see fuck all without them,’ Duff said. ‘See a fuckwit with them.’

The engineer wound back his arm, announcing where the blow would come from, and swung. Duff retreated a step, swayed and, when the engineer’s oil-black fist had passed, took two steps forward, grabbed the engineer, who was now off balance, by his other hand, forced it back against his wrist, grabbed the engineer’s elbow and let his momentum take him forward while Duff slipped behind. The engineer screamed, automatically bending forward to relieve the painful pressure on his wrist as Duff steered him into a wall head first. Duff pulled the engineer back. Rammed him forward again. Against the bulkhead. Duff pushed the helpless engineer’s arm higher, knowing that soon something would have to give, something would break. The engineer’s scream rose to a whine, and his fingers lunged desperately at Duff’s hat. Duff rammed his head against the wall for the third time. Was steadying himself for a fourth when he heard a voice.

‘That’s enough, Johnson!’

It took Duff a second to remember that was the name he had given when he signed on. And to realise the voice was the captain’s. Duff looked up. The captain was standing right in front of them. Duff let go of the engineer, who fell to his knees with a sob.

‘What’s going on here?’

Duff noticed only now that he was panting. The provocation. The anger. ‘Nothing, Captain.’

‘I know the difference between nothing and something, Johnson. So what is this? Hutchinson?’

Duff wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the man on his knees was crying.

Duff cleared his throat. ‘A friendly bet, Captain. I wanted to show that the Fife grip is more effective than a Hull haymaker. I might have got carried away.’ He patted the engineer’s shaking back. ‘Sorry, pal, but we agree that Fife beat Hull on this occasion, don’t we?’

The engineer nodded, still sobbing.

The captain took off his hat and studied Duff. ‘The Fife grip, you say?’

‘Yes,’ Duff answered.

‘Hutchinson, you’re needed in the engine room. You others have got jobs to do, haven’t you?’

The mess cleared quickly.

‘Pour me a cup of coffee and sit down,’ the captain said.

Duff did as he said.

The captain raised his cup to his mouth a couple of times. Looked down at the black liquid and mumbled something. Just as Duff was beginning to wonder whether the captain had forgotten he was there, he raised his head.

‘Generally I don’t consider it worth the effort to delve into individuals’ backgrounds, Johnson. Most of the crew are simple, with limited intellects; they have pasts best left unprobed and futures that won’t be on board MS Glamis. As they won’t be under my command or be my problem for long, I know it’s not worth getting too involved. All that concerns me is how they function as a group, as my crew.’

The captain took another sip and grimaced. Duff had no idea if this was due to the coffee, pain or the conversation.

‘You seem like a man with education and ambition, Johnson, but I won’t ask how you ended up here. I doubt I would hear the truth anyway. But my guess is you’re someone who knows how groups function. You know that there’ll always be a pecking order, and everyone will have their role in that order, their place. The captain at the top, the rookie at the bottom. As long as everyone accepts their own and others’ positions in the order we have a working crew. Exactly as I want it. At the moment, however, we have some confusion at the lower end of the pecking order on MS Glamis. We have three potential chickens at the bottom. Sparks because he’s the youngest. You because it’s your first time. And Hutchinson because he’s the most stupid and very difficult to like.’

Another sip.

‘Sparks will survive this trip as the bottom chicken. He’s young, intelligent enough and he’ll learn. And you, Johnson, have moved up the order, I’ve just seen, after what you did to Hutchinson. For all I know, it was a situation you initiated to achieve just this. But if I know Hutch, he started it. Like the stupid idiot he is, he set himself up for another fall. And that’s why he’s looking for someone to be under him. It’ll probably be some poor soul who signs on in Capitol, where we’re going to need a couple of new men as people sign off all the time. Do you understand?’

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.’

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.

‘Sad,’ the driver said.

‘What’s sad?’ Lennox asked. ‘Law enforcement?’

‘Sometimes. At the Obelisk you could at least have a beer and a game of cards without dressing up and coming home ruined. By the way, do you know that the factory you want to go to is closed?’

‘Yes,’ Caithness answered. Thinking that was all she knew about it. Police Officer Angus had rung that morning and implored her to bring Inspector Lennox from the Anti-Corruption Unit with her to Estex. They would find out the rest when they got there. It was about corruption at the highest level and for the moment they mustn’t mention their meeting to anyone. When she said she didn’t know any Police Officer Angus, he had explained to her that he was the guy in SWAT with the long hair who she smiled at and said hello to in the lift. She remembered him. He was cute. Looked more like an affable, unworldly hippie than a SWAT man.

They glided through the streets. She saw the unemployed men leaning against the walls sheltering from the rain, fags in mouths, wet coats, hungry, weary eyes. Hyenas. Not because they were born like that; it was the town. Duncan had said if carrion was all there was on the menu, you ate carrion, whoever you thought you were. And irrespective of what they did at police HQ the best way to reduce crime was to get the town’s citizens back to work.

‘Are you opening Estex again?’ the driver asked, squinting at Caithness.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I think Macbeth is smarter than Duncan, the blockhead.’

‘Oh?’

‘Closing a great factory just because it’s leaking some gunge? Christ, everyone who worked there smokes. They’ll die anyway. That was five thousand jobs. Five thousand jobs this town needed! Only some upper-class twit from Capitol could be so snobbish. Macbeth, on the other hand, is one of us — he understands and he does something. Let Macbeth take charge for a bit and maybe people will be able to afford a taxi again in this town.’

‘Talking of Macbeth,’ Caithness said, turning to the back seat. ‘He’s cancelled the morning meeting two days in a row and he looked very pale in church. Is he ill?’

‘Not him,’ Lennox said, ‘but Lady. He’s barely been at HQ.’

‘Of course it’s good of him to look after her, but he’s the chief commissioner and we have a town in our charge.’

‘Good job he has us there.’ Lennox smiled.

The taxi stopped in front of the gate, from which hung a chain with a padlock. The CLOSED sign had fallen onto the potholed tarmac. Caithness got out, stood by the driver’s open window and scanned the abandoned industrial wasteland while waiting for her change. No telephone boxes, and the telephones at Estex had probably been cut off.

‘How will we get hold of a taxi when we want to go back?’ she asked.

‘I’ll park here and wait,’ the driver said. ‘There’s no work in town anyway.’

Inside the factory gate was a rusty fork-lift truck and a tower of rotting wooden pallets. The pedestrian entrance beside the big retractable door was open.

Caithness and Lennox stepped into the factory building. It was cold outside, even colder under the high vaulted roof. The furnaces stood like gigantic pews inside the rectangular hall as far as the eye could see.

‘Hello?’ Caithness called, and the echo sent shivers down her spine.

‘Here!’ came the answer from up on the wall where the foreman’s office and surveillance platform were located. Like a watchtower in a prison, Caithness thought. Or a pulpit.

The young man standing up there pointed to a steel staircase.

Caithness and Lennox went up the steps.

‘Police Officer Angus,’ he said shaking hands with them. His open face displayed his nervousness, but also determination.

They followed him into the foreman’s office, which smelled of a marinade of dried sweat and tobacco. The large windows facing the factory floor had a strange yellow frosted glaze which looked as if it had been burned into the glass. On the tables there were open files that had clearly been taken from the shelves along the walls. The young man was unshaven and wearing tight faded jeans and a green military jacket.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ Angus said, indicating the peeling wooden chairs.

‘I don’t want to pressurise you, but I hope this is important,’ Lennox said, taking a seat. ‘I had to leave an important meeting.’

‘As you haven’t got much time, indeed as none of us has got much time, I’ll get straight to the point.’

‘Thank you.’

Angus crossed his arms. His jaws were working, and his eyes roamed, but there was a determination about him — he was like a man who knows he is right.

‘Twice I’ve been a believer,’ Angus said, swallowing, and Caithness knew he was memorising something he had written and rehearsed for the occasion. ‘And twice I’ve lost that belief. The first was in God. The second in Macbeth. Macbeth is no saviour, he’s a corrupt murderer. I wanted to say that first so that you know why I’m doing this. This is to rid the town of Macbeth.’

In the ensuing silence they could hear the deep sighs as drops of water hit the floor of the factory. Angus breathed in.

‘We were—’

‘Stop!’ Caithness said. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Angus, but before you say any more, Inspector Lennox and I have to decide whether we want to hear.’

‘Let Angus finish,’ Lennox said. ‘Then we can discuss it later without anyone else present.’

‘Wait,’ Caithness said. ‘There’s no way back if we receive information which—’

‘We were sent to the club house to kill everyone,’ Angus said.

‘I don’t want to hear this,’ Caithness said and stood up.

‘No one was going to be arrested,’ Angus said in a louder voice. ‘We started shooting at the Norse Riders, and they managed to fire off one—’ he held up a forefinger which trembled as much as his voice ‘—one single bloody shot in self-defence! Unlike at—’

Caithness stamped on the floor to drown out Angus’s voice, opened the door, was about to step outside and leave when she heard his name and froze.

‘—Duff’s place in Fife. Not a single shot was fired there. Because he wasn’t at home. When we entered the house after we’d shot it to pieces we found a girl and a boy and their mother—’ Angus’s voice failed him.

Caithness turned to him. The young man leaned against the table and squeezed his eyes shut, ‘—who had tried to cover them with her own body in the bedroom.’

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Caithness heard herself whisper.

‘Macbeth gave the order,’ Angus said, ‘and Seyton ensured it was carried out to the letter by SWAT, including—’ he coughed ‘—me.’

‘Why on earth would Macbeth give orders for these... liquidations?’ Lennox asked with disbelief in his voice. ‘He could have just arrested them, both Duff and the Norse Riders?’

‘Maybe not,’ Angus said. ‘Maybe they had something on Macbeth, something that made him need to silence them.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Haven’t you asked yourselves why the Norse Riders took their revenge on Banquo? Why not kill the person who gave the orders, Macbeth himself?’

‘Simple,’ Lennox snorted. ‘Macbeth is better protected. Have you any proof at all?’

‘These eyes,’ Angus said, pointing.

‘They’re yours, and the same applies to your accusations. Give me one reason why we should believe you.’

‘There’s one reason,’ Caithness said, walking slowly back to her chair. ‘It’s easy enough to get Angus’s accusations confirmed or denied by the other SWAT officers, and if they’re false, he’ll lose his job, find himself on a charge and, to put it mildly, his future prospects will be poor. And he knows that.’

Angus laughed.

Caithness raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me, did I say something stupid?’

‘It’s SWAT,’ Lennox said. ‘Loyalty, brotherhood, baptised in fire, united in blood.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ll never get anyone in SWAT to say a word that will harm Macbeth,’ Angus said. ‘Or Seyton. Or any of the brothers.’

Caithness dropped her hands to her sides. ‘So you come to us with these claims of executions even though you know there’s no way to prove them?’

‘Macbeth asked me to burn the body of a baby killed in the club house massacre,’ Angus said. He fidgeted with his necklace. ‘Here, in one of the furnaces.’

Caithness shuddered. And regretted staying. Why hadn’t she turned on her heel? Why wasn’t she already sitting in the taxi leaving this behind her?

‘I said no,’ Angus continued. ‘But that means someone else has done it. Perhaps he did it himself. I’ve looked through the furnaces and one of them has been used recently. I thought that if you got your Forensics people to examine the furnace you might find clues. Fingerprints, remains of bones, what do I know? And if you did, the Anti-Corruption Unit could take the case further.’

Lennox and Caithness exchanged glances.

‘The police can’t investigate their own chief commissioner,’ Lennox said. ‘Didn’t you know?’

Angus frowned. ‘But... the Anti-Corruption Unit, isn’t it...?’

‘No, we can’t do internal enquiries,’ Lennox said. ‘If you want to go after the chief commissioner you’ll have to present your case to the town council and Tourtell.’

Angus shook his head desperately. ‘No, no, no, they’re bought and paid for, the whole bunch of them! We have to do this off our own bat. We have to bring Macbeth down from the inside.’

Caithness didn’t answer. Confirming only that Angus was right. No one on the town council, Tourtell included, would dare to come out into the open against Macbeth. Kenneth had made sure that the chief commissioner had the legal authority to stamp down hard on that kind of political rebellion.

Lennox looked at his watch. ‘I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I recommend you drop the matter until you’ve got something concrete, Angus. Then you can take your chances with the town council, can’t you.’

Angus blinked in disbelief. ‘My chances?’ he said in a thick voice. He turned to Caithness. Despair, supplication, fear and hope flitted across his face like a narrative. And instantly she realised that Angus hadn’t only asked her to come along because he needed Forensics to examine the furnaces. Angus needed a witness, a third person to ensure that Lennox couldn’t pretend he hadn’t received the information and, regardless of the outcome, then make his life uncomfortable. Angus had chosen Caithness simply because she had smiled at him in the lift. Because she looked like someone he could trust.

‘Inspector Caithness?’ he begged in a low voice.

She took a deep breath. ‘Lennox is right, Angus. You’re asking us to attack a bear and all we have is a cardboard sword.’

Angus’s eyes were watery. ‘You’re frightened,’ he stuttered. ‘You believe me. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be here. But you’re frightened. You’re frightened because you believe me. Because I’ve shown you what Macbeth is capable of.’

‘Let’s agree that this meeting never took place,’ Lennox said, making for the door. Caithness was about to follow when Angus grabbed her arm.

‘A baby,’ he whispered, close to tears. ‘It was in a shoebox.’

‘It was an innocent victim in the fight against a crime syndicate,’ she said. ‘It happens. Macbeth wanting to hide it from the press to avoid a police scandal doesn’t make him a murderer.’

Caithness saw Angus let go of her arm as if he had burned himself. He took a step back and stared at her. Caithness turned and left.

On the steel staircase to the factory floor the chill hit her warm cheeks.

As she made for the exit she stopped by one of the furnaces. There were stripes and marks made of grey dust.

Lennox stood in the factory doorway waving to the taxi to drive through the gate so that they wouldn’t have to walk through the driving rain. ‘What do you think Angus is after?’ he asked.

‘After?’ Caithness turned and looked up at the foreman’s shed-like office.

‘He must know he’s too young for a management post,’ Lennox said. ‘Hey! Over here! Is it about honour and fame?’

‘Perhaps it’s what he said. Someone has to stop Macbeth.’

‘Duty calls?’ Lennox chuckled, and Caithness heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. ‘Everyone wants something, Caithness. Are you coming?’

‘Yes.’ Caithness could just make out the shape of Angus behind the window — he hadn’t moved since they left him. He was just standing there. Waiting for something, it seemed.

How long would it be before Lennox informed Macbeth about this attempted mutiny?

What was she going to do with what Angus had told them?

She put her hand to her cheek. She knew why it was warm. She was blushing. Blushing with shame.

Lennox took the short cut through the station concourse. He liked short cuts. Always had. He had bought sweets to make friends, lied about diving off the crane on the harbour quay and about paying for a hand job from the girl working at the Indigo kiosk. He had worn higher platform shoes than anyone else, cheated in exams and still had to blag up his grade when the results came out. His father used to say — generally at family gatherings and without any attempt to conceal who he was referring to — that only a man with no spine would take short cuts. When his father had given a smallish gift to the town’s private university, thereby saving himself and Lennox the disgrace of his son studying in the public sector, Lennox had also forged his degree certificate. Not to show potential employers but his father, who had asked to see it. Of course this was a fiasco because Lennox didn’t have the spine to resist his father’s suspicious looks and questions, and his father told him he didn’t know how a mollusc like Lennox could stand up straight; he didn’t have a single bone in his body!

Fair enough, but he definitely had enough spine to ignore the drug dealers who came up to him mumbling their offers. They recognised a user when they saw one. However, this wasn’t how he got his brew; he had it sent in anonymous brown envelopes. Or when he occasionally asked for special treatment, they blindfolded him and led him — like a prisoner of war to a firing squad — to the secret kitchen, where he got his shot straight from the pot.

He passed Bertha Birnam, where Duff had fallen for his bluff about the judge from Capitol. But Hecate hadn’t said anything about Macbeth killing Duff’s wife and children. Lennox stepped up his tempo across Workers’ Square, as though he had to hurry before something happened. Something inside him.

‘Macbeth’s busy,’ said the little receptionist at Inverness Casino.

‘Say it’s Inspector Lennox. It’s important and will only take a minute.’

‘I’ll ring up, sir.’

While Lennox waited he looked around. He couldn’t put his finger on what, but there was something missing. Some final touch. Perhaps it was only the atmosphere that had changed; perhaps it was that some less well-dressed guys were laughing too loudly as they walked into the gaming room. This type of customer was new.

Macbeth came down the stairs.

‘Hello, Lennox.’

‘Hello, Chief Commissioner. The casino’s busy today.’

‘Daytime gamblers straight from the Obelisk. The Gambling and Casino Board closed down their place a few hours ago. I haven’t got much time. Shall we sit here?’

‘Thank you, sir. I just wanted to inform you about a meeting that took place today.’

Macbeth yawned. ‘Oh yes?’

Lennox breathed in. Hesitated. Because there were millions of ways to start. Thousands of ways to formulate the same message. Hundreds of first words. And yet only two options.

Macbeth frowned.

‘Sir,’ the receptionist said. ‘Message from the blackjack table. They’re asking if we can provide them with another croupier. There’s a queue.’

‘I’m coming, Jack. Sorry about the interruption, Lennox. Lady usually deals with this. Well?’

‘Yes. The meeting...’ Lennox thought about his family. Their house. The garden. The safe neighbourhood, where the kids hadn’t got involved in any nastiness. The university they would go to. The pay cheque that made all this possible. Plus the cash on the side that had now become a necessity to make ends meet. This wasn’t for him; it was for the family, the family, the family. His family, not a house in Fife, not...

‘Yes?’

The front door went.

‘Sir!’

They turned. It was Seyton. He was out of breath. ‘We’ve got him, boss.’

‘We’ve found...?’

‘Duff. And you were right. He’s on board a boat that sailed from here. The MS Glamis.’

‘Fantastic!’ Macbeth turned to Lennox. ‘This will have to wait, Inspector. I’ll have to be off now.’

Lennox remained seated as the other two went through the door.

‘A busy man,’ the receptionist smiled. ‘A coffee, sir?’

‘No, thanks,’ Lennox said, staring ahead. Darkness had already started to fall, but there were still several hours before his next shot. An eternity. ‘I think I’ll take you up on that coffee. Yes, please.’ An eternity for a man with no spine.

28

‘Where are you going?’ whispered Meredith.

‘I don’t know,’ Duff said, trying to stroke her cheek, but he couldn’t reach. ‘I’ve got an address, but I don’t know whose it is.’

‘So why are you going there?’

‘It was written down just before Banquo and Fleance died. It says Safe haven, and if they were on the run it might be safe for me too. I don’t know. It’s all I have, love.’

‘In that case...’

‘Where are you?’

‘Here.’

‘Where’s here ? And what are you doing?’

Meredith smiled. ‘We’re waiting for you. It’s still the birthday.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘A bit. It was soon over.’

Duff felt his throat thicken. ‘Ewan and Emily, were they frightened?’

‘Shh, darling, we’re not talking about that now...’

‘But—’

She laid a hand over his mouth. ‘Shh, they’re asleep. You mustn’t wake them.’

Her hand. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to move it, but she was too strong. Duff opened his eyes.

In the darkness above him he saw a figure, and the figure was pressing a hand against his mouth. Duff tried to scream and grab the hairy wrist, but the other person was too strong. Duff knew who it was when he heard the sniff. It was Hutchinson. Who leaned over him and whispered in his ear.

‘Not a sound, Johnson. Or to be more accurate, Duff.’

His cover was blown. Was there a price on his head, dead or alive? Hutchinson’s moment for revenge had come. Knife? Bradawl? Hammer?

‘Listen to me, Johnson. If we wake the guy in the bunk above, you’re done for. OK?’

Why had the engineer woken him? Why hadn’t he killed him?

‘The police will be waiting for you when we dock in Capitol.’ He removed his hand from Duff’s mouth. ‘Now you know and we’re quits.’

The cabin was lit up for a moment as the door opened. Then it closed, and he was gone.

Duff blinked in the darkness, thinking for a moment that Hutchinson had also been part of his dream. Someone coughed in the bunk above. Duff didn’t know who it was. The steward had explained the lack of bunks was because they had transported ‘some very important boxes of ammo’ on the last trip. They’d had to remove some bunks and use two of the cabins as the regulations only allowed them to store a certain quantity of explosives in one place on a boat. Only crew with stripes on their uniform had cabins of their own. Duff swung his legs onto the floor and hurried into the corridor. Saw the back of a dirty Esso T-shirt on its way down the ladder to the engine room.

‘Wait!’

Hutchinson turned.

Duff trotted up to him.

The engineer’s eyes were shiny now too. But the evil glint was gone.

‘What are you talking about?’ Duff said. ‘Police? Quits?’

Hutchinson crossed his arms. Sniffed. ‘I went in to see Sparks to...’ another sniff ‘... to apologise. The captain was talking on the radio. They had their backs to me and didn’t hear me.’

Duff felt his heart stop and crossed his arms. ‘Carry on.’

‘The captain said he had a Johnson who matched the description. You had a scar on your face and had signed up on the relevant date. The voice on the radio said the captain shouldn’t do anything, as Duff was dangerous and the police would be ready when we came ashore. The captain answered he was glad to hear that after seeing you in action in the mess.’ Hutchinson ran two fingers across his forehead.

‘Why are you tipping me off?’

The engineer shrugged. ‘The captain told me to apologise to Sparks. He said the only reason I still had a job was that you’d refused to squeal on me. And I’d like to keep this job...’

‘And you will?’

The engineer sniffed. ‘Probably. It’s the only thing I’m any good at, according to the first engineer.’

‘Oh? Did he say that?’

Hutchinson grinned. ‘He came over to me this evening and said I shouldn’t go getting any airs. I was a pimple on the arse of this boat, but I was a good engineer. Then he walked off. Pretty weird fellas on this boat, eh?’ He laughed. Almost looked happy. ‘I’d better go where I’m needed.’

‘Wait,’ Duff said. ‘What good is it if you tell a doomed man he has a noose around his neck? I can’t escape until we’ve docked.’

‘That’s not my problem, Johnson. We’re quits.’

‘Are we? This boat transported the machine guns that killed my wife and children, Hutchinson. No, it’s not your problem, and it wasn’t my problem when the captain asked me to give him a reason to fire you.’

Sniff. ‘Jump in the sea then and swim away. It’s not far. ETA in nine hours, Johnson.’ Sniff.

Duff stood watching the engineer disappear into the belly of the ship.

Then he went to a porthole and looked at the sea. Day was dawning. Eight hours until they were in harbour. The waves were high. How long would he survive in such weather, in such cold water? Twenty minutes? Thirty? And when they were approaching land the captain was sure to have someone keeping an eye on him. Duff leaned his brow against the glass.

There was no way out.

He went back into the cabin. Looked at his watch. A quarter to five. There were still fifteen minutes until he had to turn out, as they said. He lay on his bunk and closed his eyes. He could see Meredith: she was waving from the rock, across the water. Waving to him to join her.

‘We’re waiting for you.’

As if in a dream, Macbeth thought. Or like swimming in a grotto under the water. That must be roughly what it was like sleep-walking. He held the torch in one hand and Lady with the other. Shone the light across the roulette table and the empty chairs. Shadows moved like ghosts across the walls. The false crystal above them gleamed.

‘Why’s no one here?’ Lady asked.

‘Everyone’s gone home,’ Macbeth said, shining the torch on a half-full glass of whisky on a poker table, and instinctively his mind went to dope. The absence of it had begun to make itself felt, but he was holding firm. He was strong, stronger than ever. ‘It’s just you and me, my love.’

‘But we never close, do we?’ She let go of his hand. ‘Have you closed the Inverness down? And you’ve changed everything. I don’t recognise anything! What’s that?’

They had come into another room, where the cone of light caught a line of one-armed bandits. There they were, standing in a row down the room. Like an army of small, sleeping robots, Macbeth thought. Mechanical boxes that would never wake again.

‘Look, children’s coffins,’ Lady said. ‘And so many, so many...’ Her voice faded, and soundless sobbing took over.

Macbeth drew her close, away from the machines. ‘We’re not in the Inverness, darling, this is the Obelisk. I wanted to show you what I’ve done for you. Look, it’s closed. They’ve even cut off the electricity. Look, this is our victory. This is the foe’s handsome battlefield, darling.’

‘It’s ugly, it’s hideous! And it stinks. Can you smell it? It stinks of bodies. The stench is coming from the wardrobe!’

‘Darling, darling, it’s from the kitchen. The police threw everyone out at one so that no one could spoil the evidence. Look, there are still steaks on plates.’

Macbeth shone the torch over the tables: white cloths, burned-down candles and half-eaten meals. He stiffened when the light was reflected in two luminous yellow eyes staring at them. Lady screamed. He reached inside his jacket, but only glimpsed a lean, sinewy body before it was gone in the darkness. And discovered that he was holding a silver dagger in his hand.

‘Relax, darling,’ he said. ‘It was only a dog. It must have smelled the food and got in somehow. There, there, it’s gone now.’

‘I want to go! Get me out! I want to go away!’

‘OK, we’ve seen enough. We’ll go back to the Inverness now.’

‘Away, I said!’

‘What do you mean? Away where?’

‘Away!’

‘But...’ He didn’t complete the sentence, only the thought. They had nowhere else to go. They never had, but it hadn’t struck him until now. Everyone else had a family, a childhood home, relatives, a summer cottage, friends. They only had each other and the Inverness. But it had never occurred to him that this wouldn’t be enough. Not until now, after they had challenged the world and he was about to lose her. She had to come back; she had to wake up; he had to get her out of this dark place where she was trapped — that was why he had brought her here. But even their triumph was unable to jolt her back to reality. And he needed her now, needed her clear brain, her firm hand, not this woman crying silent tears who had no sense of what was happening around her.

‘We’ve found Duff,’ he said leading her quickly through the darkness towards the exit. ‘Seyton’s flown to Capitol, and at two MS Glamis will be docking.’ There was light outside, but at the Obelisk all the windows had blinds, it was eternal night and party time. Gambling tables he didn’t remember from when they had passed through before appeared suddenly in the torchlight and blocked their way. The sound of their footsteps was muffled by the carpet and he thought he heard the snarling and snapping of dogs’ jaws behind them. Shit! Where is it? Where was the exit?

Lennox stood in the green grass. He had parked his car up on the main road and put on his sunglasses.

This was one of the reasons he would never settle in Fife. The light was too bright. He could already feel the sun burning his pale pink skin, as though he were going to be set alight like some damn vampire.

But he wasn’t a vampire, was he. Some things you didn’t see until you got close. Like the white farmhouse in front of him. It wasn’t until you got close that you saw the whiteness was peppered with small black holes.

29

‘Welcome aboard,’ said the captain of MS Glamis as the pilot entered the bridge. ‘I’d like us to be on time today. We’ve got someone waiting for us.’

‘No problem,’ the pilot said, shook the captain’s hand and took up a position beside him. ‘If the engines are working.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘One of your engineers asked to go back on my boat. He had to get hold of a part the first engineer wants.’

‘Oh?’ the captain said. ‘I hadn’t been told that.’

‘Probably a minor detail.’

‘Who was the engineer?’

‘Hutch-something-or-other. There they are.’ The pilot pointed to the boat rapidly moving away from them.

The captain took his binoculars. On the aft deck he saw a striped cap over the back of an Esso T-shirt.

‘Anything wrong?’ the pilot asked.

‘No one leaves the ship without my permission,’ the captain said. ‘At least not today.’ He pressed the intercom button for the galley. ‘Steward!’

‘Captain,’ came the response from the other end.

‘Send Johnson up with two cups of coffee.’

‘I’m coming, Captain.’

‘Johnson, I said.’

‘He’s got stomach cramps, Captain, so I let him rest until we dock.’

‘Check he’s in his cabin.’

‘Righty-ho.’

The captain took his finger off the button.

‘Three degrees port,’ the pilot said.

‘Aye aye,’ said the first mate.

Inspector Seyton had said the safest option was for the captain and the telegrapher to remain the only ones in the know so that Duff didn’t realise his cover had been blown. Seyton and two of his best men would be ready on the quay when they docked, board the boat and overpower Duff. And Seyton had stressed that when it happened he wanted the crew well clear so that no one would be hurt if shots were fired. Although to the captain it sounded like when shots were fired.

‘Captain!’ It was the steward. ‘Johnson’s sleeping like a baby in his bunk. Shall I wake—’

‘No! let him sleep. Is he alone in his cabin?’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Good, good.’ The captain looked at his watch. In an hour everything would be over and he could go home to his wife. Soon have a couple of days off. Just that summons to the shipping line tomorrow concerning the insurance company report about a suspiciously high number of cases of the same type of illness in the crew who had worked in the hold over the last ten years. Something to do with blood.

‘Course is fine,’ the pilot said.

‘Let’s hope so,’ the captain mumbled. ‘Let’s hope so.’

Ten minutes past one. Ten minutes ago a large elk head had come out of an elk clock and mooed. Angus looked around. He regretted the choice of place. Even if it was only unemployed layabouts and drunks at the Bricklayers Arms during the day now, it was the SWAT local, and if someone from police HQ saw him and the reporter talking it would soon get to Macbeth’s ears. On the other hand, it was less suspicious than sitting in some bar hidden in the back streets.

But Angus didn’t like it. Didn’t like the elk. Didn’t like it that the journalist still hadn’t arrived. Angus would have gone long ago if this hadn’t been his last chance.

‘Sorry for being late.’

The rolled ‘r’s. Angus looked up. It was only the voice that reassured him the man standing there in yellow oilskins was Walter Kite. Angus had read that this radio reporter consistently said no to TV and being pictured in newspapers and celeb magazines, as he considered a person’s appearance a distraction from the story. The word was everything.

‘Rain and traffic,’ Walt Kite said, undoing his jacket. Water ran from his thin hair.

‘It’s always rain and traffic,’ Angus said.

‘That’s the excuse we use anyway,’ the radio reporter said and sat down opposite him in the booth. ‘The truth is the chain came off my bike.’

‘I thought Walter Kite didn’t lie,’ Angus said.

‘Kite, the radio reporter, never lies,’ Kite said with a wry smile. ‘Walter, the private person, is a long way behind.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Always. Tell me what you didn’t say on the phone.’

Angus drew a deep breath and began to speak. He experienced nothing of the nerves he had felt when he had presented his information to Lennox and Caithness. Perhaps because the die was already cast; there was no way back. He used more or less the same words he had at Estex the day before, but also told Kite about the meeting with Lennox and Caithness. He gave Kite everything. The names. The details about the club house and Fife. The order to burn the baby’s body. While they were speaking Kite took a serviette from the box on the table and tried to wipe the black oil off his hands.

‘Why me?’ Kite asked, taking a second serviette.

‘Because you’re considered to be a brave reporter with integrity,’ Angus said.

‘Nice to hear people think so,’ Kite said, studying Angus. ‘Your language is more elevated than other young police officers’.’

‘I studied theology.’

‘So that explains both the language and why you want to expose yourself to this. You believe in salvation for good deeds.’

‘You’re mistaken, Mr Kite. I don’t believe in either salvation or divinity.’

‘Have you spoken to any other journalists—’ he smirked ‘—with or without integrity?’

Angus shook his head.

‘Good. Because if I work on this case I need total exclusivity. So not a word to other journalists, not to anyone. Are we in agreement?’

Angus nodded.

‘Where can I get hold of you, Angus?’

‘My phone number—’

‘No phones. Address.’

Angus wrote it down on Kite’s oil-stained serviette. ‘What happens now?’

Kite heaved a sigh. Like a man who knew there was an immense amount of work in front of him.

‘I have to check a few things first. This is a big case. I wouldn’t like to be caught presenting false information or be suspected of being part of someone’s agenda.’

‘My only agenda is that the truth should come out and that Macbeth is stopped.’

Angus knew he had raised his voice when Kite looked around the sparse clientele to make sure no one had heard. ‘If it’s true, you’re lying when you say you don’t believe in divinity.’

‘God doesn’t exist.’

‘I’m thinking about divinity in humans, Angus.’

‘You mean the humanity in humans, Kite. Wanting goodness is as human as sinning.’

Kite nodded slowly. ‘You’re the theologian. Although I have to confess I believe you, I’ll have to check out the story — and you as a person. I think that’s what’s called—’ he got to his feet and buttoned up his oilskin jacket ‘—integrity.’

‘When do you think this can appear in print?’ Angus breathed in and then let it out again. ‘I don’t trust Lennox. He’ll go to Macbeth.’

‘I’ll prioritise the story,’ Kite said. ‘It should be mainly finished in two days.’ He took out his wallet.

‘Thank you. I’ll pay for my own coffee.’

‘Right.’ Kite put his wallet back in his jacket. ‘You’re a rare bird in this town, you know.’

‘Definitely in danger of extinction.’ Angus smiled weakly.

He watched the reporter until he was out of the door. Looked around the pub. No one conspicuous. Everyone seemed occupied with their own business. Two days. He had to try and stay alive for two days.

Seyton didn’t like Capitol. Didn’t like the broad avenues, the magnificent old parliamentary buildings and all the other shit — the green parks, the libraries and the opera house, the street artists, the tiny Gothic churches and the ridiculously extravagant cathedral, the smiling people in the pavement restaurants and the expensive national theatre with its pompous plays, incomprehensible dialogue and megalomaniac kings who die in the last act.

That was why he preferred to stand like this, with his back to the town and his eyes across the sea.

They were inside the harbour office and could see MS Glamis now.

‘Sure you don’t want any help?’ asked the policeman with the CAPITOL POLICE patch on his uniform. There had been a discussion about jurisdiction before they arrived, but Capitol’s chief commissioner had been cooperative, partly, he had said, because they felt the murder of a policeman in another town affected them, partly because you can make exceptions on board vessels.

‘Thank you again, but I’m very sure,’ Seyton said.

‘Fine, but when he’s been arrested and brought ashore, we take over.’

‘Absolutely. As long as you keep an eye on the gangway and the ship.’

‘He won’t get away, Inspector.’ The Capitol policeman pointed to the plain-clothes policemen in two rowing boats fifty metres from the quay. The officers were pretending to fish, but were ready to catch Duff if he jumped overboard.

Seyton nodded. It wasn’t so long since he had been standing waiting in another harbour office. That time it had been Duff who had refused help, the stupid idiot. But the roles were changed now. And he would make sure Duff knew. He would make him feel it. For some endlessly long seconds. The Capitol Police knew nothing of Macbeth’s orders of course: Duff was not to be brought but carried ashore. In a body bag.

The Glamis reversed, and the sea was whipped white below the surface, then the white water rose and bubbled like champagne. Seyton loaded his MP-5. ‘Olafson. Ricardo. Ready?’

The two SWAT men nodded. They had drawings of the boat showing the cabin where Duff was.

Hawsers were thrown from the Glamis onto the quay, one from the bow and one from the stern, coiled around bollards and tightened. The side of the boat pushed gently against screaming tyres. A gangway was lowered.

‘Now,’ Seyton said.

They ran out across the quay and up the gangway. The crew stared at them open-mouthed; the captain had obviously managed to keep the secret. They rushed down an iron ladder past what was labelled the first mate’s cabin. Further down. And further down. Stopped outside the door of cabin 12.

Seyton listened but heard only his own breathing and the rumble of the engines. Ricardo had taken up a position further down the corridor where he could keep an eye on the nearby doors, in case Duff was in a different cabin, heard them and tried to make a getaway.

Seyton switched on his torch and nodded to Olafson. Then he went in. The torch was redundant; there was enough light inside. Duff was lying on the lower bunk, turned to the wall with a blanket over him. He was wearing the green hat the captain said ‘Johnson’ never took off and always kept pulled down to his big glasses. Apart from once when it had ridden up and the captain had seen the scar. Seyton took out the gun that would be placed in Duff’s hand and fired two shots into the wall behind them. The explosions temporarily deprived him of hearing, and for a couple of seconds all Seyton heard was a high-pitched squeak. Duff had gone rigid in his bunk. Seyton put his mouth to Duff’s ear.

‘They screamed,’ he said. ‘They screamed, and it was wonderful to hear. You can scream a little too, Duff. Because I’ve decided to shoot you in the stomach first. For old acquaintance’s sake, you arrogant prick.’

A strong smell rose from Duff. Seyton breathed it in. But it wasn’t the delicious scent of fear. It was... sweat. Stale, old masculine sweat. Older than the few days that Duff had been missing.

The man in the bunk turned his face to him.

It wasn’t Duff’s face.

‘Eh?’ said the man, and the blanket fell off revealing a naked chest and a hairy forearm.

Seyton put the barrel of his machine gun to the man’s forehead. ‘Police. What are you doing here and where’s Duff?’

The man sniffed. ‘I’m sleeping, as you can see. And I have no idea who Duff is.’

‘Johnson,’ Seyton said, pressing the muzzle into the man’s brow so hard his head fell back onto the pillow.

Another sniff. ‘The galley boy? Have you checked the galley? Or the other cabins? We just take any bunk that’s free on this trip. What’s Johnson done, eh? Something serious by the look of it. If you’re gonna make a dent in my head you’d better shoot, arsehole.’

Seyton pulled his gun away.

‘Olafson, take Ricardo and search the boat.’ Seyton studied the bloated face in front of him. Smelled him. Was the man really so unafraid or was it the composite stench of other body functions that drowned the smell of fear?

Olafson was still standing behind him.

‘Search the boat!’ Seyton yelled. And heard Olafson and Ricardo’s boots pounding down the corridor and the sound of cabin doors being pulled open.

Seyton stretched. ‘What’s your name and why are you wearing Johnson’s hat?’

‘Hutchinson. And you can have the hat. You look like you need something to wank in.’

Seyton hit out. The gun opened the skin on the man’s cheek and blood leaked out. But the guy didn’t turn a hair even though his eyes filled with tears.

‘Answer me,’ Seyton hissed.

‘I woke up cold and was going to put on my T-shirt. I left it on the chest over there. Both my T-shirt and cap were gone; instead there was this hat. It was cold, so I took it, OK?’ Hutchinson’s voice shook, but the hatred shone through the tears. Fear and hatred, hatred and fear, it was always the same, Seyton thought, wiping the blood off the muzzle of his MP-5.

Angry voices came from the corridor. Seyton already knew. They would search the whole boat, every nook and cranny, in vain. Duff had already gone.

30

duff hurried down broad avenues past magnificent old buildings, through parks, passing street musicians and portrait painters. A smiling couple at a pavement restaurant pointed him in the right direction when he showed them the address on the slip of paper. Stared at his beard, which had started to come unstuck on one side. Duff, trying not to run, passed Capitol Cathedral.

Hutchinson had turned round.

Turned round as he was on his way down the ladder. Came back up. Had listened to Duff’s story. And even when Duff told him details he himself would not have believed if someone else had told him, Hutchinson had kept nodding as if in recognition. As though nothing was alien to him with regard to what humans were capable of doing to one another. And when Duff had finished, the engineer presented an escape plan. Without any hesitation, so simple and obvious Duff assumed the engineer must have hatched it for himself at some point. Duff would put on Hutchinson’s clothes and stand by the railing ready.

‘Just make sure you have your back to the bridge so the captain can’t see your face and thinks it’s me. The boatman will leave the ladder to you if you’re standing ready. Throw it out early, climb down and stand at the bottom when the pilot’s boat comes alongside. Tell him you need to be ashore before the Glamis docks because you have to pick up a spare part at the shipping office which we need for the winch that tightens the hawsers on the quay.’

‘Why?’

‘Eh?’

‘Why are you doing this for me?’

Hutchinson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was on the detail to load up the ammo boxes. There was a skinny, bald police bloke with his arms crossed who looked as if he wanted to spit on us as we loaded them onto his truck.’

Duff waited. For the rest of his explanation.

‘People do things for each other,’ Hutchinson said and sniffed. ‘It seems.’ Sniff. ‘And if I’ve understood you right, you’re alone against—’ he pointed to the decks above them ‘—them. And I know a bit about how that feels.’

Alone. Them.

‘Thank you.’

‘No worries, Johnson.’ The engineer shook Duff’s hand. Briefly, almost shyly. And then he ran his hand over the plaster on his forehead. ‘Next time I’ll be ready, and it’ll be your turn for a beating.’

‘Of course.’

Duff was east of the centre now.

‘Sorry. District 6?’

‘Over there.’

He passed a kiosk with a news-stand. The houses were becoming smaller, the streets narrower.

‘Tannery Street?’

‘Down to the lights and the second or third left.’

A police siren rose and sank. They had a different sound here in the capital, not so harsh or sharp. And a different tune. Not as gloomy, not so piercingly disharmonious.

‘Dolphin?’

‘The nightclub? Isn’t it closed? Anyway, do you see that café there? Right next to it.’ But the eyes lingered too long on the scar, trying to remember something.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all.’

Number 66 Tannery Street.

Duff studied the names next to the bells by the rotting big wooden door. None of them meant a thing to him. He pulled at the door. Open. Or to be more precise, a smashed lock. It was dark inside. He stood still until his pupils began to widen. A staircase. Wet newspaper, smell of urine. Sound of tuberculous coughing from behind a door. A sound like a hard wet slap. Duff set off up the stairs. There were two front doors on every floor, as well as a low door on every landing. He rang one of the doorbells. From inside came the angry barking of a dog and shuffling steps. A small, almost comical, wrinkled lady opened the door. No safety chain.

‘Yes, love?’

‘Hello, I’m Inspector Johnson.’

She eyed him sceptically. Duff assumed she could smell Hutchinson from the Esso T-shirt. The scent appeared to have quietened the little fluffball of a dog anyway.

‘I’m looking for—’ Yes, what was he looking for? ‘—someone a friend of mine, Banquo, gave me an address for.’

‘Sorry, young man. I don’t know any Banquo.’

‘Alfie?’

‘Oh, Alfie. He lives on the second floor, right-hand side. Excuse me, but you... erm... you’re losing your beard.’

‘Thank you.’

Duff tore off the beard and glasses as he went up to the second floor. The door to the right had no name on it, just a bell with a button hanging from a spiral metal spring.

Duff knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. Another wet slap from the ground floor. He pulled at the door. Locked. Should he wait and see if anyone came? It was a better alternative than showing his face on the street.

Low cough. The sound came from behind the low door on the landing. Duff walked down the five steps and turned the door knob. It moved a little, as though someone was holding on to it on the inside. He knocked.

No answer.

‘Hello? Hello, is anyone there?’

He held his breath and put his ear to the door. He heard something which sounded like the rustle of paper. Someone was hiding in there.

Duff went down the stairs with loud, heavy footsteps, took off his shoes on the floor below and tiptoed back.

He grabbed the door knob and gave it a sharp pull. Heard something go flying as the door swung open. A piece of string.

He stared at himself.

The picture wasn’t particularly big and positioned to the right at the bottom of the page underneath the headline.

The newspaper was lowered, and Duff stared into the face of an old man with a long, unkempt beard. He was sitting leaning forward with his trousers around his ankles.

A splash box. Duff had seen them before, in the old workers’ blocks of flats along the river. He assumed they got their name from the sound made when shit from the upper floors hit the container on the ground floor. Like a wet slap.

‘Sorry,’ Duff said. ‘Are you Alfie?’

The man didn’t answer, just stared at Duff. Then he slowly turned the page of the newspaper, looked at the photo and back up at Duff. Moistened his lips. ‘Louder,’ he said, pointing to his ear with one hand.

Duff raised his voice. ‘Are you Alfie?’

‘Louder.’

‘Alfie!’

‘Shh. Yes, he’s Alfie.’

Perhaps it was because of the shouting that Duff didn’t hear someone come. He just felt a hard object being pressed against the back of his head, and there was something vaguely familiar about the voice that whispered in his ear: ‘And yes, this is a gun, Inspector. So don’t move; just tell me how you found us and who sent you.’

Duff made to turn, but a hand pushed his face forward again, to face Alfie, who clearly regarded the situation as resolved and had resumed his reading.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Duff said. ‘I found the impression of an address on a notepad in Banquo’s car. And no one sent me. I’m alone.’

‘Why have you come here?’

‘Because Macbeth’s trying to kill me. I’m fairly sure he had Banquo and Fleance killed. So if Banquo had an address he thought was a safe haven, it might be good for me too.’

A pause. For thought, it seemed.

‘Come with me.’

Duff was turned, but in such a way that the person with the gun was still behind him. Then he was prodded up the stairs to the door where he had rung the bell. It was now open, and he was pushed into a big room that smelled stale even though the windows were wide open. The room contained a large table with three chairs, a kitchen counter with a sink, a fridge, a narrow bed, a sofa and a mattress on the floor. And one other person. He was sitting on a chair with his forearms and hands on the table and staring straight at Duff. The glasses were the same, also the long legs protruding from under the table. But there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the beard. Or his face had become thinner.

‘Malcolm,’ Duff said. ‘You’re alive.’

‘Duff. Sit down.’

Duff sat down on the chair opposite the deputy chief commissioner.

Malcolm took off his glasses. Cleaned them. ‘So you thought I drowned myself after I took Duncan’s life, did you?’

‘At first I thought so. Until I realised that Macbeth was behind Duncan’s murder. Then I also realised that he had probably drowned you to clear his path to the chief commissioner’s office. And that the suicide letter was a forgery.’

‘Macbeth threatened to kill my daughter if I didn’t sign it. What do you want, Duff?’

‘He says—’ the voice behind Duff started.

‘I heard you,’ Malcolm interrupted. ‘And I see that the newspapers are making out that Macbeth is after you, Duff. But of course you could be working with him, and the scribblings are a plant so you can infiltrate us.’

‘Killing my family was a cover operation?’

‘I read about that too, but I don’t trust anything any longer, Duff. If Macbeth and the police really were so keen to catch you they would already have done so.’

‘I was lucky.’

‘And then you came here.’ Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why?’

‘Safe haven.’

‘Safe?’ Malcolm shook his head. ‘You’re a police officer, Duff, and you know that if you can find us that easily then so can Macbeth. A moderately intelligent wanted person sits tight. He doesn’t visit other people also on the wanted list. So give me a better answer. Why here?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Let me hear you say it. The gun’s pointing at where you have, or don’t have, a bleeding heart.’

Duff gulped. Why had he come here? It had been a lot to hope for. But it had also been the only hope he had. The odds had been poor, but the calculation simple. Duff took a deep breath.

‘Banquo was supposed to meet me to tell me something the night he died. And he was the last person to see you the day you disappeared. I thought there was a chance I might find you here. And we could help each other. I have proof Macbeth killed Duncan. Macbeth knows and that’s why he’s trying to kill me.’

Malcolm arched an eyebrow. ‘And how can we help each other? You don’t imagine the police here in Capitol can help us, do you?’

Duff shook his head. ‘They’ve been instructed to arrest us and send us back to Macbeth at once. But we can bring Macbeth down together.’

‘To avenge your family.’

‘Yes, that was my first thought.’

‘But?’

‘There’s something bigger than revenge.’

‘The chief commissioner’s job?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

Duff nodded towards the open window. ‘Capitol is an elegant town, isn’t she? It’s difficult not to like her. To fall in love with her even — such a smiling blonde beauty with sunshine in her eyes. But you and I can never love her, can we? For we’ve given our hearts to the foul, rotten city up on the west coast. I’ve disowned her, thought she didn’t mean anything to me. Me and my career were more important than the town that has done nothing but darkened our moods, corrupted our hearts and shortened our lives. Absurd, wasted love, I thought. But that’s how it is. Too late we realise who we really love.’

‘And you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for a town like that?’

‘It’s easy.’ Duff smiled. ‘I’ve lost everything. There’s not much left to sacrifice other than my life. What about you, Malcolm?’

‘I have my daughter to lose.’

‘And you can only save her if we bring Macbeth down. Listen. You’re the man who can carry on Duncan’s work. And that’s why I’m here to follow you, if you’re willing to take over as chief commissioner and rule justly.’

Malcolm eyed him cautiously. ‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

Malcolm laughed. ‘Thank you for the moral support, Duff, but let me make a few things clear first.’

‘Yes?’

‘The first is I’ve never liked you.’

‘Understandable,’ Duff said. ‘I’ve never paid a thought to anyone else but myself. I’m not saying I’m a changed man, but what has happened has definitely given me new insights. I’m still not a clever man, but perhaps a little less stupid than I was.’

‘Possibly, although you may only be saying what you want me to hear. But what I don’t want to hear is any conversion nonsense. You might be slightly changed, but the world is the same.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m pleased you regard me as relatively decent. But if I’m going to have you as part of my team I have to know your angel wings don’t prevent you from keeping your feet on the ground. Surely you don’t think you can get to me without turning a blind eye to some things? Accepting some... established practices for who gets away with something and who doesn’t, and who gets the brown envelopes. If you take everything from a badly paid policeman overnight how are you going to get his loyalty? And isn’t it better to win a few small battles now and then rather than to insist on always losing the big ones?’

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 advantage 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 and 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?’

Macbeth fixed her with his eyes. Then he nodded slowly.

‘I’ll invite Tourtell to a private game of blackjack,’ Lady said, getting up. ‘And you send a message to Hecate telling him you wish to meet him face to face.’

‘And why do you think he’ll say yes?’

‘Because you’ll hand him a suitcase full of gold as thanks for him getting us the chief commissioner’s job.’

‘And he’ll swallow the bait, do you think?’

‘Some people are blinded by power, others by money. Hecate belongs to the latter group. You’ll get the details later.’

Macbeth accompanied her to the door. ‘Darling,’ he said, laying a hand on her back, stroking the thick fur, ‘it’s good to have you back.’

‘Likewise,’ she said, letting him kiss her on the cheek. ‘Be strong. Let’s make each other strong.’

He watched her as she sailed through the anteroom, wondering if he would ever fully understand who she was. Or if he wanted to. Wasn’t it that which made her so irresistible to him?

Lennox and Seyton had parked in the road on the opposite side from Estex. It was so dark that Lennox couldn’t see the drizzle; he only heard it as a whisper on the car roof and windscreen.

‘There’s the reporter,’ Seyton said.

The light from a bike wobbled across the road. Turned in through the gate and was gone.

‘Let’s give him two minutes,’ Seyton said, checking his machine gun.

Lennox yawned. Luckily he had managed to get a shot.

‘Now,’ Seyton said.

They stepped out, ran through the darkness, through the gate and into the factory building.

Voices were coming from the foreman’s office high up on the wall.

Seyton sniffed the air. Then he motioned towards the steel staircase.

They tiptoed up, and Lennox felt a wonderful absence of thought and the steel of the railing which was so cold it burned the palms of his hands. They stood just outside the door. The high gave him that sense of sitting in a warm safe room and watching himself. The buzz of voices inside reminded him of his parents in the sitting room when he was small and had gone to bed.

‘When will it appear in print?’ Angus was speaking.

The answer came with drawled arrogance and long rolled ‘r’s: ‘Disregarding the fact that on radio we don’t refer to print, I hope—’

When Seyton opened the door it was as if someone had pressed the stop button on a cassette player. Walt Kite’s eyes behind his glasses were large. With fear. Excitement. Relief? Not surprise anyway. Lennox and Seyton had been punctual.

‘Good evening,’ Lennox said, feeling a warm smile spread across his face.

Angus stood up and knocked his chair over as he reached for something inside his jacket. But froze when he caught sight of Seyton’s machine gun.

In the silence that followed Kite buttoned up his yellow oilskin jacket. It was like being in a gentlemen’s toilet: no looks were exchanged, no words were said; he just left them quickly with his head lowered. He had done his bit. Left the others with the stench.

‘What are you waiting for, Lennox?’ Angus asked.

Lennox became aware of his outstretched arm and the gun on the end of it. ‘For the reporter to be so far away he won’t hear the shot,’ he said.

Angus’s Adam’s apple went up and down. ‘So you’re going to shoot me?’

‘Unless you have another suggestion. I’ve been given a free hand as to how this should happen.’

‘OK.’

‘OK as in I understand or as in Yes, I want to be shot ?’

‘As in—’

Lennox fired. In the enclosed space he felt the physical pressure of the explosion on his eardrums. He opened his eyes again. But Angus was still standing in front of him, open-mouthed now. There was a hole in the file on the shelf behind him.

‘Sorry,’ Lennox said, walking two steps closer. ‘I thought a sudden shot to the head would be the most humane solution here. But heads are very small. Stand still, please...’ An involuntary giggle escaped his lips.

‘Inspector Lennox, without—’

The second shot hit the target. And the third.

‘Without wishing to criticise,’ Seyton said, looking down at the dead body, ‘it would have been more practical if you’d ordered him down to the furnaces and done it there. Now we’ll have to carry him.’

Lennox didn’t answer. He was studying the growing pool of blood seeping out of the young man’s body towards him. There was something strangely beautiful about the shapes and colours, the sparkling red, the way it extended in all directions, like red balloons. They carried Angus down to the factory floor and then picked up the empty shell casings, washed the floor and dug the first bullet out of the wall. Downstairs they removed his watch, a chain with a gold cross and manoeuvred the body into a furnace, closed it and fired it up. Waited. Lennox stared at the gutter that went from the bottom of the furnace to a tub on the floor. A low hissing sound came from the furnace.

‘What happens to...?’

‘It evaporates,’ Seyton said. ‘Everything evaporates or turns to ash when the temperature’s more than two thousand degrees. Except metal, which just melts.’

Lennox nodded. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gutter. A grey trembling drop appeared with a membrane over it, like a coating.

‘Lead,’ Seyton said. ‘Melts at three hundred and fifty.’

They waited. The hissing inside had stopped.

Then a golden drop came.

‘We’ve topped a thousand now,’ Seyton said.

‘What... what’s that?’

‘Gold.’

‘But we removed—’

‘Teeth. Let’s wait until it’s over sixteen hundred, in case there’s any steel in the body. After that all we have to do is hoover up the ash. Hey, are you OK?’

Lennox nodded. ‘Bit dizzy. I’ve never... erm... shot anyone before. You have, so I’m sure you remember what it felt like the first time.’

‘Yes,’ Seyton said quietly.

Lennox was going to ask what it had felt like, but the glint in Seyton’s eyes made him change his mind.

32

Macbeth stood on the roof of Inverness Casino looking to the east through a pair of binoculars. It wasn’t easy to distinguish in the darkness, but wasn’t that smoke coming from the top of the brick chimney at Estex? If so, the matter had been dealt with. And they would have two more men in their spider’s web, two men with blood on their hands. Kite and Lennox. Kite could be useful to have around in the mayoral elections. If there were any other candidates standing. And Lennox would soon need someone else to get him dope. Before much longer Hecate would be no more than a saga as well.

Macbeth had waited by the stairs to the toilet in the central station for fifteen minutes before Strega turned up. At first he had rejected the bags of power and said he only wanted to pass on a message to Hecate. He wanted to meet him as soon as possible, inform him about his future plans and also give him a present as a token of Macbeth and Lady’s gratitude for what Hecate had done for them. A present he was sure that Hecate — if the rumours about him liking gold were true — would appreciate.

Strega had said he would hear from her. Perhaps.

Yes, there was smoke coming from the chimney.

‘Darling, Tourtell’s here.’

Macbeth turned. Lady was standing in the doorway. She had put on her red dress.

‘I’m coming. You look pretty, did I say?’

‘You did. And that’s all you’ll say for a while, my love. Let me do the talking so we follow the plan.’

Macbeth laughed. Yes, she was back all right.

The gaming room and the restaurant were so full of customers that they literally had to force their way through to the gaming table they’d had set up in the separate small room at the end of the restaurant where Tourtell was waiting.

‘Alone this evening?’ Macbeth said, pressing the mayor’s hand.

‘Young ones have to study for exams.’ Tourtell smiled. ‘I saw there was a queue outside.’

‘Since six o’clock,’ Lady said, sitting down beside him. ‘We’re so full I had to persuade Jack here to be our croupier.’

‘Which tells me there ought to be room for two casinos in this town,’ Tourtell said, fidgeting with his black bow tie. ‘You know how unhappy voters get when they aren’t allowed to go out and waste their money.’

‘Agreed,’ Lady said, beckoning a waiter. ‘Has the mayor had a lucky evening, Jack?’

‘Bit early to say,’ Jack said, smiling from where he stood in his red croupier’s jacket. ‘Another card, Mr Mayor?’

Tourtell looked at the two cards he had been given. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Isn’t that right, Lady?’

‘You are so right. And that’s why I’ve decided to tell you about a consortium which is keen to invest its capital by not only taking over the Obelisk but also renovating and reopening it as the most attractive casino in the country. It is of course a financial risk given that the Obelisk’s reputation is being dragged through the mud right now, but we’re willing to put our faith in a new owner and a new profile changing that.’

‘We, Lady?’

‘I’m in the consortium, yes. Together with Janovic, a property investor from Capitol. It’s important, as you said, for the town to have the Obelisk up and running again. Just think of all the taxable income it will bring in from the neighbouring counties. And when we open the newly renovated, spectacular Obelisk in a few months’ time it will be a tourist attraction. People will travel from Capitol to gamble in our town, Tourtell.’

Tourtell looked at the card Jack had given him and sighed. ‘Doesn’t look like this is going to be my night.’

‘It still could be,’ Lady said. ‘The shares in the consortium haven’t all been taken up, and we’ve considered you as a potential investor. You also need something to fall back on after your mayoralty is over.’

‘Investor?’ He laughed. ‘As mayor I’m afraid I don’t have the legal ability or the money to buy shares in companies, so the undoubted share-fest will have to take place without me.’

‘Shares can be paid for in a variety of ways,’ Lady said. ‘For example, with services rendered.’

‘What are you suggesting, my beautiful duchess?’

‘That you publicly support Macbeth’s candidature for mayor.’

Tourtell looked at his cards again. ‘I’ve already promised I would and I’m famous for keeping my promises.’

‘We mean in this election.’

Tourtell glanced up from his cards, at Macbeth. ‘This election?’

Lady placed a hand on the mayor’s arm and leaned against him. ‘Yes, because you won’t be standing.’

He blinked twice. ‘I won’t be?’

‘It’s true you intimated you would, but then you changed your mind.’

‘And why was that?’

‘Your health isn’t the best, and the job of mayor requires an energetic man. A man of the future. And as soon as you’re not the mayor you’ll be free to join a consortium which in practice will have a monopoly over the casinos in this town and, unlike the cards you have in your hand, will make you a very rich man.’

‘But I don’t want to—’

‘You recommend the voters elect Macbeth as your successor because he’s a man of the people, who works for the people and leads with the people. And because he, in his role as chief commissioner, has brought down both Sweno and Hecate and shown that he gets things done.’

‘Hecate?’

‘Macbeth and I are anticipating events here a little, but Hecate’s a dead man. We’re going to propose a meeting with Hecate, which he won’t leave alive. This is a promise, and I’m famous for keeping promises too, my dear Mr Mayor.’

‘And if I don’t go along with this—’ he spat the words out like a rotten grape ‘—share deal ?’

‘That would be a shame.’

Tourtell pushed his chair back, took one of his chins between his forefinger and middle finger. ‘What else have you got, woman?’

‘Sure we shouldn’t stop there?’ Lady asked.

Jack coughed, tapped his forefinger on the pack. ‘Enough cards, Mr Mayor?’

‘No!’ Tourtell snarled without taking his eyes off Lady.

‘As you wish,’ she sighed. ‘You’ll be arrested and accused of unseemly behaviour with an underage boy.’ She nodded to the card Jack had placed in front of him. ‘See, you went too far. Bust.’

Tourtell stared at her with his heavy cod-eyes. His protruding wet lip twitched. ‘You won’t get me,’ he hissed. ‘Do you hear me? You won’t get me!’

‘If we can get Hecate, we can certainly get you.’

Tourtell stood up. Looked down at them. His chins, his scarlet face, indeed his whole body was shaking with fury. Then he spun on his heel and marched out, the inside thighs of his trousers rubbing against each other.

‘What do you think?’ Macbeth said after he had gone.

‘Oh, he’ll do what we want,’ Lady said. ‘Tourtell’s no young fool. He just needs a bit of time to work out the odds before he makes his play.’

Caithness dreamed about Angus. He had rung her, but she didn’t dare lift the receiver because she knew someone had been tampering with her phone and it would explode. She woke up and turned to the alarm clock on the bedside table beside the ringing telephone. It was past midnight. It had to be a murder. She hoped it was a murder, an everyday murder and not... She lifted the receiver.

‘Hello?’ She heard the click which had been there ever since the meeting at Estex.

‘Sorry for ringing so late.’ It was an unfamiliar, young man’s voice. ‘I just wanted to confirm that you’re coming to 323 at the usual time tomorrow, Friday?’

‘I’m doing what?’

‘Sorry, perhaps I have the wrong number. Is that Mrs Mittbaum?’

Caithness sat up in bed, wide awake. She moistened her lips. Imagined the reels of the tape recorder in a room somewhere, perhaps the Surveillance Unit on the first floor of HQ.

‘I’m not her,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t worry. People with German surnames are generally punctual.’

‘My apologies. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Caithness lay in bed, her heart pounding.

323. The room in the Grand Hotel where she and Duff used to have their lunchtime trysts, booked in the name of Mittbaum.

33

Hecate swung the telescope on its stand. The morning light leaked between the clouds and descended like pillars into the town. ‘So Macbeth said he was planning to kill me during the meeting?’

‘Yes,’ Bonus said.

Hecate looked through the telescope. ‘Look at that. Already a queue outside the Inverness.’

Bonus looked around. ‘Are the waiters here today?’

‘The boys, you mean? I book them only when I need them, same as with this penthouse suite. Owning things is tying yourself to them. And people, Bonus. But when you notice your car is so full of junk that it’s slowing you down, you get rid of the junk, not the car. That’s what Macbeth hasn’t realised. That I’m the car, not the junk. Did you ring Macbeth, Strega?’

The tall man-woman, who had just entered the room, stepped out of the shadows.

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you arrange?’

‘He’ll come here alone tomorrow at six to meet you.’

‘Thank you.’

She merged back into the shadows.

‘I wonder how he dares,’ Bonus said.

‘Dares?’ Hecate said. ‘He can’t stop himself. Macbeth has become like a moth drawn helplessly to the light, to power.’

‘And like a moth he’ll burn.’

‘Maybe. What Macbeth has most to fear is — like the moth — himself.’

Caithness looked at her watch. Twelves minutes to twelve. Then she directed her gaze at the hotel door in front of her. She would never forget the brass numbers, however long she lived and however many men she met, loved and shared days and nights with.

323.

She could still turn back. But she had come here. Why? Because she thought she would meet Duff again and something had changed? The only thing that had changed was that now she knew she would be able to manage perfectly well without him. Or was it because she suspected that behind the door there could be another chance, a chance to do the right thing? Which she had failed to do when she walked away from Angus at Estex. She had got hold of his private phone number but there had been no answer.

She raised her hand.

The door would explode if she knocked.

She knocked.

Waited. Was about to knock again when the door opened. A young man stood there.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Fleance, son of Banquo.’ The voice was the same as on the phone. He stepped aside. ‘Please come in, Mrs Mittbaum.’

The hotel room was as before.

Malcolm was as before.

But not Duff. He had aged. Not only in the months and years since she had last seen him sitting on the plush-covered hotel bed waiting for her like now, but in the days that had passed since he had left her flat for the last time.

‘You came,’ Duff said.

She nodded.

Malcolm coughed and cleaned his glasses. ‘You don’t seem particularly surprised to see us here, Caithness.’

‘I’m most surprised that I’m here,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘What are you hoping is going on, Caithness?’

‘I’m hoping we’re going to remove Macbeth.’

Seyton pushed down the lever on the iron door and opened it. Macbeth stepped inside and twisted the switch. The neon tubes blinked twice before casting a cold blue light on the shelves of ammunition boxes and various weapons. On the floor in the square room were a safe and two half-dismantled Gatling guns. Macbeth went over to the safe, twirled the dial and opened it. Pulled out a zebra-striped suitcase. ‘The ammo room was the only place with thick enough walls where we dared to keep it,’ he said. ‘And even then, in a safe.’

‘So it’s a bomb?’

‘Yep,’ said Macbeth, who had crouched down and opened the suitcase. ‘Disguised as a case of gold.’ He lifted out the bars covering the bottom. ‘The bars are actually iron with a gold coating, but the bomb in the space beneath—’ he opened the lid to the false bottom ‘—is genuine enough.’

‘Look at that,’ Seyton said with a low whistle. ‘Your classic IED time bomb.’

‘Ingenious, eh? The gold means no one will be suspicious about the weight. This was designed to blow up the Inverness.’

‘Aha, it’s that case. And why wasn’t the bomb destroyed?’

‘My idea,’ Macbeth said, studying the clockwork machinery. ‘It’s a fantastically intricate piece of work and we had it fully disarmed. I thought we at SWAT might find a use for it one day. And now we have...’ He touched a matchstick-size metal pin. ‘You just have to pull this, and the clock counts down. It looks easy, but it took us almost forty minutes to defuse it, and there are only twenty-five minutes and fifty-five seconds left on the clock, so if I pull this out there’s no way back.’

‘Your discussions with Hecate will have to be quick then.’

‘Oh, it won’t be a long meeting. I’ll say that the gold is proof of my gratitude for what he’s already done and there’ll be more if he helps me to be elected as mayor.’

‘Will he, do you think?’

‘I don’t know, and he’ll be dead ten minutes later anyway. The point is that he mustn’t suspect anything, and he knows that in this town you don’t get anything for nothing. I’ll ask him to think about it, look at my watch, say I have a meeting with a management group — which is true — and go.’

‘Sorry...’ They turned to the door. It was Ricardo. ‘Telephone.’

‘Tell them I’ll ring back,’ Seyton said.

‘Not for you, for the chief commissioner.’

Macbeth heard the almost imperceptible coldness in the voice. He had felt it when he came to SWAT before. How the men had dutifully mumbled a greeting but had looked away seemingly busy with other things.

‘For me?’

‘Your receptionist has put it through. She says it’s the mayor.’

‘Show me the way.’

He followed the SWAT veteran. Something about Ricardo’s narrow, aristocratic face, the shiny blackness of his skin and the suppleness of his majestic gait had always made Macbeth think the officer must be descended from a lion-hunting tribe. What was it called again? A loyal man of honour. Macbeth knew Ricardo would be willing to follow his brothers to the death if necessary. A man worth his weight in gold. Genuine gold.

‘Anything wrong, Ricardo?’

‘Sir?’

‘You seem quiet today. Anything I should know?’

‘We’re a bit worried about Angus, that’s all.’

‘I heard he’d been off colour. This job isn’t for everyone.’

‘My worry is he hasn’t appeared for work, and no one knows where he is.’

‘He’ll turn up soon enough. He probably needed some time out for a think. But, yes, I can see you’re concerned he might have done something drastic.’

‘Something drastic has happened to...’ Ricardo stopped by the open office door. Inside a telephone receiver lay on a desk. ‘I don’t think Angus has done anything.’

Macbeth stopped and looked at him. ‘So what do you think?’

Their eyes met. And Macbeth saw nothing of the admiration and happiness directed at him that he was used to from his men in SWAT. Ricardo lowered his eyes. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

Macbeth closed the office door behind him and took the phone.

‘Yes, Tourtell?’

‘I lied about being the mayor so I’d be put through. The way you lied. You promised me no one would die.’

Macbeth thought it was strange how fear trumped arrogance. There wasn’t a trace left of the latter in Walt Kite’s voice.

‘You must have misunderstood,’ Macbeth said. ‘I meant no one in your family would die.’

‘You—’

‘And they won’t. If you continue to do as I say. I’m busy, so if there was nothing else, Kite.’

All he heard at the other end was an electric crackle.

‘Good job we cleared that up,’ Macbeth said and rang off. Looked at the photograph pinned to the wall above the desk. Showing the whole of the SWAT gang at the Bricklayers Arms. The broad smiles and the raised beer mugs testifying to the celebration of another successful mission. There was Banquo. Ricardo. Angus and the others. And Macbeth himself. So young. Such a stupid smile. So ignorant. So blissfully powerless.

‘So that’s the plan,’ Malcolm said. ‘And apart from you, we three are the only ones who know about it. What do you say, Caithness? Are you with us?’

They sat close to one another in the cramped hotel room, and Caithness looked from one face to the next. ‘And if I say the plan’s crazy and I won’t have anything to do with it, will you let me stroll away, so that I can blab to Macbeth?’

‘Yes,’ Malcolm said.

‘Isn’t that naive?’

‘Well. If you were thinking of running to Macbeth I assume you would have first told us it was a brilliant plan and that you were in. And then you would have blabbed. We know asking you is a calculated risk. But we refuse to believe there aren’t good people out there, people who care, who put the town before their own good.’

‘And you think I’m one of them?’

‘Duff thinks you’re one of them,’ Malcolm said. ‘He puts it stronger than that in fact: he says he knows you are. He says you’re better than him.’

Caithness looked at Duff.

‘It’s a brilliant idea and I’m in,’ she said.

Malcolm and Fleance laughed, and yes, even in Duff’s sad, lifeless eyes she saw a brief glimpse of laughter.

34

At five minutes to six Macbeth entered the reception area at the Obelisk hotel. The spacious lobby was empty apart from a doorman, a couple of bellboys and three receptionists in black suits talking in low voices, like undertakers.

Macbeth headed straight for the lift, which was open, went in and pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. Clenched his teeth and blew out to equalise the pressure. The fastest lift in the country — they had even advertised it, probably to appeal to the country cousins. The handle of the suitcase felt slippery against his hand. Why had Collum, the unlucky gambler, chosen zebra stripes to disguise a bomb?

The lift door slid open and he walked out. He knew from drawings of the building that the stairs to the penthouse suite were to the left. He trotted up the fifteen steps and along a short corridor to the only door on the floor. Raised his hand to knock. But stopped and studied his hand. Did he detect a tremble, the tremble veterans said they got after around seven years at SWAT? The seven-year tremble. He couldn’t see one. They said it was worse if there wasn’t one, then it was definitely time to get out.

Macbeth knocked.

Heard footsteps.

His own breathing.

He didn’t have any weapons on him. He would be searched, and there was no reason to make anyone jumpy, after all this was supposed to resemble a business meeting. Repeated to himself that he was only going to say he was standing for mayor and hand over the suitcase as thanks for services rendered and future favours. That explanation should be plausible.

‘Mr Macbeth, sir?’ It was a young boy. He was wearing jodhpurs and white gloves.

‘Yes?’

The boy stepped to the side. ‘Please come in.’

The penthouse suite had views in all directions. It had stopped raining, and in the west, behind the Inverness, the thin cloud cover was coloured orange by the afternoon sun. Macbeth’s eyes roamed further, over the harbour in the south and the factory towers to the east.

‘Mr Hand said he would be a little delayed, but not by much,’ the boy said. ‘I’ll bring you some champagne.’

The door closed gently and Macbeth was alone. He sat down in one of the leather chairs by the round Plexiglass table. ‘Mr Hand. Right.’

Macbeth looked at his watch. It was precisely three minutes and thirty-five seconds since he had been sitting with Seyton in the SWAT car and had pulled out the pin to activate the countdown. Twenty-two minutes and twenty seconds to detonation.

He got up, went over to the big brown fridge standing by one wall and opened it. Empty. Same with the wardrobe. He peered into the bedroom. Untouched. No one lived here. He went back to the leather chair and sat down.

Twenty minutes and six seconds.

He tried not to think, but thoughts came anyway.

They said that time ran out.

That darkness thickened.

That death drew closer.

Macbeth breathed deeply and calmly. And what if death came now? It would of course be a meaningless end, but isn’t that the case with all ends? We’re interrupted in mid-sentence in the narrative about ourselves, and the end hangs in the air, with no meaning, no conclusion, no unravelling final act. A short echo of the last, semi-articulated word and you’re forgotten. Forgotten, forgotten, not even the biggest statue can change that. The person you were, the person you really were, disappears faster than concentric rings in water. And what was the point of this short, interrupted guest appearance? Of playing along as best you can, seizing the pleasures and happiness life has to offer while it lasts? Or leaving a mark, changing the direction of things, making the world a slightly better place before you yourself have to leave it? Or perhaps the point is to reproduce, to put more suitable small creatures on the earth in the hope that humans will at some point become the demi-gods they imagine they are? Or is there simply no meaning? Perhaps we’re just detached sentences in an eternal chaotic babble in which everyone talks and no one listens, and our worst premonition finally turns out to be correct: you are alone. All alone.

Seventeen minutes.

Alone. Then Banquo had come along and taken him to his heart, made him part of his family. And now he had got rid of him. Got rid of everyone. And was alone again. Him and Lady. But what did he want with all this? Did he want it? Or did he want to give it to someone? Was it for her, for Lady?

Fourteen minutes.

And did he really think it would last? Wasn’t it all as fragile as Lady’s mind, wasn’t it doomed to crash to the ground, this empire they were building, wasn’t it just a question of time? Perhaps, but what else do we have but time, a little time, the frustratingly temporary nature of impermanence?

Eleven minutes.

Where was Hecate? It was already too late to take the suitcase to the harbour and heave it into the sea. The alternative was to dump it under a manhole cover in the street, but it was bright daylight, and the chances of Macbeth being recognised were high after the recent news programmes and press exposure.

Seven minutes.

Macbeth made up his mind. If Hecate wasn’t here in two minutes he would go. Leave the suitcase. Hope Hecate arrived before the bomb went off.

Five minutes. Four minutes.

Macbeth got up and went to the door. Listened.

Nothing.

Time to withdraw.

He gripped the door handle. Pulled. Pulled harder. Locked. He was locked in.

‘Do you mean you were cheated, sir?’ Lady was standing by the roulette table. She had been called because a customer was beginning to cause trouble. The man wasn’t completely sober, nor was he drunk though. Creased tweed jacket. She didn’t have to guess even: ex-Obelisk customer from bumpkin land.

‘Of course I was,’ the man said as Lady surveyed the room. It was just as full this evening. She would have to take on more staff, they needed at least two more in the bar. ‘The ball lands on fourteen three times in a row. What are the chances of that, eh?’

‘Exactly the same as they are for three, twenty-four and then sixteen,’ Lady said. ‘One in fifty thousand. Exactly the same as for any combination of numbers.’

‘But—’

‘Sir.’ Lady smiled, lightly touching his arm. ‘Has anyone ever told you that during a bombing raid you should hide in a bomb crater because lightning never strikes twice in the same place? That was when you were cheated. But now you’re in Inverness Casino, sir.’ She passed him a ticket. ‘Have a drink at the bar at my expense. Please consider the logic of what I’ve just said and we can talk afterwards, OK?’

The man leaned back and scrutinised her. Took the ticket and was gone.

‘Lady.’

She turned. Above her towered a tall broad-shouldered woman. Or man.

‘Mr Hand would like to speak to you.’ The man-woman nodded towards an elderly man standing a few metres away. He wore a white suit, had dyed dark hair and was leaning on a gilded walking stick while examining the chandelier above him with interest.

‘If this could wait for a couple of minutes...’ Lady smiled.

‘He also has a nickname. Starting with H.’

Lady stopped.

‘He prefers Hand.’ The man-woman smiled.

Lady walked over to the old man.

‘Baccarat crystal or Bohemian?’ he asked without taking his eyes off the chandelier.

‘Bohemian,’ she said. ‘It is, as you can see, a slightly smaller copy of the chandelier in Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul.’

‘Unfortunately I’ve never been there, ma’am, but I was once in a chapel in a small place in Czechoslovakia. After the Black Death they had so many skeletons lying around there wasn’t enough room for them. So they employed this one-eyed monk to tidy up and stack the remains. But instead of doing that he used them to decorate the chapel. They have an attractive chandelier there made out of skulls and human bones. Some might think that shows little respect to the dead; I would maintain the opposite.’ The old man shifted his gaze from the chandelier to her. ‘What greater gift can mankind receive than the touch of immortality inherent in retaining a function even after death, ma’am? Like becoming a coral reef. A chandelier. Or a symbol and guiding star, a chief commissioner who dies so prematurely that people still have this notion of a good person, a selfless leader, so blessedly prematurely that there was never time to unmask him as another megalomaniacal corrupt king. I’m of the opinion that we need such deaths, ma’am. I hope the one-eyed monk received the gratitude he deserved.’

Lady swallowed. Usually she could see something in a person’s eyes which she could interpret, understand and then use. But behind this man’s eyes she saw nothing — it was like looking into the eyes of a blind man. ‘How may I be of assistance, Mr Hand?’

‘As you know, I should be at a meeting with your husband. He’s sitting in a hotel suite waiting to kill me.’

Lady felt her windpipe contract and knew that if she spoke now her voice would be high and squeaky. So she refrained.

‘But as I can’t see that I’d be serving any good purpose dead, I thought instead I’d talk sense with the sensible one of you two.’

Lady looked at him. He nodded and smiled a sad, gentle smile, like a wise grandfather. Like someone who understood her and told her that excuses were unnecessary and pointless anyway.

‘I see,’ Lady said with a hefty cough. ‘I think I need a drink. What can I offer you?’

‘Well, if your bartender knows how to make a dirty martini...?’

‘Come with me.’

They went to the bar, where people were queueing. Lady ploughed her way to behind the bar counter, grabbed two martini glasses, poured from the gin bottle and then the Martini bottle, mixed the cocktails on the worktop beneath the counter. Less than a minute later she was back and handing the old man his glass. ‘I hope it’s dirty enough.’

He tasted. ‘Definitely. But unless I’m mistaken it has an extra ingredient.’

‘Two. It’s my own recipe. This way?’

‘And what are the ingredients?’

‘That’s a business secret of course, but let me put it this way: I think drinks should have a local touch.’ Lady led the old man and the tall man-woman into the empty room behind the restaurant.

‘Naturally, a man in my position has some sympathy with you wanting to protect your business secrets,’ Hecate said, waiting for the man-woman to pull out a chair for him. ‘So please excuse me if I’ve revealed your intentions to take over my town. I respect ambition, but I have other plans.’

Lady sipped her martini. ‘Are you going to kill my husband?’

Hecate didn’t answer.

She repeated the question.

Macbeth stared at the door and felt his mouth go dry. Locked in. He imagined he could hear the bomb ticking behind him now. There was no other way out — exits were one of the things he always checked when he examined drawings of buildings. Outside the windows the smooth wall dropped twenty floors to the tarmac.

Locked in. Trapped. Hecate’s trap. His own trap.

He breathed through his mouth and tried to shut out the mounting panic.

His eyes swept the room. There was nowhere to hide, the bomb was too powerful. His eyes fell on the door again. On the thumb turn lock under the handle.

The thumb turn. He let his breath out in a long, relieved hiss. Shit, what was wrong with him? He laughed. A hotel door is supposed to lock when it closes. He lived in a hotel himself, for Christ’s sake. All you had to do was turn the lock to open the door.

He reached out a hand. Hesitated. Why was something telling him it couldn’t be so easy? That it never was, that where he was it would be impossible to get out, and that he was doomed to blow himself sky-high?

He could feel his fingers slippery with sweat as they closed round the lock. Turned.

The lock turned.

He pressed the handle.

Pushed open the door.

Went out. Rushed down the stairs and along the corridor, cursing quietly.

Stood in front of the lift and pressed the button.

Saw on the wall display it was on its way up from the ground floor.

Looked at his watch. Two minutes and forty seconds.

The lift was approaching. Could he hear something? A clinking, voices? Were there people in the lift? What if Hecate was there? There was no time to go back to the suite and talk now.

Macbeth ran. According to the drawings the fire escape was round the corner to the left.

It was.

He pushed open the door as he heard a pling signalling that the lift had arrived. Held his breath and the door as he waited.

Voices. High-pitched, boys’ voices.

‘I don’t quite understand what—’

‘Mr Hand isn’t coming. We’ve just been told to delay the man in there for half an hour. Hope he likes champagne.’

The sound of trolley wheels.

Macbeth closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs.

On every floor there was a number.

He stopped at seventeen.

Lady nodded. Breathed. ‘But you’re going to kill him another day?’

‘That depends. Did you put apple juice in?’

‘No. Depends on what?’

‘If this is just temporary confusion. You both seem to have stopped using my products, and that’s perhaps best for all parties.’

‘You won’t kill him because you need him as chief commissioner. And now you’ve exposed Macbeth’s plans once, you reckon he’s learned his lesson. A dog isn’t trained until it’s been disobedient and has received its punishment.’

The old man turned to the man-woman. ‘Do you now see what I mean when I say she’s the smart one of the two?’

‘So what do you want from me, Mr Hand?’

‘Ginger? No, the recipe’s a secret you said, so your answer won’t be reliable. I just wanted to make you aware of the choice you have. Obey and I’ll protect Macbeth against anything that can harm him. He’ll be your Tithonos. Disobey and I’ll kill both of you the way you do with dogs which turn out to be untrainable. Look around, Lady. Look at all you stand to lose. You have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. So you don’t have to dream any more. As for recipes, if your dreams are too big they’re a recipe for disaster.’ The old man knocked back the rest of the drink and put the glass on the table. ‘Pepper. That’s one of the two ingredients.’

‘Blood,’ Lady said.

‘Really?’ He laid his hands on the walking stick and levered himself into a standing position. ‘Human blood?’

Lady shrugged. ‘Is that so important? You believe it is, and you seemed to like the recipe.’

The old man laughed. ‘You and I could be very good friends if circumstances were different, Lady.’

‘In another life,’ she said.

‘In another life, my little Lily.’ He banged his stick twice on the floor. ‘Stay where you are. We’ll find our way out.’

Lady retained her smile until he was out of sight. Then she gasped for breath, felt the room whirling, had to hold on to the chair arm. Lily. He knew. How could he know?

Seventeenth floor.

Macbeth looked at his watch. One minute left. So why had he stopped? They must be carrying the trolley up the steps. They would be there when the bomb went off. So what? They were Hecate’s boys. They had to be part of the whole set-up, so what was the problem? No one in this town was innocent. So why had this something come into his mind right now? Was it something from a speech? Written by Lady, given by him? Or was it from even longer ago, an oath they had sworn when they graduated from police college? Or before that too, something Banquo had said to him? Something, there was something, but he couldn’t remember what. Just that...

Shit, shit, shit!

Fifty seconds.

Macbeth ran.

Up the stairs.

35

‘Come with me!’ Macbeth screamed.

The two young boys stared at the man who had suddenly appeared in the doorway to the penthouse suite. One of them was holding a bottle of champagne and had started loosening the wire from the cork.

‘Now!’ Macbeth shouted.

‘Sir, we—’

‘You’ve got thirty seconds if you don’t want to die!’

‘Calm down, sir.’

Macbeth grabbed the champagne cooler and hurled it at the window. The ice cubes bounced and ricocheted with a crackle across the parquet floor. He lowered his voice in the following silence: ‘A bomb will go off inside here in twenty-five seconds.’

Then he turned and set off at a run. Down the stairs. With the clatter of footsteps in his ears. Sprinted past the lift. Held the door to the stairs open for the two boys.

‘Run! Run!’

Closed the door behind them and charged after them.

Fifteen seconds. Macbeth had no idea how big the blast would be, but if the bomb had been made to destroy a building as solid as the Inverness they would need to get as far away as possible. Sixteenth floor. He noticed a headache coming on as though he could already feel the pressure of the explosion on his eardrums, eyeballs, inside his mouth. Fourteenth. He checked his watch. It was fifteen seconds over.

Eleventh floor. Still nothing. The countdown mechanism might not have been quite accurate or a deliberate delay had been built in. The two boys in front of him began to slow down. Macbeth yelled and they speeded up again.

On the eighth floor they burst through the fire escape door into a corridor, but Macbeth continued downwards, using the main stairs. The lift was a death trap. When he reached the ground floor the bomb was almost three minutes overdue.

He walked into reception. The same members of staff were there, hovering over the counter as though nothing had happened, unaware of him. He went out into the rain. Looked up. Stood like that until his neck hurt. Then he started across the deserted square towards Seyton and the waiting car. What the hell had happened? Or rather, what hadn’t happened? Had the bomb got damp in the police HQ basement? Had someone managed to stop the countdown after he left the penthouse suite? Or had it detonated, but with much less power than SWAT’s bomb expert had given him to believe? And what now? He pulled up. What if Hecate or his people went to the suite and discovered he had left a bomb there? He had to go back and fetch the suitcase.

Macbeth turned. Took two paces. Saw his shadow outlined on the cobbles and heard a dull boom like thunder. For a moment he thought it was hail. White granules hit him on the face and hands, pitter-pattered on the cobbles around him and danced on the parked cars. A shower head smacked to the ground a few metres from him. He glanced upwards, then was sent flying as he heard something crash beside him. Macbeth raised his arms to protect himself, but the man who had tackled him had already got up, brushed down his grey coat and run off. Macbeth saw a smashed brown fridge where he had been standing a second ago.

He rested his head on the cool cobbles.

Flames rose from the top of the Obelisk, and black smoke billowed into the sky. Something bounced over the cobbles towards him and came to rest beside his head. He picked it up. It was still wrapped in its wire cage.

‘What the hell happened?’ Seyton said as Macbeth got in the car.

‘Tourtell,’ Macbeth said. ‘He warned Hecate. Drive.’

‘Tourtell?’ Seyton said, pulling away from the pavement as the wipers swept small fragments of white glass from the windscreen.

‘Tourtell’s the only person who knew about our plan, and he must have informed Hecate hoping that he would kill me instead.’

‘And Hecate didn’t try to kill you?’

‘No. Quite the contrary. He saved me.’

‘How come?’

‘He needs his puppets.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, Seyton. Drive to the Inverness.’

Macbeth scanned the pavement, scanned the people gawping up. He searched for grey coats. How many were there? Did they all wear grey coats or only some of them? Were they always there? He closed his eyes. Immortal. As immortal as a wooden puppet. The pressure inside his head rose. And a strange thought whirled past. Hecate’s promise to make him invulnerable was not a blessing but a curse. He could feel the wire on his skin as he rolled the cork from the champagne bottle between his fingers and heard the first police siren.

Seyton had stopped in front of the Inverness and Macbeth was about to get out of the car when he heard Tourtell’s voice.

‘Turn up the radio,’ Macbeth said and got back in.

‘... and to counter the rumours and out of respect for you, my dear fellow citizens, and your right to know about your elected representatives, I have today decided to tell you that fifteen years ago I had a brief extramarital affair which led to the birth of a son. In agreement with the relevant parties — that is, my son’s mother and my wife — it was decided to keep this out of the public eye. I’ve always stayed in close contact with my son and his mother and maintained them using my my own means. Not going public at that time was a judgement, taking several parties into consideration. The town was not one of them as at that juncture I wasn’t in office and didn’t need to answer to anyone except those closest to me and to myself. Now, however, things are different, and now is the right time to disclose this information. My son’s mother is seriously ill, and with her consent two months ago he came to live with me. Since then I have taken Kasi with me to public events, where I have introduced him as my son, but paradoxically it seems my honesty has led to other rumours. The truth, as we know, is the last thing to be believed. I am not proud of being unfaithful fifteen years ago, but beyond having sought the forgiveness of those closest to me, there’s little I can do about it. Just as little as I can do about people judging my abilities as a leader on the basis of my private life. All I can do is ask you for your trust as indeed I trust you now by making public details which are extremely painful and precious to me. I may not have always acted in ways that make me feel proud; however, I am proud of my fifteen-year-old son, Kasi. Last night I had a long talk with him, and he told me to do what I’m doing now. To tell the whole of this town that I’m his father.’ Tourtell took a deep breath before concluding with a clear vibrato in his voice, ‘And that he’s my son.’ He coughed. ‘And to win the coming mayoral election.’

Pause. A woman’s voice, also clearly moved.

‘That was an announcement from Mayor Tourtell. Now back to the news. There has been a major explosion in District 4, to be precise at the top of the Obelisk Casino. No one has been reported dead or injured, but—’

Macbeth switched off the radio.

‘Damn,’ he said. Then he burst into laughter.

36

Lady lay back against the pillows and stretched a foot out from under her dressing gown. Towards Macbeth, who was sitting on a low stool by the end of the bed. She had hung up two red dresses. He stroked her slim ankle and her smooth shaved leg.

‘So Hecate knew about our plans,’ he said. ‘Did he say who had told him?’

‘No,’ Lady said. ‘But he said you would be my Tithonos if we behaved.’

‘Who’s Tithonos?’

‘A handsome Greek who was granted eternal life. But he also said that if we don’t obey he’ll kill us like dogs that don’t respond to training.’

‘Hm. It could only have been Tourtell who told him.’

‘That’s the third time you’ve said that, darling.’

‘And not only did the slippery bugger blab. The boy really is his son. The question is now whether people in this town want a lecher as their mayor.’

‘One single affair fifteen years ago?’ Lady said. ‘Which Tourtell admitted at the time, begged forgiveness for and has since paid for by looking after mother and son? And now when she’s ill St Tourtell takes his son in? People will love him for it, darling. He’s made a mistake most people will understand and shown shame and kindness afterwards. Tourtell has become of the people. This announcement is a stroke of genius. They’re going to turn out in full force to vote for him.’

‘Tourtell’s going to stand and win. So what can we do?’

‘Yes, what can we do? Well, first things first. Which dress, Jack?’

‘The Spanish one,’ Jack said, taking a cup of tea from the tray and placing it on Lady’s bedside table.

‘Thank you. What about Tourtell and Hecate, Jack? Shall we do something or is it too risky?’

‘I’m no strategist, ma’am. But I’ve read that when you have enemies on two fronts there are two classic strategies. One is to negotiate an armistice with one enemy, then concentrate your forces to knock out the other and attack without warning. The second is to set the two enemies against each other, wait until they are both weakened and then strike.’

He gave a cup of coffee to Macbeth.

‘Remind me to promote you,’ Macbeth said.

‘Oh, he’s already been promoted,’ Lady said. ‘We’re fully booked for the next two weeks, so Jack now has an assistant. An assistant who’ll address him as sir.’

Jack laughed. ‘This wasn’t my idea.’

‘It’s mine,’ Lady said. ‘And it’s not an idea. It’s only sensible to have rules for forms of address. It reminds everyone about the hierarchy so that misunderstandings can be avoided. If a mayor declares a state of emergency, it’s important for example to know who runs the town. And who does?’

Jack shook his head.

‘The chief commissioner,’ Macbeth said, sipping his coffee. ‘Until the chief commissioner suspends the state of emergency.’

‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘And what if the mayor dies? Does the chief commissioner take over then too?’

‘Yes,’ Macbeth said. ‘Until a new mayor is elected.’

‘These are rules Kenneth introduced right after the war,’ Lady said. ‘At that time they placed a lot of emphasis on dynamic, assertive leadership in crises.’

‘Sounds sensible,’ Jack said.

‘The great thing about a state of emergency is that the chief commissioner runs absolutely everything. He can suspend the justice system, censor the press, defer elections indefinitely; he is in brief...’

‘A dictator.’

‘Exactly, Jack.’ Lady stirred her tea. ‘Unfortunately, Tourtell will hardly agree to declare a state of emergency, so we’ll have to make do with the next best option.’

‘Which is?’

‘Tourtell dying, of course.’ Lady sipped her tea.

‘Dying? As in...?’

‘An assassination,’ Macbeth said, squeezing her calf muscle gently. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it, my love?’

She nodded. ‘The chief commissioner announces that he’s taking over the running of the town while the assassination is investigated. Could there be political motives behind it? Hecate? Did it have anything to do with Tourtell’s infidelity? The investigation drags on of course.’

‘I can only rule temporarily,’ Macbeth said, ‘until a new mayor is elected.’

‘But, darling, look, there’s blood on the streets. Police officers murdered and politicians assassinated. The chief commissioner, who now functions as mayor, would probably decide to declare a state of emergency. And postpone the election indefinitely until things have calmed down. And it’s the chief commissioner who determines when things have calmed down.’

Macbeth felt the same childish pleasure as when he and Duff had been kings of the castle in the school playground at the orphanage, and even the tough older kids had to accept it. ‘In practice we’d have limitless power for as long as we wanted. And you’re sure Capitol can’t intercede?’

‘Darling, I’ve had a long and interesting conversation with one of our Supreme Court judges today. Capitol has few or no sanctions, provided that the measures Kenneth introduced don’t conflict with federal laws.’

‘I see.’ Macbeth rubbed his chin. ‘Interesting indeed. So all that’s needed is for Tourtell to die or declare a state of emergency himself.’

Jack coughed. ‘Anything else, ma’am?’

‘No, thanks, Jack.’ Lady cheerfully waved him away.

Macbeth heard the hollow bass from the ground floor as Jack opened the door to the corridor and the wailing siren of an ambulance that followed after he closed it.

‘Tourtell’s making plans to stop us,’ Lady said. ‘The assassination will have to be soon.’

‘What about Hecate? If this snake is Tourtell and Hecate, then Tourtell is the tail and Hecate the head. And cutting off the tail only makes it more dangerous. We have to tackle the head first!’

‘No.’

‘No? He says he’ll kill us if we don’t obey. Do you want to be his trained dog?’

‘Sit still and listen to me now, darling. You heard Jack. Arrange an armistice with one party and attack the other. This is not the moment to challenge Hecate. What’s more, I’m not sure that Hecate and Tourtell actually work together. If so, Hecate would have said we should stay away from Tourtell and the mayoral office. But he hasn’t, not even after the speculation that you would stand. As long as Hecate thinks we’ve been taught a lesson and we’re now his obedient dogs he’ll only applaud us — and indirectly himself — taking political control of the town. Do you understand? We take care of one enemy now and get what we want. Then we decide what we have to do about Hecate afterwards.’

Macbeth ran his hand up her leg, past her knee. She fell quiet, closed her eyes, and he listened to her breathing. The breathing that with non-verbal commands determined what his hand should and shouldn’t do.

Through the afternoon and night the rain continued to wash the town that was never clean. Hammered down on the roof of the Grand Hotel, where Fleance, Duff, Malcolm and Caithness had agreed they would stay until it was over. It was two o’clock in the morning when Caithness was woken by knocking on the door to her room. At once she knew who it was.

It wasn’t the number of knocks, the interval between them or the force of them. It was the style. He knocked with a flat hand. And she knew the hand, every crease and cranny of it.

She opened the door a fraction.

Rain dripped from Duff’s clothes and hair, his teeth were chattering and his face was so pale the scar was barely visible. ‘Sorry, but I need a really hot shower.’

‘Haven’t you...?’

‘Fleance and I share a room with bunk beds and a sink.’

She opened the door a bit more, and he slipped in.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

‘To the cemetery,’ he said from inside the bathroom.

‘In the middle of the night?’

‘Not so many people out and about.’ She heard the water being switched on. She stood close to the bathroom door. ‘Duff?’

‘Yes.’

‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry.’

‘What?’ he shouted.

She cleared her throat and raised her voice. ‘About your family.’

She listened to the beating of the water, which muffled her words, and stared into the steam that hid him from her.

When Duff came out again in the dressing gown that hung in the bathroom and with his wet clothes over one arm Caithness was dressed and lying on the broad bed. He pulled a soggy packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his wet trousers. She nodded, and he lay beside her. Caithness rested her head on his arm and looked up at the domed yellow glass ceiling light. The bowl was dotted with dead insects.

‘That’s what happens when you get too close to the light,’ he said. So he still had the ability to guess what she was thinking.

‘Icarus,’ she said.

‘Macbeth,’ he said and lit a cigarette.

‘I didn’t know you’d started smoking again,’ she said.

‘Well, it’s a little strange. I’ve actually never liked this shit.’ He grimaced and blew a big fat smoke ring up at the ceiling.

She sniggered. ‘So why did you start?’

‘Have I never told you?’

‘There’s a lot you’ve never told me.’

He coughed and passed her the cigarette. ‘Because I wanted to be like Macbeth.’

‘I’d have thought he wanted to be like you.’

‘He looked so damned good. And was so... free. In harmony with himself and happy, so happy in his own skin. I never was.’

‘But you had intellect.’ She inhaled and passed the cigarette back. ‘And the ability to persuade people you were right.’

‘People don’t like to realise they’re wrong. And I didn’t have the ability to persuade them to like me. He did.’

‘Cheap charm, Duff. Look who he is now. He duped everyone.’

‘No.’ Duff shook his head. ‘No, Macbeth didn’t dupe anyone. He was straight-talking and upfront. No saint, but no ulterior motives — what you saw was what you got. Perhaps he didn’t impress everyone with his wit or originality when he spoke, but you trusted every word. And rightly so.’

‘Trust? He’s an unfeeling murderer, Duff.’

‘You’re wrong. Macbeth is full of feelings. That’s why he can’t hurt a fly. Or to be accurate, especially not a fly. An aggressive wasp, yes, but a defenceless fly? Never, regardless of how annoying it is.’

‘How can you defend him, Duff? You who have lost—’

‘I’m not defending him. Of course he’s a murderer. All I’m saying is he can’t kill anyone who can’t defend himself. It’s happened only once. And he did it to save me.’

‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

He sucked hard on the cigarette. ‘It was when he killed the Norse Rider on the country road out by Forres. A young guy who’d just seen me kill his comrade, who I’d mistaken for Sweno.’

‘So they didn’t pull guns on you?’

Duff shook his head.

‘But then Macbeth’s no better than you,’ Caithness said.

‘Yes, he was. I killed for my own sake. He did it for someone else.’

‘Because that’s what we do in the police. We take care of each other.’

‘No, because he thought he owed it to me.’

Caithness sat up on her elbows. ‘Owed it to you?’

Duff held his cigarette up to the ceiling, pinched one eye shut and aimed above the glow with the other. ‘When Grandad died and I ended up in the orphanage, I was almost too old — I was fourteen. Macbeth and I were the same age, but he’d been there since he was five. Macbeth and I shared a room and became friends straight away. In those days Macbeth stammered. And especially when Saturday night approached, which was when he disappeared from the room in the middle of the night and returned an hour later. He would never tell me where he’d been; it was only when I jokingly threatened to report him to the home’s feared director, Lorreal, that he said he doubted that would do much good.’ Duff pulled hard on the cigarette. ‘Because that was where he’d been.’

‘You mean... the director—’

‘—had been abusing Macbeth for as long as he could remember. I couldn’t believe my ears. Lorreal had done things to him... you can’t imagine anyone would do to another person or find any enjoyment in. The one time Macbeth had stood up against him Lorreal had half-killed him and kept him locked up for two weeks in the so-called correction room in the cellar, a genuine cell. I was so furious I cried. Because I knew every word was true. Macbeth never lies. So I said we had to kill Lorreal. I would help him. And Macbeth agreed.’

‘You planned to kill him?’

‘No,’ Duff said, passing her the cigarette. ‘We didn’t plan so much. We just killed him.’

‘You...’

‘We went to his room one Thursday. Checked at the door that Lorreal was snoring. Went in. Macbeth knew the room inside out. I kept watch inside the door while Macbeth went to the bed and raised a knife. But time passed, and when my eyes had got used to the darkness I saw he was standing there as rigid as a pillar of salt. Then he crumpled and came over to me, whispering that he c-c-couldn’t do it. So I took the knife, went over to Lorreal and thrust it hard into his snoring mouth. Lorreal twitched one more time, then he stopped snoring. There wasn’t much blood. We left straight after.’

‘My God.’ Caithness was curled up in the fetal position. ‘What happened afterwards?’

‘Not much. There were two hundred young suspects to choose from. No one noticed that Macbeth was stammering more than before. And when he did a runner a couple of weeks later, no one connected that with the murder. Kids ran away all the time.’

‘And then you and Macbeth met up again?’

‘I saw him a couple of times down by the central station. I wanted to talk to him, but he legged it. You know, like a bankruptee from a creditor. Then we met several years later at police college. By then he was clean and had completely stopped stammering — he was a very different boy. The boy I wanted to be.’

‘Because he was a clean-living kind-hearted man without a murder on his conscience like you?’

‘Macbeth has never seen being able to murder in cold blood as a virtue but a weakness. In all his time at SWAT he killed only if he, or any of his men, was attacked.’

‘And all these murders?’

‘He ordered others to carry them out for him.’

‘Killing women and children. I think he’s become a different man from the one you knew, Duff.’

‘People don’t change.’

‘You ’ve changed.’

‘Have I really?’

‘If not, you wouldn’t be here. Fighting this fight. Spoken as you have about Macbeth. You’re a total egoist. Ready to ride roughshod over everything and everyone who’s in your way. Your colleagues, your family. Me.’

‘I can only remember really wanting to change once, and that was when I wanted to be like Macbeth. And when I realised that was impossible I had to become something better. Someone who could take what he wanted, even if it had less value for me than for who it belonged to, the way Hecate took that boy’s eye. Do you know when I fell in love with Meredith?’

Caithness shook her head.

‘When all four of us were sitting there — Macbeth, me, Meredith and her girlfriend — and I saw the way Macbeth was looking at Meredith.’

‘Tell me this isn’t true, Duff.’

‘I regret to say it is.’

‘You’re a petty man, Duff.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. So when you say I’m fighting this fight for others, I don’t know if it’s true or I only want to take something away from Macbeth that I know he wants.’

‘But he doesn’t want it, Duff. The town, power, wealth — he couldn’t care less about them. He wants only her love.’

‘Lady.’

‘Everything’s about Lady. Haven’t you realised?’

Duff blew a deformed smoke ring up to the ceiling. ‘Macbeth’s driven by love while I’m driven by envy and hatred. Where he has shown mercy, I’ve killed. And tomorrow I’m going to kill the person who was once my best friend — ambush him — and mercy and love will have lost again.’

‘That’s just cynicism and your self-loathing talking, Duff.’

‘Hm.’ He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. ‘You forgot self-pity.’

‘Yes, I did. And self-pity.’

‘I’ve been an arrogant egoist all my life. I can’t understand how you could have loved me.’

‘Some women have a weakness for men they think can save them, others for men they think they can save.’

‘Amen,’ Duff said, getting up. ‘You women don’t understand that we men don’t change. Not when we discover love, not when we realise we’re going to die. Never.’

‘Some use false arrogance to cover up their lack of confidence, but your arrogance is genuine, Duff. It’s down to total confidence.’

Duff smiled and pulled on his wet trousers. ‘Try to sleep now. We have to have our wits about us tomorrow.’

After he had left, Caithness got up, pulled the curtain to one side and looked down at the street. The swish of tyres through pools of water. Faded adverts for Joey’s Hamburger Bar, Peking Dry-Cleaners and the Tandrella Bingo Hall. A cigarette glowing for a second in an alleyway.

In a few hours day would break.

She wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now.

37

Saturday arrived with more rain. The front pages of both the town’s newspapers carried Tourtell’s announcement and the explosion on top of the Obelisk. The Times commented in its leader that Macbeth’s radio interview had to be understood as him not categorically rejecting standing for mayor. And said Tourtell wasn’t available for comment as he was at his son’s mother’s bedside in St Jordi’s Hospital. Late that morning the rain cleared.

‘You’re home early,’ Sheila said, wiping her hands on her apron in the hall and looking at her husband with a little concern.

‘I couldn’t find anything to do. I think I was the only person at work,’ Lennox said, putting his bag by the chest of drawers, taking a clothes hanger from the wardrobe and hanging up his coat. Two years had passed since the town council had adopted the five-day week for the public sector, but at police HQ it was an unspoken rule that if you wanted to get on you had to show your face on Saturdays as well.

Lennox kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, noticed a new, unfamiliar perfume and a hitherto un-thought notion fluttered through his brain: what if he had caught her in bed with another man? He rejected this at once. First because she wasn’t the type. Second because she wasn’t attractive enough — after all there was a reason why she had ended up with a diminutive albino. The third and strongest reason for rejecting the notion was, however, simple: it was too hard to bear.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked and followed him into the sitting room.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m just tired. Where are the kids?’

‘In the garden,’ she said. ‘Finally some decent weather.’

He stood by the big window. Watching his children as they romped around screaming and laughing and playing a game the point of which he couldn’t work out. Escaping, it seemed. Good skill to learn. He looked up at the sky. Decent? A little break before the piss came hammering down again. He slumped into an armchair. How long could he carry on like this?

‘Lunch won’t be ready for an hour,’ she said.

‘That’s fine, love.’ He looked at her. He genuinely liked her, but had he ever been in love with her? He couldn’t remember and perhaps it wasn’t that important. She hadn’t said a word one way or the other, but he was fairly sure she hadn’t been in love with him either. Generally Sheila didn’t say much. Perhaps that was why she had given in to his persuasion and in the end said yes to being his girlfriend and eventually his wife. She had found someone who could talk for them both.

‘Sure there’s nothing wrong?’

‘Absolutely sure, sweetheart. That smells good. What is it?’

‘Erm, cod,’ she said, her frown framing a question.

He was going to explain that he meant her perfume, not the lunch she had barely started, but she went to the kitchen and he swung his chair round to face the garden. His elder daughter saw him, beamed and shouted something to the other two. He waved to them. How could two such unattractive people have such beautiful children? And that was when the notion struck him again: If they really were his.

Infidelity and treachery.

Now his son was calling to him — what, he couldn’t hear — but when he saw he had caught his father’s attention he did a cartwheel on the grass. Lennox applauded with his hands raised high in the air, and now all three of them were doing cartwheels. Impress their daddy, impress the daddy they still admired, the daddy they thought was worth emulating. Shouting, laughter and frolics. Lennox thought of the silence out in Fife, the sunshine, the curtains fluttering in a window that had been shot to pieces, the gentle breeze whistling a barely audible doleful note through one of the holes in the wall. All the unbearable thoughts. There were so many ways to lose those you loved. What if one day they found out, realised, what kind of person their husband or father really was? Would the wind sing the same lament then?

He closed his eyes. Bit of a rest. Bit of decent weather.

He sensed someone was there, standing over him and breathing on him. He opened his eyes. It was Sheila.

‘Didn’t you hear me shouting?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘There’s a phone call for you. Some Inspector Seyton.’

Lennox went into the hall, picked up the receiver from the table. ‘Hello?’

‘Home early, Lennox? I’ll need some help this evening.’

‘I’m not well. You’d better try someone else.’

‘The chief commissioner said to take you.’

Lennox swallowed. His mouth tasted of lead. ‘Take me where?’

‘To a hospital. Be ready in an hour. I’ll pick you up.’ There was a click. Lennox had rung off. Lead.

‘What is it?’ Sheila called from the kitchen.

A pale metal shaped by its environment, which poisons and kills, a heavy but unresisting material that melts at three hundred and fifty degrees.

‘Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.’

Macbeth woke from a dream about death. There was a knock at the door. Something about the knocking told him it had been going on for a long time.

‘Sir!’ It was Jack’s voice.

‘Yes,’ Macbeth grunted, looking around. The room was flooded with daylight. What was the time? He had been dreaming. Dreaming he had been standing over the bed with a dagger in his hand. But whenever he blinked the face on the pillow changed.

‘It’s Inspector Caithness on the phone, sir. She says it’s urgent.’

‘Put her through,’ Macbeth said, rolling over towards the bedside table. ‘Caithness?’

‘Sorry to ring you on a Saturday, but we’ve found a body. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to help.’ She sounded out of breath.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because we think it could be Fleance, Banquo’s son. The body is in a bad way, and as he has no close relatives in town it seems you’re the best person to identify him.’

‘Oh,’ Macbeth said, feeling his throat tighten.

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ Macbeth said and pulled the duvet tighter around him. ‘When a body’s been in seawater for so long...’

‘That’s the point.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘We didn’t find the body in the sea but in an alleyway between 14th and 15th Streets.’

‘What?’

‘That’s why we want to be absolutely sure it’s Fleance before we go any further.’

‘14th and 15th, you say?’

‘Go to 14th and Doheney. I’ll wait for you outside Joey’s Hamburger Bar.’

‘OK, Caithness. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Macbeth rang off. Lilies. The flowers in the carpet were lilies. Lily. That was the name of Lady’s child. Why hadn’t he made the connection before? Dead. Because he hadn’t seen, tasted, eaten and slept so much death before. He closed his eyes. Recalled the changing faces from the dream. Orphanage Director Lorreal’s unknowing face as he snored with his mouth open became Chief Commissioner Duncan’s, eyes that opened and stared at him, knowing. Then Banquo’s stiff, brutal glare. No bodies, only the head on the pillow. Then the nameless young Norse Rider’s panic-stricken expression as he knelt on the tarmac staring at his already dead comrade and Macbeth coming towards him. He looked at the ceiling. And remembered all the times he had woken from a nightmare and breathed a sigh of relief. Relieved to find in reality he wasn’t drowning in quicksand or being eaten by dogs. But sometimes he thought he had woken from a nightmare but was still dreaming, still drowning, and he had to break through several layers before he reached consciousness. He shut his eyes tight. Opened them again. Then he got up.

The buxom black woman in reception at St Jordi’s Hospital looked up from the ID card Lennox showed her.

‘We’ve been told that no one has access...’ She checked the card again. ‘Inspector.’

‘Police matter,’ he said. ‘Top priority. The mayor has to be informed at once.’

‘If you leave a message I can—’

‘Confidential matter, urgent.’

She sighed.

‘Room 204, first floor.’

Mayor Tourtell and the young boy sat side by side on wooden chairs next to one of the beds in the large ward. The older man held the boy around the shoulder and they both looked up as Lennox stood behind them and coughed. In the bed lay a wan, thin-haired, middle-aged woman, and Lennox saw at once the likeness with the boy. ‘Good evening, sir. You won’t remember me, but we met at the dinner at Inverness Casino.’

‘Inspector Lennox, isn’t it? Anti-Corruption Unit.’

‘Impressive. I apologise for bursting in like this.’

‘How can I help, Lennox?’

‘We’ve had a credible tip-off of an imminent assassination attempt against you.’

The boy gave a start, but Tourtell didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘More details, Inspector.’

‘We don’t have any more for the present, but we’re taking it seriously and I’m to escort you from here to a safer place.’

Tourtell raised an eyebrow. ‘And what could be safer than a hospital?’

‘The newspapers say you’re here, Mr Mayor. Anyone has access here. Let me accompany you to your car and follow you until you’re safe within your own four walls. Then I hope we’ll have time to delve deeper. So if you wouldn’t mind coming with me...’

‘Right now? As you see—’

‘I can see and I apologise, but it’s your duty and mine to protect the person of the mayor.’

‘Stand by the door and keep watch, Lennox, so—’

‘These aren’t my orders, sir.’

‘They are now, Lennox.’

‘Go.’ The whispered, barely audible word came from the woman in the bed. ‘Go, and take Kasi with you.’

Tourtell laid a hand on hers. ‘But Edith, you—’

‘I’m tired, my dear. I want to be alone now. Kasi’s safer with you. Listen to the man.’

‘Are you—’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

The woman closed her eyes. Tourtell patted her hand and turned to Lennox. ‘OK, let’s go.’

They left the room. The boy a few steps in front of them.

‘Does he know?’ Lennox asked.

‘That she’s dying? Yes.’

‘And how’s he taking it?’

‘Some days are harder than others. He’s known for a while.’ They went down the stairs towards the kiosk and the exit. ‘But he says it’s fine. It’s fine as long as he has one of us. I’m just going to get some cigarettes. Will you wait for me?’

‘There she is,’ Macbeth said, pointing.

Jack pulled in to the kerb opposite the Grand Hotel, between a dry-cleaner’s and a hamburger bar. They both got out, and Macbeth ran his eye up and down the empty street.

‘Thanks for coming so quickly,’ Caithness said.

‘No problem,’ Macbeth said. She smelled of strong perfume. He couldn’t remember having noticed that before.

‘Show me,’ Macbeth said.

Macbeth and Jack followed her down the street. Saturday evening was just warming up. Under a flashing neon sign that read NUDE WOMEN a suited doorman gave Caithness the once-over, then threw his cigarette end to the tarmac and ground it in with his heel.

‘I thought you would bring Seyton with you,’ Caithness said.

‘He had to go to St Jordi’s this evening. Is it here?’

Caithness had stopped by the entrance to a narrow alley cordoned off with orange Homicide Unit tape. Macbeth peered down. It was so narrow that the dustbins outside the back doors on both sides were close. And it was too dark to see anything at all.

‘I was here first. The rest of the SOC team is coming later. That’s the way it is at the weekend. They’re scattered to the four winds.’ Caithness pushed up the tape and Macbeth ducked underneath. ‘If you could go in and have a look at the body alone, sir. I’ve covered it with a sheet, but please don’t touch anything else. We want as few prints as possible in there. Your driver can wait here while I go back to Joey’s and meet the pathologist. He’s supposed to be just around the corner.’

Macbeth looked at her. He saw nothing in her face. Yet. She had thought Seyton would be coming. Strong perfume. Which camouflaged any other smell she might be secreting.

‘OK,’ he said and set off down the alley.

He hadn’t walked more than ten metres before all the sounds from the main street disappeared and all that could be heard was the whirr of fans, coughing from an open window and the drone of a radio: Todd Rundgren, ‘Hello, It’s Me’. He sneaked between the dustbins, creeping forward without quite knowing why. Habit, he supposed.

The body lay in the middle of the alley, half inside the cone of light from a wall lamp. He could make out 15th Street at the other end, but it was too far away for him to see if the alley was taped off there as well.

A pair of feet stuck out from under the white sheet. He immediately recognised the winkle-pickers.

He went over to the sheet. Took a deep breath. The air contained the sweet smell of dry-cleaning chemicals coming from a noisy extractor fan above the door right behind him. He grasped the sheet in the middle and pulled it away.

‘Hi, Macbeth.’

Macbeth stared into the muzzle of the shotgun raised towards him by the man lying on his back in the darkness. The scar shone on his face. Macbeth released the air from his lungs.

‘Hi, Duff.’

Duff studied Macbeth’s hands as he spoke. ‘Macbeth, you are hereby arrested. If you move a finger I’ll shoot you now. Your choice.’

Macbeth looked towards 15th Street. ‘I’m the chief commissioner in this town, Duff. You can’t arrest me.’

‘There are other authorities.’

‘The mayor?’ Macbeth laughed. ‘I don’t think you can rely on him living that long.’

‘I’m not talking about anyone in this town.’ Duff got to his feet without the shotgun veering a centimetre from Macbeth.

‘You’ve been arrested for involvement in the murders committed in Fife, and you will be transported there to stand trial. We’ve spoken with them. You will be charged with the murder of Banquo, which took place in Fife. Hold your hands above your head and face the wall.’

Macbeth did as instructed. ‘You’ve got nothing on me and you know it.’

‘With Inspector Caithness’s statement about what Angus told her, we have enough to keep you in custody in Fife for a week. And a week without you at the helm will give us enough time to indict you here too. For the murder of Duncan. We have forensic evidence.’ Duff took out his handcuffs. ‘Turn round, put your hands behind— You know the drill.’

‘Are you really not going to shoot me, Duff? Come on, you’re a man who lives for revenge.’

Duff waited until Macbeth had turned his back and linked his hands behind his head, then approached.

‘I know it affected you finding out the man you killed wasn’t Sweno, Duff. But now you’re sure you have the right man in front of you, aren’t you going to avenge Meredith and the children? Or did your mother mean more to you than them?’

‘Stand still and shut your mouth.’

‘I’ve kept my mouth shut for years, Duff. I know the female officer Sweno killed in Stoke was your mother. What year was the business in Stoke? You can’t have been very old.’

‘I was young.’ Duff closed the handcuffs around Macbeth’s wrists.

‘And why did you take your maternal grandfather’s surname of instead of your parents’ name?’

Duff turned Macbeth so that they stood face to face.

‘You don’t need to answer,’ Macbeth said. ‘You did it so that no one in the police or the Norse Riders could link your name to the Stoke massacre. No one would know that you didn’t become an officer to serve the town and all that shit we swear to. It was all about catching Sweno, about you getting your revenge. Hatred drove you, Duff. At the orphanage when you killed Lorreal, it was easy, wasn’t it? You saw Sweno in front of you. Lorreal was another man who had destroyed a childhood.’

‘Maybe.’ Duff was so close he could see his reflection in Macbeth’s brown eyes.

‘So what’s happened, Duff? Why don’t you want to kill now? I’m the man who took your family, and now this is your chance.’

‘You’ll have to take responsibility for what you’ve done.’

‘And what have I done?’

Duff cast a quick glance in the direction of 15th Street, where the car with Malcolm and Fleance was waiting. Caithness was on her way there. ‘You’ve killed innocent people.’

‘It’s our damned duty to kill innocent people, Duff. As long as it serves a greater purpose we have to overcome our sentimental, compliant natures. The man whose throat I cut out on the country road, that wasn’t for you, it wasn’t repayment for you killing Lorreal for me. I made myself a murderer so that no one would drag the police force through the mud. It was for the town, against anarchy.’

‘Come on. Let’s go.’

Duff grabbed Macbeth’s arm, but Macbeth twisted away. ‘Has your lust for power become greater than your lust for revenge, Duff? Do you think you’re going to get Organised Crime by arresting the chief commissioner himself?’

Duff pressed the muzzle of the shotgun under Macbeth’s chin. ‘I could of course tell them you resisted arrest.’

‘Difficult decision?’ Macbeth whispered.

‘No,’ Duff said, lowering the gun. ‘This town doesn’t need more bodies.’

‘So you didn’t love them, eh? Meredith, the children? Oh no, I forgot, you can’t love—’

Duff hit out. The shotgun barrel struck Macbeth in the mouth. ‘Remember I’ve never had your problem about killing a defenceless man face to face, Macbeth.’

Macbeth laughed and spat blood. What must have been a tooth bounced into the darkness. ‘Then prove it. Shoot the only friend you’ve ever had. Come on. Do it for Meredith!’

‘Don’t even say her name.’

‘Meredith! Meredith!’

Duff heard the blood throbbing in his ears, felt his heart pounding, heavy and painful. He mustn’t — Macbeth’s forehead hit Duff’s nose with a crunch. But they were standing too close for Macbeth to have the momentum and power to knock him down. Duff stepped back two paces and raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

At that moment the door behind Macbeth flew open.

A silhouette in the doorway. The arm of a grey coat shot out, grabbed the handcuffs behind Macbeth’s back and pulled. The force was so great that Macbeth’s feet left the ground as he disappeared through the door into the darkness behind.

Duff fired.

The explosion met his eardrums and quivered between the walls of the alley.

Half-deafened, Duff stepped over the threshold into the darkness.

Something whirled in the air which he breathed in and spat out. People seemed to be lined up in front of him. The smell of perchlorethylene was overwhelming. His free hand found a light switch on the wall by the door. The people lined up were stands holding jackets and coats, each under a plastic cover with a note stating a name and date. In front of him a hole had been blasted in a plastic cover and a brown fur coat, and Duff realised he had been spitting out animal hair. He stood listening but heard only the drone of the green Garrett dry-cleaning machine by the wall. Then a ringing, like a bell above a shop door. He threw himself against the wall of clothes, ploughed past stand after stand through a door to the rear of a counter where a Chinese couple stared at him, scared out of their wits. He ran past them and onto the street. Looked up and down. The Saturday evening rush had started. A man bumped into him and for a moment Duff lost his balance. He cursed as the man apologised and continued down the pavement.

He heard laughter behind him. Turned and saw a guy in rags, filthy, a few stumps of teeth in an open mouth.

‘You been robbed, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Duff said, lowering the shotgun. ‘I have been robbed.’

38

Lennox stood outside the hospital entrance with Kasi. Glanced towards the kiosk where Tourtell was queueing to buy cigarettes, then focused on the car park. A light came on inside Tourtell’s limousine. The distance was probably a hundred metres. Around the same distance as up to the roof of the multi-storey car park to the left. Lennox shivered. Clear weather often came with a rare north-easterly wind, but also the cold. And if it blew a bit more now the sky would be free of clouds. In moonlight Olafson could probably have shot Tourtell from anywhere, but in the darkness the plan was that it would happen in the car park, under one of the lights.

He checked his watch again. The cold was eating into his body, and he coughed. His lungs. He couldn’t stand the sun and he couldn’t stand the cold. What did God actually mean by sending someone like him to earth, a lonely suffering heart without armour, a mollusc without a shell?

‘Thanks for helping us.’

‘Sorry?’ Lennox turned to the boy.

‘Thank you for saving my father.’

Lennox stared at him. Kasi was wearing the same kind of denim jacket as his own son wore. And Lennox couldn’t prevent the next thought coming. Here was a boy, not much older than his own, about to lose his mother. And his father. He says it’s fine as long as he has one of us.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ Tourtell said as he came out puffing a cigarette he had just bought.

‘Yes,’ Lennox said. They crossed the road and went into the car park. Lennox moved to the left of Tourtell. Kasi was a few steps in front of them. All Lennox had to do was to stop as they went through the light under the first lamp so that he was out of the line of fire, and then the rest was up to Olafson.

Lennox felt a strange numbness in his tongue, fingers and toes.

‘They’re coming,’ Seyton said, lowering the binoculars.

‘I can see them,’ Olafson lisped. He stood with one knee on the concrete of the car-park roof. One eye was shut, the other wide open behind the telescopic sights of the rifle resting on the parapet in front of them. Seyton scanned the roof behind them to make sure they were still alone. Their car was the only one up there. People didn’t seem to visit the sick on a Saturday evening. He could hear the music from the streets below them and smell the perfume and testosterone from right up there.

Down in the car park the boy was walking in front of Tourtell and Lennox and out of the line of fire. Good. He could hear Olafson take a deep breath. The two men walked into the light under a lamp.

Seyton felt his heart give a leap of joy.

Now.

But there was no shot.

The two men walked out of the circle of light and became vague outlines in the darkness again.

‘What happened?’ Seyton asked.

‘Lennox was in the line of fire,’ Olafson said.

‘I suppose he’ll get out of the way when they pass under the next light.’

Seyton raised his binoculars again.

‘Any idea who could be after me, Lennox?’

‘Yes,’ Lennox said. There were two lamps left before they reached the limousine.

‘Really?’ Tourtell said in surprise and slowed down. Lennox made sure to do the same.

‘Don’t look up at the multi-storey behind me, Tourtell, but on the roof there’s an expert marksman and right now we’re in his sights. To be more precise, I am. So walk at the exact same speed as me. If not, you’ll be shot in the head.’

He could see from Tourtell’s look that the mayor believed him. ‘The boy...’

‘He’s not in any danger. Keep walking. Don’t let on.’

Lennox saw Tourtell open his mouth as though it were the only way his big body could get enough oxygen as his heart rate increased. Then the mayor nodded and walked faster, taking short steps.

‘What’s your role in this, Lennox?’

‘The rogue,’ Lennox said, and saw the driver, who must have been keeping his eye on them, get out of the car to open the rear door. ‘Is it bulletproof?’

‘I’m the mayor, not the president. Why are you doing this if you’re the rogue?’

‘Because someone has to save this town from Macbeth. I can’t, so you’ll have to, Tourtell.’

‘What the fuck’s Lennox up to?’ Seyton said, snatching the binoculars from his eyes to check that what he had seen through them tallied with the reality down in the car park. ‘Is he intentionally standing in front of Tourtell?’

‘Don’t know, boss, but this is becoming critical. They’ll soon be by the car.’

‘Your bullets, would they go through Lennox?’

‘Boss?’

‘Will they go through Lennox and kill Tourtell?’

‘I use FMJ bullets, boss.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then shoot the traitor.’

‘But—’

‘Shh,’ Seyton whispered.

‘What?’ Sweat had broken out on the young officer’s brow.

‘Don’t talk and don’t think, Olafson. What you just heard was an order.’

The driver had walked around the car and smiled as he opened the rear door. A smile which disappeared when he saw Tourtell’s expression. The boy walked to the rear door on the left-hand side.

‘Get in and duck,’ Lennox hissed. ‘Driver, get out of here. Now!’

‘Sir, what—’

‘Do as he says,’ Tourtell said. ‘It—’

Lennox felt the shot to his back before he heard the thwack. His legs withered beneath him, he collapsed and automatically put his arms around Tourtell, who was dragged down as he fell.

Lennox registered the tarmac coming up to meet them. He didn’t feel it as it hit them, but he smelled it all: dust, petrol, rubber, urine. He couldn’t move and couldn’t produce a sound, but he could hear. Hear the panting of Tourtell from underneath him on the tarmac. The driver’s shocked ‘Sir, sir?’

And Tourtell’s ‘Run, Kasi, run!’

They had almost made it. One more metre and they would have been covered by the car. Lennox tried to say something, the name of an animal, but still nothing came from his mouth. He tried in vain to move his hand. He was dead. Soon he would be floating up and looking down on his own body. One metre. He registered the sound of running feet quickly distancing themselves and the driver bending over them and trying to drag him off Tourtell. ‘I’ll get you in the car, sir!’ Another thwack and Lennox was blinded by something wet in his eyes. He blinked, so at least his eyelids could move. The driver lay beside them staring vacantly into the air. His forehead was gone.

‘Turtle,’ Lennox whispered.

‘What?’ Tourtell gasped from underneath him.

‘Crawl. I’m your shell.’

‘That’s got the driver,’ Olafson said, pushing another cartridge into the chamber.

‘Hurry. Tourtell’s crawling behind the car,’ Seyton said. ‘And the boy’s run off.’

Olafson loaded. He rested the butt against his shoulder and shut one eye.

‘I’ve got the boy in my sights.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about the boy!’ Seyton snarled. ‘Shoot Tourtell!’

Seyton watched Olafson’s rifle barrel swing back and forth, saw him blink a bead of sweat from his eyelashes.

‘I can’t see him, boss.’

‘Too late!’ Seyton slapped his hand against the parapet. ‘They’re behind the car. We’ll have to go down and finish the job.’

Lennox heard Tourtell groan as he extricated himself. Lennox rolled onto the wet tarmac. He was lying on his stomach, helpless, his legs sticking out past the rear of the car. Until Tourtell grabbed his arms and pulled him to safety.

Rubber screamed on tarmac. A car was heading for them. Lennox looked under the car, but all he saw was the body of the driver on the other side. Tourtell had sat down with his back to the side of the car. Lennox tried to open his mouth to tell Tourtell to get in the car and escape, to save himself, but it was no use. It was the same old story, as though his whole life could be summed up in one sentence: he was unable to do what his brain and heart wanted.

A car stopped and doors opened.

Footsteps on the tarmac.

Lennox tried to move his head but couldn’t. From the corner of his eye he saw the barrel of a gun parallel with a pair of trouser legs.

They were goners. In some strange way it felt like a relief.

The trouser legs came a step closer. A hand gripped his neck. He was going to be killed silently, strangulation. Lennox held his gaze on the shoes. They went out of fashion a while ago. Winkle-pickers.

‘This one’s dead,’ said a familiar voice from the other side of the car.

‘Tourtell’s unhurt,’ said the man holding him in a stranglehold. ‘Lennox isn’t moving, but he’s got a pulse. Where did they shoot from?’

‘The top of the multi-storey,’ Tourtell sobbed. ‘Lennox saved my life.’

Saved?

‘Get over to this side, Malcolm!’

The hand removed itself, and a face came into Lennox’s field of vision.

Duff stared him in the eye.

‘Is he conscious?’ asked a woman behind him. Caithness.

‘Paralysed or in shock,’ Duff said. ‘His eyes are moving, but he can’t move or talk. We need to get him into the hospital.’

‘Car,’ a voice said. A young boy. ‘Coming out of the multi-storey car park.’

‘Looks like a SWAT car,’ Duff said, getting up and putting the shotgun to his shoulder.

There was silence for a couple of seconds. The sound of the car engine faded away.

‘Let them go,’ Malcolm said.

‘Kasi.’ Tourtell’s voice.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got to find Kasi.’

Kasi ran. His heart was beating in his throat and his feet pummelling the wet tarmac, faster and faster. Until they were running as fast as the song that used to play in his head when he was afraid. ‘Help’. He had been getting in the car when he heard the thud and saw the shot hit the pale-faced policeman in the back. He had fallen over Dad and Dad had told him to run.

He automatically took the road down towards the area where he had grown up, by the river. There was a burned-out house where they used to play, the rat house they called it.

The burned-out house was white with patches of soot around the door and windows, like a decrepit over-made-up whore. Down by the river the small houses lay huddled together as if searching for shelter with each other. Apart from one, which was on its own, as though the others were shunning it. It was timber-framed and painted blue; and around it the grass had grown high. Kasi ran up the steps into the door-less hall to what once had been a kitchen but now was an empty, urine-stinking shell with names and dirty words scribbled on the walls. He continued up the narrow stairs to the bedrooms. A mouldy mattress lay on the floor of one. He’d had his first kiss on it among empty spirit bottles and the stiff carcasses of river rats scattered around the floor. One afternoon when he was ten or eleven he and two friends had sat on it and tasted their first cigarette — in between coughing fits — in the sunset, and watched rats come towards the house, padding across the cracked and litter-strewn mud of the dry riverbed. Perhaps they came here to die.

Should he go back? No, Dad had said he should get away. And the other man, Lennox, was from the police, and there must be more of them there if they knew of plans to assassinate the mayor.

He would hide until it was all over, then go home.

Kasi opened the big wardrobe in the corner. It was empty, stripped of everything. He huddled inside and closed the door. Leaned his head back against the wood. Softly hummed the song in his mind. ‘Help!’ Thought of the film where the Beatles were running around helter-skelter and having fun in comic fast-forward motion, a world where nothing really horrible happened. And no one could find him here. Not unless they knew where he was. And anyway, he wasn’t the mayor, only a boy who hadn’t done anything bad in his life apart from smoke a few cigarettes on the quiet, share half a bottle of diluted whisky and kiss a couple of girls who had boyfriends.

His heart gradually slowed.

He listened. Nothing. But he would have to wait some time. He had got his breath back, enough to inhale through his nose now. He didn’t know how many years it was since clothes had hung here, but he could still smell them. The smell, the ghosts of lives unknown. God knows where they were now. Mum said it had been an unhappy house, with alcohol, beatings and much worse. He should thank his lucky stars he had a father who loved him and had never laid a hand on him. And Kasi had thanked his lucky stars. No one had known his father was the mayor, and he didn’t tell anyone either, neither those who called him a brat, nor the other brats who never saw their fathers or even knew who they were. He felt sorry for them. He had told his father that one day he would help them. Them and all the others in difficulty after Estex closed. And Dad had patted him on the head and laughed, as other fathers would have done. He had listened attentively and said that if Kasi really wanted to do something, when the time came he would help him. He had promised. And who knows, one day Kasi might become mayor, greater wonders had come to pass, Dad had said and called him Tourtell Junior.

‘Help!’

But the world wasn’t like that. The world hadn’t been made for good deeds and funny pop singers in films. You couldn’t help anyone. Not your father, not your mother, not other children. Only yourself.

Olafson braked as the bus in front of them stopped. Young people, mostly women, streamed onto the pavement. Looking their best. Saturday night. That was what he would have done tonight: had a beer and danced with a girl. Drunk and danced away the sight of the driver. Beside him Seyton stretched out a hand and turned off the radio and Linda Thompson’s ‘I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight’.

‘Where the hell did they come from? Duff. Malcolm. Caithness. And the young guy I could have sworn was Banquo’s son.’

‘Back to HQ?’ Olafson asked. It still wasn’t too late for a decent Saturday night.

‘Not yet,’ Seyton said. ‘We’ve got to catch the boy.’

‘Tourtell’s son?’

‘I don’t want to go back to Macbeth empty-handed, and the boy can be used. Turn left here. Drive even more slowly.’

Olafson swung the car down the narrow street and glanced at Seyton, who had opened the window and was inhaling the air, his nostrils opening and closing. Olafson was about to ask if Seyton could sniff out where the boy had run to, but refrained. If this man could heal a shoulder by touching it he was probably capable of smelling his way to where someone had gone. Was he afraid of his new commander? Maybe. He had definitely asked himself whether he preferred his predecessor. But he hadn’t known it could come to this. All he knew was that the surgeon at the hospital had pointed to an X-ray of his shoulder and explained that the bullet had destroyed the joint; he was an invalid and would have to get used to never working as a marksman for SWAT again. In a few moments the surgeon had deprived Olafson of all he had ever dreamed about doing. Then it had been easy to agree when Seyton said he could fix it if Olafson agreed to a deal. He hadn’t even meant it because who could fix something like that in a day? And what did he have to lose? He had already sworn allegiance to the brotherhood that was SWAT, so what Seyton wanted from him was in many ways something he already had.

No, there was no point having regrets now. And just look what had happened to his best pal, Angus. He had betrayed SWAT, the idiot. Betrayed the most precious thing they had, all they had. Baptised in fire and united in blood wasn’t an empty phrase, it was how they had to be, there were no alternatives. He wanted this. To know there was some meaning in what he did, that he meant something to people. To his comrades. Even when he couldn’t see any meaning in what they did. That was a job for other people. Not for Angus, the bloody fool. He must have lost the plot. Angus had tried to persuade him to join him, but he had told him to go to hell, he didn’t want anything to do with someone who betrayed SWAT. And Angus had stared at him and asked him how his shoulder had healed so quickly — a gunshot wound like that didn’t heal in a couple of days. But Olafson hadn’t answered. He just showed him the door.

The street ended. They had reached the riverbed.

‘We’re getting warmer,’ Seyton said. ‘Come on.’

They got out and walked by the hovels between the road and the riverbed. Passing house after house as Seyton sniffed the air. At a red building he stopped.

‘Here?’ Olafson asked.

Seyton sniffed in the direction of the house. Then he said aloud, ‘Whore!’ And walked on. They passed a burned-out house, a garage with a wrought-iron gate and came to a blue timber house with a cat on the steps. Seyton stopped again.

‘Here,’ he said.

‘Here?’

Kasi looked at his watch. He had been given it by his father and the hands shimmered green in the darkness, the way he imagined wolves’ eyes did in the night, from the light of a fire. More than twenty minutes had passed. He was fairly sure no one had followed him when he ran from the car park; he had looked back several times and hadn’t seen anyone. The coast ought to be clear now. He knew the area like the back of his hand, that was why he had run straight here. He could go down to Penny Bridge and take the 22 bus from there, go west. Back home. Dad would be there. He had to be there. Kasi stiffened. Had he heard something? The staircase creaking? That was the only wood that had survived the fire, he didn’t know why, just that it creaked when the wind blew or there was a change in the weather. Or if someone came. He held his breath. Listened. No. Probably the weather changing.

Kasi counted slowly to sixty.

Then he pushed the door open with his foot.

Stared.

‘You’re frightened,’ said the man standing outside and looking at him. ‘Smart thinking, hiding in a wardrobe. It keeps in the smell. Almost.’ He stretched his arms out to the side with his palms up. Inhaled. ‘But the air here is wonderful and full of your fear, boy.’

Kasi blinked. The man was lean, and his eyes were like the hands on Kasi’s watch. Wolf eyes. And he had to be old. Not that he looked that old, but Kasi just knew that this man was very, very old.

‘Hel—’ Kasi started to shout, before the man’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. Kasi couldn’t breathe, and now he knew why he had come here. He was like the river rats. He had come here to die.

39

Duff looked at his watch, yawned and slumped even deeper in the chair. His long legs stretched almost across the hospital corridor, to Caithness and Fleance. Duff’s eyes met Caithness’s.

‘You were right,’ she said.

‘We were both right,’ he said.

It was less than an hour since he had jumped into the car in 15th Street, cursing, and said Macbeth had got away. And that something was afoot. Macbeth had said the mayor wouldn’t live that long.

‘An assassination,’ Malcolm had said. ‘A takeover. He’s gone completely insane.’

‘What?’

‘The Kenneth Laws. If the mayor dies or declares a state of emergency, the chief commissioner takes over until further notice and in principle has unlimited power. Tourtell has to be warned.’

‘St Jordi’s,’ Caithness had said. ‘Seyton’s there.’

‘Drive,’ Duff had shouted, and Fleance stamped on the accelerator.

It had taken them less than twenty minutes, and they heard the first shot from the car park when they stopped in front of the hospital’s main entrance and were on their way up the steps.

Duff closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept, and this should have been over now. Macbeth should have been behind lock and key in Fife.

‘Here they are,’ Caithness said.

Duff opened his eyes again. Tourtell and Malcolm were walking down the corridor towards them.

‘The doctor says Lennox will live,’ Malcolm said and sat down. ‘He’s fully conscious and can talk and move his hands. But he’s paralysed from the middle of the back down, and it’ll probably be permanent. The bullet hit his spine.’

‘It was stopped by his spine,’ Tourtell said. ‘Otherwise it would have gone through him and hit me.’

‘His family are in the waiting room,’ Malcolm said. ‘They’ve been in to see him, and the doctor said that’s enough for today. He’s had morphine and needs to rest.’

‘Heard anything from Kasi?’ Caithness asked.

‘He hasn’t come home yet,’ Tourtell said. ‘But he knows his way around. He may have gone to friends or hidden somewhere. I’m not worried.’

‘You’re not?’

Tourtell pulled a grimace. ‘Not yet.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Duff asked.

‘We wait a few minutes until the family has gone,’ Malcolm said. ‘Tourtell persuaded the doctor to give us two minutes with Lennox. We need a confession as soon as possible from Lennox so that we can get Capitol to issue a federal arrest warrant for Macbeth.’

‘Aren’t our witness statements good enough?’ Duff asked.

Malcolm shook his head. ‘None of us has received death threats directly from Macbeth or personally heard him give an order to murder.’

‘What about blackmail?’ Caithness asked. ‘Tourtell, you just said that when you were playing blackjack in the private room at the Inverness Macbeth and Lady tried to force you to withdraw from the elections, dangling the bait of shares in the Obelisk and threatening to go public with a story of indecent behaviour with an underage boy.’

‘In my line of work we call that kind of blackmail politics,’ Tourtell said. ‘Hardly punishable.’

‘So Macbeth’s right?’ Duff said. ‘We’ve got nothing on him.’

‘We hope Lennox has something,’ Malcolm said. ‘Who should talk to him?’

‘Me,’ Duff said.

Malcolm regarded him pensively. ‘Fine, but it’s just a question of time before someone here recognises you or me, and raises the alarm.’

‘I know how Lennox looks when he lies,’ Duff said. ‘And he knows I know.’

‘But can you persuade him to reveal his cooperation and thus...?’

‘Yes,’ Duff said.

‘Don’t persuade him the way you did the Norse Rider patient, Duff.’

‘That was a different person who did that, sir. I’m not him any more.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No, sir.’

Malcolm held Duff’s gaze for a few seconds. ‘Good. Tourtell, could you please take Duff?’

‘Out of curiosity,’ Duff said when he and Tourtell had got some way down the corridor, ‘when Macbeth gave you his ultimatum why didn’t you tell him Kasi was your son?’

Tourtell shrugged. ‘Why tell the person pointing a gun at you it isn’t loaded? They’ll only start looking around for another weapon.’

The doctor was waiting for them outside a closed door. He opened it.

‘Just him,’ Tourtell said, pointing to Duff.

Duff stepped inside.

Lennox was as white as the sheets he was lying between. Tubes and wires led from his body to drip bags on a stand and machines emitting beeps. He looked like a surprised child, staring up at Duff with wide-open eyes and mouth. Duff took his hat and glasses off.

Lennox blinked.

‘We need you to go public and say Macbeth is behind this,’ Duff said. ‘Are you willing to do that?’

Thin, shiny saliva ran from one corner of Lennox’s mouth.

‘Listen, Lennox. I’ve got two minutes, and—’

‘Macbeth’s behind this,’ Lennox said. His voice was hoarse, husky, as though he had aged twenty years. But his eyes cleared. ‘He ordered Seyton, Olafson and me to execute Tourtell. Because he wanted to take over the reins of the town. And because he thinks Tourtell is Hecate’s informant. But he isn’t.’

‘So who is the informant?’

‘I’ll tell you if you do me a favour.’

Duff breathed hard through his nose. Concentrated on controlling his speech. ‘You mean I might have to owe you a favour?’

Lennox closed his eyes again. Duff saw a tear forced out. Pain from his wound, Duff assumed.

‘No,’ Lennox whispered in a fading voice.

Duff leaned forward. There was a nauseous, sweet smell coming from Lennox’s mouth, like the acetone breath of a diabetic, as he whispered, ‘I’m Hecate’s informant.’

‘You?’ Duff tried to digest the information, tried to make it fit.

‘Yes. How do you think Hecate slipped through our fingers all these years, how he was always a step ahead?’

‘You’re a spy for both—’

‘—Hecate and Macbeth. Without Macbeth knowing. But that’s how I know Tourtell’s not in Hecate’s pocket. Or Macbeth’s. But it wasn’t me who warned Hecate, so there must be another informant as well. Someone close to Macbeth.’

‘Seyton?’

‘Maybe. Or perhaps not a man.’

‘A woman? Why do you think that?’

‘I don’t know. Something invisible, something that’s just there.’

Duff nodded slowly. Raised his eyes and looked into the darkness outside the window.

‘How does it feel?’

‘How does what feel?’

‘To say it out loud finally. That you’re a traitor. Is it a relief or does it weigh more heavily on you when the words make you realise it’s true, the damage is your fault?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I was wondering about it myself,’ Duff said. The sky outside was dark, covered, giving no answer or sign. ‘How it would feel to tell my family everything.’

‘But you didn’t,’ Lennox said. ‘We don’t. Because we’d rather destroy ourselves than see the pain in their faces. But you didn’t have the chance to choose.’

‘Yes, I did. I chose. Every day. To be unfaithful.’

‘Will you help me, Duff?’

Duff was torn out of his thoughts. Blinked. He needed to sleep soon. ‘Help?’

‘A favour. The pillow. Put it over my face and hold it there. It’ll look as if I died of my wounds. And will you tell my children that their father, murderer and traitor that he was, repented?’

‘I...’

‘You’re the only person I know who might understand me, Duff. That you can love someone so much and still betray them. And when it’s too late, it’s too late. All you can do is... what is right, but it’s too late.’

‘Like saving the life of the mayor.’

‘But that isn’t enough, is it, Duff?’ Lennox’s dry laughter turned into a bout of coughing. ‘A last desperate act which, seen from the outside, is a sacrifice, but which deep down you hope will be rewarded with the forgiveness of your sins and the opening of heaven’s gates. But that’s too much, Duff. You don’t think you can ever make amends for everything, do you.’

‘No,’ Duff said. ‘No, I can’t make amends. But I can start by forgiving you.’

‘No!’ Lennox said.

‘Yes.’

‘No, you can’t! Don’t do that, don’t...’ His voice crumbled away. Duff looked at him. Small shiny tears rolled down his white cheeks.

Duff took a deep breath. ‘I’ll consider not forgiving you on one condition, Lennox.’

Lennox nodded.

‘That you agree to give a radio interview this evening in which you tell everything and clear Malcolm.’

Lennox raised a hand with difficulty and wiped his cheeks. Then he placed his tear-wet hand round Duff’s wrist. ‘Ring Priscilla and ask her to come here.’

Duff nodded, got up and freed his wrist. Looked down at Lennox for a last time. Wondering if he saw a man who had changed or was just taking the easiest way out.

‘Well?’ Tourtell said, getting up from a chair against the corridor wall when Duff came out.

‘He’s confirmed that Macbeth was trying to kill you and he’ll do the interview,’ Duff said. ‘But Hecate has an informant, an infiltrator close to Macbeth. It could be anyone at police HQ...’

‘Anyway,’ Tourtell boomed as they hurried down the corridor, ‘with Lennox’s statement Macbeth’s finished! I’ll ring Capitol and have a federal arrest warrant issued.’

A nurse came towards them. ‘Mr Mayor, sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve had a call from Agnes, your maid. She says Kasi still hasn’t come home.’

‘Thank you,’ Tourtell said. They continued walking. ‘You’ll see, he’s gone to some friends and is waiting until the coast is clear.’

‘Probably,’ Duff said. ‘Your maid...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve never had servants, but I assume that after a while they become part of the furniture. You speak freely and don’t think they’ll repeat stuff that shouldn’t go beyond your four walls, isn’t that right?’

‘Agnes? Yes. Yes, at least when I was sure I could trust her. But that took time.’

‘And yet you can never know for sure what another person thinks and feels, can you?’

‘Hm. You’re wondering if Macbeth has a personal secretary at HQ who might...’

‘Priscilla?’ Duff said. ‘Well, as you said, it takes time to trust someone.’

‘And?’

‘You said you played blackjack in a private room as Macbeth and Lady made plans to kill Hecate. But doesn’t it need a fourth person?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Blackjack. Don’t you need a croupier?’

‘Jack?’

‘Yes, Lady?’ Jack took his hand away. It had been casually placed on Billy’s arched back as the two of them stood over the guestbook and Jack had explained how new customers should be entered.

‘I have to talk to you about something, Jack. Let’s go upstairs.’

‘Of course. Will you hold the fort, Billy?’

‘I’ll do my best, Mr Bonus.’

Jack smiled and knew he held the newly employed boy’s eyes a moment too long. Then he dashed up the stairs after Lady.

‘What do you think of the new boy?’ she asked after he had caught her up.

‘Bit early to say, ma’am. A little young and inexperienced, but he doesn’t seem impossible.’

‘Good. We need two waiters for the restaurant. The two who came today were utterly hopeless. How are young people going to survive in this world if they can’t take things seriously and learn something? Do they think everything’s going to be served to them on a silver platter?’

‘True,’ Jack said and went into the suite, Lady holding the door open for him. Turning, he saw she had closed the door and collapsed in tears on a chair.

‘Lady, what’s the matter?’

‘Lily,’ she sobbed. ‘Lily. He said her name.’

‘Lily? As in the flower, ma’am?’

Lady hid her face in her hands, and sobs racked her body.

Jack was at a loss to know what to do. He went towards her but then stopped. ‘Would you like... to talk about it?’

‘No!’ she exclaimed. Took a tremulous breath. ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it. Dr Alsaker wanted to talk about it. He’s crazy, did you know that? He told me himself. But that doesn’t make him a bad psychiatrist, he says, more the opposite. I don’t need words, Jack, I’ve heard them all. My own and those of others, and they don’t soothe any more. I need medicine.’ She sniffed and wiped under her eyes carefully with the back of her hand. ‘Quite simply, medicine. Without it I can’t be the person I have to be.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘Lady, Jack.’ She looked at the mascara smeared on her hand. ‘The woman who lives and lets die. But Macbeth has stopped using medicine and so there’s nothing here. Imagine. He’s stronger than me. You wouldn’t have guessed that, would you? So you’ll have to go and buy some for me, Jack.’

‘Lady...’

‘Otherwise everything will collapse here. I hear a child crying all the time, Jack. I go into the gaming room and smile and talk.’ Tears started rolling again. ‘Talk loudly and laugh to drown out the sound of the crying child, but now I can’t do it any longer. He knew the name of my child. He said my final words to her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hecate. He knew. The words I said before I smashed the head with the questioning blue eyes. In another life, my little Lily. I’ve never told that to a living soul. Never! At least not in a conscious state. But perhaps when I’ve been dreaming. Perhaps when I’ve been sleepwa—’ She stopped. Frowned as if she had realised something.

‘Hypnosis,’ Jack said. ‘You said it during the hypnosis. Hecate knows it from Dr Alsaker.’

‘Hypnosis?’ She nodded slowly. ‘Do you think so? Do you think Alsaker betrayed me? And was paid for it, you mean?’

‘People are greedy, that’s their nature, ma’am. Without greed man wouldn’t have won the fight on earth. Just look what you’ve created, ma’am.’

‘You mean it’s down to greed ?’

‘Not for money, ma’am. I think different people are greedy for different things. Power, sex, admiration, food, love, knowledge, fear...’

‘What are you greedy for, Jack?’

‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I like happy, satisfied customers. Yes, I’m greedy for the happiness of others. Such as your own, ma’am. When you’re happy, I’m happy.’

She fixed him with her gaze. Then she got up, went over to the mirror and grabbed the hairbrush lying on the table beneath. ‘Jack...’

He didn’t like the sound of her voice but met her eyes in the mirror. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You ought to know something about loneliness.’

‘You know I do, ma’am.’

She started to brush her long flame-red hair, which men had been attracted by or had taken as a warning, according to circumstances. ‘But do you know what is lonelier than never having anyone? It is believing you had someone, but then it turns out that the person you thought was your closest friend never was.’ The brush got stuck, but she forced it through the thick unruly hair. ‘That you’ve been deceived the whole time. Can you imagine how lonely that is, Jack?’

‘No, I can’t, ma’am.’

Jack looked at her. He didn’t know what to do or say.

‘Be happy you haven’t been deceived, Jack.’ She put down the brush and passed him some notes. ‘You’re like a suckerfish: you’re too small to be deceived, you can only deceive. The shark lets you hang on because you clean off other, worse, parasites. In return, it takes you across the oceans of the world. And that’s how you travel, to the mutual benefit of both, and the relationship is so intimate and close that it can be confused with friendship. Until a bigger, healthier shark swims by. Go on, Jack. Go and buy me some brew.’

‘Are you sure, ma’am?’

‘Say you want something that works. Something strong. That can take you up high and far away. So high that you would crush your skull if you fell. For who wants to live in a cold, friendless world like this one?’

‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’

He closed the door behind him without a sound.

‘Oh, I’m sure you know where to find it, Jack Bonus,’ she whispered to the reflection in the mirror. ‘Say hello to Hecate, by the way.’ A tear ran down her cheek, in the salty trail of the previous one. ‘My good, dear Jack. My poor little Jack.’

‘Mr Lennox?’

Lennox opened his eyes. Looked at his watch. An hour and a half to midnight. His eyelids went again. He had begged for more morphine. All he wanted was sleep, even the tormented sleep of the guilty.

‘Mr Lennox.’

He opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw was a hand holding a microphone. Behind it he glimpsed something yellow. Slowly it came into focus. A man in a yellow oilskin jacket sitting on a chair beside a hospital bed.

‘You?’ he whispered. ‘Of all the reporters in this world they sent you?’

Walt Kite straightened his glasses. ‘Tourtell, Malcolm and the others know that I... that I...’

‘That you’re in Macbeth’s pocket?’ Lennox lifted his head from the pillow. They were alone in the room. He squirmed to reach the alarm button by the bed head, but the radio reporter placed his hand over it.

‘No need,’ Kite said calmly.

Lennox tried to pull Kite’s hand away from the alarm, but he didn’t have the strength.

‘So that you can feed me to Macbeth?’ Lennox snorted. ‘The way you fed Angus to us?’

‘I was in the same predicament as you, Lennox. I had no choice. He threatened my family.’

Lennox gave up and slumped back. ‘And what do you want now? Have you got a knife with you? Poison?’

‘Yes. This.’ Kite waved the microphone.

‘Are you going to kill me with that ?’

‘Not you, but Macbeth.’

‘Oh?’

Walt Kite put down the microphone, unbuttoned his jacket and wiped the fug from his glasses.

‘When Tourtell rang I knew they had enough to get him. Tourtell persuaded the doctor to give me five minutes, so we have to hurry. Give me the story, and I’ll go straight to the radio station and broadcast it, raw and unedited.’

‘In the middle of the night?’

‘I can do it before midnight. And it’s enough for some people to hear it. Hear that it’s irrefutably your voice. Listen, I’m breaking all the principles of good journalism — the right to respond, the duty to check statements — to save—’

‘Your own skin,’ Lennox said. ‘To swap sides again. To be sure you’re on the winning team.’

He saw Kite open his mouth and close it again. Swallow. And blink behind his still fugged-up glasses.

‘Admit it, Kite. It’s fine. You’re not alone. We’re not heroes. We’re completely normal people who perhaps dream about being heroes, but confronted with the choice between life and the principles we sound off about, we’re pretty normal.’

Kite flashed a brief smile. ‘You’re right. I’ve been an arrogant, big-mouthed, cowardly moralist.’

Lennox drew breath, no longer sure whether it was him or the morphine talking. ‘But if you had the chance do you think you could do things any differently?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Could you be a different person? Could you make yourself sacrifice something for a higher entity than your own esteem?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Such as doing something which is really heroic because it will reduce the respected journalist Kite’s reputation to rubble?’

Macbeth closed his eyes. He hoped that when he opened them again he would wake up from the bad dream and the much-too-long night. All while the voice coming from the radio on the shelf behind his desk droned away. Every rolled ‘r’ sounded like a machine-gun volley.

‘So, Inspector Lennox, to sum up. You maintain that Chief Commissioner Macbeth is behind the murders of Chief Commissioner Duncan and Inspector Banquo, the massacre at the Norse Riders’ club house, the murder of Inspector Duff’s family, plus the execution of Police Officer Angus carried out at Macbeth’s orders by you and Inspector Seyton. And that earlier this afternoon Chief Commissioner Macbeth with the head of SWAT, Inspector Seyton, and Police Officer Olafson were behind the failed attempt on Mayor Tourtell’s life.’

‘That is correct.’

‘With that we say thank y

ou to Inspector Lennox, who was speaking from his bed in St Jordi’s Hospital. This recording has been made with witnesses present so that it can be used in a court of law, even if Lennox is also murdered. And so, dear listeners, finally I will add that I, Walt Kite, was an accessory to the murder of Police Officer Angus in that I placed the integrity you have honoured me with at the disposal of the chief commissioner and murderer, Macbeth. In the law court where I will be judged and in the conversations I will be having with my nearest and dearest, one mitigating circumstance might be that I and my family were threatened. However, professionally, this will not count. I have shown that I can be threatened, used and manipulated to lie to you. I have let myself down and I have let you down, and that means this is the last time you will hear from me, Walt Kite, radio reporter. I will miss you more than you will miss me. Show that you are better citizens than me. Take to the streets and depose Macbeth. Goodnight and God bless our town.’

The signature tune.

Macbeth opened his eyes. But he was still in his office, Seyton was still on the sofa, Olafson still on the chair and the radio was on.

Macbeth got up and turned it off.

‘Well?’ said Seyton.

‘Shh,’ Macbeth said.

‘What?’

‘Shut up for a second!’ He held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and first finger. He was tired, so tired it was difficult to think as clearly as he needed to. Because he did need to. The next decisions he made were going to be momentous, the next few hours would decide the struggle for the town.

‘My name,’ Olafson said.

‘What?’

‘They said my name on the radio.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I don’t think anyone in my family has ever had their name mentioned on the radio.’

Macbeth listened to the silence. The traffic, where was the regular booming drone of the traffic? It was as though the town was holding its breath. He got up. ‘Come on.’

They took the lift down to the basement.

Passed the SWAT flag with the red dragon.

Seyton unlocked the ammo room and switched on the light.

The boy was sitting between the machine-gun stands, gagged and tied to the safe. The brown irises of his eyes were just a thin ring around the pupils, which were large and black with fear.

‘We’re taking him to the Inverness,’ Macbeth said.

‘The Inverness?’

‘We’re not safe here any longer, none of us. But from the Inverness we can bring Tourtell to his knees.’

‘Who’s we ?’

‘The last of the faithful. Those who will be rewarded when the victory is won.’

‘You, me and Olafson? Are we going to bring the town to its knees?’

‘Trust me.’ Macbeth stroked Kasi’s head as if he were a loyal dog. ‘Hecate needs us and is protecting us.’

‘Against the whole of the town?’ Olafson said.

‘Hecate’s helpers constitute an army, Olafson. They’re as invisible as he is, but they’re there — they’ve already saved me twice. And we have the Gatling sisters and the Kenneth Laws on our side. When Tourtell gives in and declares a state of emergency the town is mine. Well? Loyalty, fraternity?’

Olafson closed his eyes. ‘Baptised in fire,’ he whispered. The ‘s’ lisped around the concrete walls.

Seyton scowled at them. But then, slowly, a smile spread across his narrow lips. ‘United in blood.’

40

Duff was sitting on the sofa in Tourtell’s living room. The four of them looked nervously at the mayor as he stood with the telephone to his ear. It was two minutes to midnight. Pressure had built up and up and thunder had started to rumble. The town would soon be punished for the hot day. The mayor alternated between ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ on the phone. Then he cradled the receiver. Smacked his lips as though what he had heard had to be chewed and swallowed.

‘Well?’ said Malcolm impatiently.

‘Good and bad news. The good news is that Supreme Court Judge Archibald says that, based on what we have, he’s fairly sure they should be able to issue a federal warrant for Macbeth’s arrest, and that accordingly they can send federal police here.’

‘And the bad news?’ Malcolm asked.

‘It’s a politically delicate matter and will take time,’ Tourtell said. ‘No one wants to arrest a chief commissioner if it turns out the case won’t hold water. In concrete terms all we have is a radio interview with Lennox, who himself has confessed to being an accessory to murder. Archibald says quite a bit more persuasion is needed for him to succeed, but the best-case scenario is that they’ll get a ruling tomorrow afternoon.’

‘But it’ll be decided then,’ Caithness said. ‘So we just have to hold out tonight and a few hours tomorrow.’

‘Looks like it,’ Malcolm said. ‘Shame the circumstances don’t allow for a celebration.’

‘On the contrary,’ Tourtell said, turning to the maid, who had just come into the room. ‘During the war, the more the victories cost us, the harder we celebrated. Champagne, Agnes!’

‘Yes, sir, but there’s someone on the other line.’

Tourtell brightened up. ‘Kasi?’

‘I’m afraid it’s Mr Macbeth.’

They looked at each other.

‘Put the call through here,’ Tourtell said.

Macbeth leaned back in the chair with the phone to his ear. Staring up at the ceiling, at the inverted gold spire on the chandelier hanging over him and the empty gaming room. He was alone. He could hear Seyton and Olafson still in the process of assembling the Gatlings on the mezzanine, but he was alone just the same. Lady wasn’t here. They had got to work as soon as they arrived back from HQ. It had taken them half an hour to get all the gamblers and diners out. They had tried to do it in a relaxed way. But games had to be finished, chips had to be cashed and some customers insisted on drinking up even though they weren’t asked to pay. The last customers had protested that it was a Saturday night and literally had to be pushed out. Lady would of course have managed it in a more elegant way. But Jack, whom Macbeth had sent up to the suite to get her, had returned unaccompanied. That was fine, she needed her sleep, and this was going to be a long fight. They had removed the bars from the windows and sited the machine guns at each end of the mezzanine.

‘Tourtell here.’ The voice struggled to sound neutral.

‘Good evening, Mayor. All well?’

‘I’m alive.’

‘Good, good. I’m glad we saved you from the assassination attempt. I suspect Hecate was behind it. Sorry your driver had to pay for it with his life. And that Lennox has lost his senses from the injury he brought on himself.’

Tourtell gave a dry laugh. ‘You’re finished, Macbeth. Do you realise?’

‘These are indeed wild times, don’t you think, Tourtell? Explosions on rooftops, shooting in the streets, assassination attempts on the chief commissioner and mayor. I rang because I think you should declare a state of emergency at once.’

‘That won’t happen, Macbeth. What will happen is that a federal arrest warrant is being issued in your name.’

‘You’ve called in the cavalry from Capitol? I thought you would. But the warrant won’t be issued before I have control of this town, and then it’s too late. I will have immunity. Chief Commissioner Kenneth had more foresight than many give him credit for.’

‘You’re going to rule the town like the dictators before you?’

‘In this storm it’s probably best to have a stronger hand on the till than yours, Tourtell.’

‘You’re mad, Macbeth. Why on earth would I declare a state of emergency and hand power to you?’

‘Because I have your illegitimate son and will cut his head off if you don’t do what I say.’

Macbeth heard a sharp intake of breath.

‘So don’t go to sleep, Tourtell. I’ll give you a few hours to write and sign the declaration of a state of emergency. And it will come into effect before the sun rises tomorrow. If I haven’t heard it broadcast on radio before the first ray of sun hits my eyes, Kasi will die.’

Pause. Macbeth had a feeling Tourtell wasn’t alone. According to Seyton, Duff, Malcolm and Caithness were three of the four who had prevented them from completing the job at St Jordi’s Hospital.

‘And how do you think you will get away with killing my son, Macbeth?’

The tone was tough but couldn’t quite conceal his helplessness. And Macbeth noticed he hadn’t been prepared for such utter despair. But he shook it off. The mayor’s shaking voice confirmed what he had hoped for: Tourtell was willing to do anything at all for the boy.

‘Immunity. State of emergency. That’ll do the trick, Mayor.’

‘I don’t mean escaping a court of law. I was thinking of your conscience. You’ve become a monster, Macbeth.’

‘We never become what we aren’t already, Tourtell. You too, you’ll always be willing to sell your favours and soul to the highest bidder.’

‘Can’t you hear the thunder outside your house, Macbeth? How can you, in this situation, in this town, still believe there will be sunshine at daybreak?’

‘Because I’ve given orders that there will be. But if you’re not a believer, let the sunrise times in this year’s almanac be your guide. Until then...’

Macbeth rang off. Light played on the crystal above him. Which had to mean it was moving. Perhaps it was rising heat, perhaps it was the strange tremors in the ground or perhaps it was the light outside changing. But there was of course a fourth possibility. That it was he himself who was moving. Who saw things from a different angle. He took the silver dagger from inside his jacket. It was perhaps not the most effective weapon against tanks and thick skin, but Lady was right: silver worked against ghosts. He hadn’t seen Banquo, Meredith, Duncan or the young Norse Rider on his knees for a couple of days. He held the dagger up to the light.

‘Jack!’

No answer. Louder: ‘Jack!’

Still no answer.

‘Jack! Jack!’ He yelled in such a wild, uncontrolled way that he imagined he could feel the inside of his throat tearing.

A door opened at the end of the room. ‘You called, sir?’ Jack’s voice echoed.

‘Still no sign of life from Lady?’

‘No, sir. Perhaps you should wake her?’

Macbeth ran a finger across the tip of the dagger. How long had he been clean now? And how much had he longed for sleep, the deep, dark, dreamless kind? He could go up there, lie down beside her and say that now we’re going, you and I, we’re going to a place where this, the Inverness and the town, doesn’t exist, where nothing else but you and I exist. She wanted to, wanted to as much as he did. They had lost their way, but there had to be a way back, back to where they had come from. Yes, of course there was; he just couldn’t see it right now. He had to talk to her, get her to show him where it was, as she always did. So what was stopping him? What strange premonition was stopping him from going up there, holding him back, making him prefer to sit in this cold empty room rather than lie in the warm arms of his beloved?

He turned and looked at the boy. Seyton had chained Tourtell’s son to the shiny pole in the middle of the room, with a leg manacle around the boy’s long, slim neck. Like a dog. And like a dog he lay motionless on the floor looking at Macbeth with his imploring brown eyes. The way they had stared unflinchingly at him ever since they arrived.

Macbeth stirred from the chair with an exclamation of annoyance.

‘Let’s go and see her then,’ he said.

His own and Jack’s soundless footsteps on the thick carpets gave Macbeth the sense they were floating like ghosts up the stairs and along the corridor. It took Macbeth ages to find the right key on Jack’s ring. He examined every single one of them as though they held a code, the answer to a question he didn’t yet know.

Then he opened the door and went in. The lamp in the room was switched off, but moonlight shone through gaps in the curtains. He stood listening. The thunder had stopped. It was so still, as though everything was holding its breath.

Her skin was so pale, so bloodless. Her hair spread across the pillow like a red fan and her eyelids seemed to be transparent.

He went over to her and placed his hand on her brow. There was still some warmth in her. Next to her, on the quilt, lay a piece of paper. He picked it up. She had written only a few lines.

Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow. The days crawl in the mud, and in the end all they have accomplished is to kill the sun again and bring all men closer to death.

Macbeth turned to Jack, who had remained in the doorway.

‘She’s gone.’

‘Wh...what, sir?’

Macbeth pulled a chair to the bed and sat down. Not to be close to her; she wasn’t there any more. He just wanted to sit.

He heard Jack’s cry of shock behind him and knew he had seen it, the syringe still hanging from her forearm.

‘Is she...?’

‘Yes, she’s d-d-dead.’

‘How long...?’

‘A l-l-long time.’

‘But I was talking to—’

‘She started d-d-dying the night she found the baby in the shoebox, Jack. She simulated life for a while, but it was only the convulsions of death. She saw her child, saw that she would have to travel into death to see her again. That was when we lost Lady, when she fell for that consoling notion that we meet our loved ones on the other side.’

Jack took a step closer. ‘But you don’t believe it?’

‘Not when the sun is shining from a clear sky. But we live in a town without sun, where we take all the consolation we can get. So, by and large, I believe.’

Macbeth examined himself, amazed that he felt neither sorrow nor despair. Perhaps because he had long known that this is how it would end. He had known it and closed his eyes. And all he felt was emptiness. He was sitting in a waiting room in the middle of the night, he was the only passenger, and his train had been announced but it hadn’t arrived. Announced but it hadn’t arrived. And what does the passenger do then? He waits. He doesn’t go anywhere, he reconciles himself to what is happening and waits for what is to come.

Macbeth picked up the piece of paper again.

The days crawl in the mud, and in the end all they have accomplished is to kill the sun again and bring all men closer to death.

41

The lift took Duff, Malcolm and the caretaker down to the basement at police HQ.

‘I know it’s a weekend, but are you sure there isn’t anyone else here?’ Duff said to the caretaker, whom Malcolm had spoken to at length on the phone from Tourtell’s house.

‘On the contrary,’ the caretaker answered. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

Duff was unable to react before the lift arrived and the doors opened in front of him. Three people were there, all armed and dressed in the black SWAT uniform. Duff held his breath.

‘Thank you,’ Malcolm said. ‘For coming at such short notice.’

‘For the town,’ said one of them.

‘For Angus,’ said the second.

‘For the chief commissioner,’ said the third, an erect, dark-skinned man. ‘In our book his name is now Malcolm.’

‘Thank you, Ricardo,’ Malcolm said, exiting the lift.

The stiff-backed officer led the way. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else, sir?’

‘I’ve been on the phone all evening. It shouldn’t be easy to persuade people to risk their lives and jobs to fight against a conspiracy they only have my word for. Especially when I add that we cannot expect any immediate help from Capitol. However, I have around thirty officers from the police, ten to fifteen from Civil Defence and maybe ten from the Fire Service.’

‘The case may not sound very convincing, but you are, Malcolm.’

‘Thank you, Ricardo, but I think Macbeth’s actions speak for themselves.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about your words, sir. Your courage speaks louder.’

‘I had everything taken from me and didn’t have much to lose, Ricardo. Nevertheless I had to come back and fetch my daughter, who has been taken to safety now. It’s you who show courage. You’re not controlled by a father’s heart, you’re acting freely, governed by your own sense of justice. Which proves that in this town there are people who want what is good.’

They passed the dragon flag.

‘And where’s the mayor?’ Ricardo asked.

‘He’s got other things on his mind at the moment.’

Ricardo stopped in front of a massive iron door, like the entrance to an air-raid shelter. It was open. ‘Here.’

The shelves inside were laden with iron boxes and firearms. In the middle of the floor there was a safe. Malcolm took one of the machine guns from a shelf.

‘Someone’s taken the Gatling guns and their ammo,’ Ricardo said. ‘So this is all we have. Plus an armoured car. I can have it brought down to the central station straight away. There aren’t enough guns for everyone, but the firemen don’t have any weapon training anyway. My men and I can strike tonight, though.’

‘We’d far prefer Macbeth to surrender voluntarily,’ Malcolm said. ‘The numbers tell us he probably has two men with him: Seyton and Olafson. When he sees how many we’ve mobilised outside I hope he will release Kasi and capitulate.’

‘Negotiations.’ Ricardo nodded. ‘Modern tactics in hostage situations.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Modern and useless, as far as Macbeth is concerned. I’ve had him as a boss, sir. He has the two best marksmen in the country and two Gatling guns on his side. While we have very little time.’

‘What can you do against two Gatling guns?’ Malcolm asked, taking down a bazooka.

Duff stiffened. He had seen what was behind the bazooka.

‘It’s not very accurate over a long distance,’ Ricardo said. ‘But I’d be happy to draw up a plan of how we can take the Inverness if Macbeth won’t surrender.’

‘Good,’ Malcolm said, looking at what Duff had found. ‘Jesus, where’s that from?’

‘The ruins after the raid on the Norse Riders,’ Ricardo said. ‘It’s a weapon, even if it’s only a sabre.’

‘It’s not just any sabre,’ Duff said, gripping the handle tightly. He swung it and felt the weight of the steel. ‘It’s Sweno’s sabre.’

‘You’re not thinking of taking it, are you? It can’t do any harm.’

‘Wrong.’ Duff ran his forefinger over the blade. ‘It can slice open women’s stomachs and children’s faces.’

Malcolm turned to Ricardo. ‘Can you have the weapons transported to the central station an hour before sunrise?’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Thank you. Let’s see if the rest of us can catch a couple of hours’ shut-eye?’

‘Sir?’

Macbeth lifted his head from Lady’s cold chest and looked up. It was Jack. He had returned and was standing in the doorway.

‘There’s someone down in reception who’d like to talk to you.’

‘Have you let s-s-someone in?’

‘He’s alone and he kept knocking. I had to let him in. And now he doesn’t want to go away.’

‘Who is it?’

‘A young man by the name of Sivart.’

‘Sivart?’

‘He says you saved his life down by the quay during the raid on the Norse Riders.’

‘Oh, the hostage. Wh-wh-what does he want?’

‘To volunteer. He says he’s been contacted by Malcolm, and Malcolm is getting people together to launch an attack on the Inverness.’

‘Then,’ Macbeth said, resting his head back on Lady’s chest and closing his eyes, ‘t-t-tell him to go.’

‘He won’t, sir.’

Macbeth sighed heavily, got to his feet and held out a hand. ‘Lend me the gun I gave you, Jack.’

They went down to reception, where the young man was nervously waiting. From the stairs Macbeth pointed the gun at him. ‘Out!’

‘Chief Commissioner...’ the man stammered.

‘Out! You’ve been sent by Malcolm to kill me. Now out!’

‘No, no, I...’

‘Now! I’ll count to three! One...’

The man stumbled backwards, grabbed the door handle, but it was locked.

‘Two!’

Jack rushed forward with the key and helped the man to open the door.

‘Three!’

The door slammed behind the man and they heard running footsteps fade in the distance.

‘Do you really think he—’

‘No,’ Macbeth said, handing back the gun to Jack. ‘But a young man like him here would have just got in the way.’

‘There aren’t many of you, and he’s the same age as Olafson, sir.’

‘Have you done what I asked you to do, Jack?’

‘I’m still doing it, sir.’

‘Tell me when you’ve finished. I’m in the gaming room.’

Macbeth opened the double doors to the casino. The night grew old and grey behind the tall windows to the east.

42

The sun was hidden behind the mountain, but it had sent a red harbinger of its arrival. Inspector Lennox thought he had never seen a finer daybreak in the town. Or perhaps he had, but had never noticed it. Or perhaps it was the morphine more than the sun that coloured everything. The streets were adorned with smashed beer bottles, stinking piles of spew and cigarette ends after a lively Saturday night, but no one was about, only a little man in a black maritime uniform and white hat, who hurried past them. Everyone else, as the town’s fate was decided, lay at home in bed with the blankets pulled over their heads. And despite this he had never seen his town looking more beautiful.

Lennox gazed down at the tartan blanket Priscilla had spread over his knees. They were approaching the modest eastern entrance to the central station. He noticed the wheelchair was moving more slowly. She was hesitant; he guessed she had hardly ever been to the station before.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Priscilla. They only want to sell dope. Or buy it.’ He saw from her shadow as they passed under a street light that she had straightened up. Their speed increased.

As arranged, she had picked him up while it was still dark outside, before the corridors were full of nurses and doctors who would have stopped them. And she had brought various things from the office which he had requested. He didn’t even need to persuade her or explain anything to her; she had immediately done what he had said, even if officially he was no longer her boss.

‘That’s fine,’ she had said. ‘You’ll always be my boss. And Macbeth won’t continue as chief commissioner, will he?’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s off his trolley, isn’t he.’

They passed cigarette-smoking pushers and junkies dozing on blankets who woke up and automatically reached out a begging hand.

But Priscilla didn’t stop until they were in front of the stairs by the toilets.

It was here they used to collect him. All he had to do was stand there and they came. Lennox had never worked out where they took him because they not only put goggles on him but also gave him earplugs so that he couldn’t speculate from the background noises.

It was a part of the agreement. When he needed a real trip, one that couldn’t happen at home or at the office in the evening without the risk of being caught, they took him into the kitchen, the place where they made brew. And there he was given the purest drug that could be produced, injected by specialists. He was placed in a reclining chair, a bit like they did in the old days in opium dens, and after sleeping off his high in safe surroundings he could go into town and move around for a while like a new and better man.

In a way which he would never be able to do again.

He had felt how helpless he was when Priscilla freed him from all the wires and tubes and manoeuvred him across into the wheelchair. How useless he had become. How little he could be expected to do.

‘Go,’ he said now.

‘What? Are we going?’

‘You are.’

‘And just leave you here, you mean?’

‘It’ll be fine. I’ll ring you. Go now.’

She didn’t move.

‘It’s an order, Priscilla—’ he smiled ‘—from the man who will always be your boss.’

She sighed. Gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Then she left.

Less than ten minutes passed before Strega was standing in front of him with her arms crossed. ‘Wow!’ was all she said.

‘I know,’ Lennox said. ‘It’s an ungodly hour.’

She laughed briefly. ‘You’re in good humour despite the wheelchair. What can I do for you?’

‘Something to stop the pain and an hour in the recliner.’

She passed him the earplugs and the goggles.

‘My legs are not what they were, so you might have to help me get there.’

‘A feather like you?’ she said.

‘I need the wheelchair with me.’

‘We’ll have to skip the car trip today.’

She pushed him. The pains had come and gone all morning, but when she lifted him out of the wheelchair a few minutes later and lowered him onto what felt like crushed stone it hurt so much he cried. He felt Strega’s muscular arms around him, the almost overwhelming scent of her. After she managed to get him back in the wheelchair she began to push it. Every metre the wheelchair hit something in the gravel. A sleeper. There was a smell of tar and burned metal. He was being pushed along a railway track.

Fancy not realising. The other times they had ridden in a car, not a long way, but clearly in a circle, back to their starting point at the central station. He had known before that they were under cover as he hadn’t felt the rain, but not that the brewing took place in one of the disused tunnels right under their noses! He groaned with impotence as Strega lifted him and laid him cheek down on something cold and damp. Concrete. Then she put him back in the wheelchair. Pushed it. The air was getting warmer, drier. They were approaching the kitchen now, the easily recognisable smells activating something in his brain which made his heart beat faster and gave him a foretaste of the trip. Someone removed the goggles and earplugs and he caught the tail end of Strega’s sentence.

‘... wash the trail of blood after him.’

‘All right,’ said one of the sisters stirring the tank.

Strega was about to lift him into the reclining chair, but Lennox waved her away and rolled up his left shirtsleeve. Brew straight from the pot. It didn’t get any better than that. A junkie’s heaven. This was where he wanted to go. Or not. He would see. Or not.

‘Isn’t that Inspector Lennox from the Anti-Corruption Unit?’ Jack said. He was standing by the one-way glass looking in at the kitchen and the man in the wheelchair.

‘Yes,’ Hecate said. He was wearing a white linen suit and hat. ‘It’s not enough to have eyes and ears in the Inverness.’

‘Did you hear that Lennox has accused Macbeth of murder? Doesn’t he know Macbeth is your instrument?’

‘No one’s allowed to know more than they have to, not even you, Bonus. But back to the matters in hand. Lady has taken her own life, but Macbeth seems paralysed rather than upset, would you say?’

‘That’s my interpretation.’

‘Hm. And if Tourtell declares a state of emergency, do you think Macbeth in his present state of mind will manage to take power, to do what has to be done to establish himself as the town’s leader?’

‘I don’t know. He seems... not to care. As though nothing is very important any more. Either that or he believes himself to be invulnerable. You will save him whatever happens.’

‘Hm.’ Hecate tapped his stick on the floor twice. ‘Without Lady the value of Macbeth as chief commissioner has sunk.’

‘He’ll still obey.’

‘He might succeed in taking power now, but without her he won’t be able to keep it. She was the one who understood the game, could see the wood for the trees, knew what manoeuvres were required. Macbeth can throw daggers, but someone has to tell him why and at whom.’

‘I could become his new adviser,’ Jack said. ‘I’m winning his confidence.’

Hecate laughed. ‘I can’t quite make up my mind whether you’re a mud-eating flounder or actually a sly predatory fish, Bonus.’

‘I am a fish though, I gather.’

‘Even if you could bolster his impaired ability to rule, I doubt you could do much about his will. He lacks Lady’s lust for power. He seems to desire things you and I have not been dependent on, dear Bonus.’

‘Brew?’

‘Lady. Women. Friends maybe. You know, this love between humans. And now that Lady’s dead he’s no longer driven by the desire to satisfy her hunger for power.’

‘Lady also needed love,’ Jack said quietly.

‘The desire to be loved and the ability to love, which give humans such strength, are also their Achilles heel. Give them the prospect of love and they move mountains; take it from them and a puff of wind will blow them over.’

‘Maybe, maybe.’

‘If the wind blows Macbeth over, what do you think about him there as chief commissioner?’ Hecate nodded towards the glass. One of the sisters was drying Lennox’s left arm with an alcohol swab and searching for a vein while holding a syringe ready.

‘Lennox?’ Jack said. ‘Are you serious?’

Hecate smacked his lips. ‘He’s the man who brought Macbeth down. The hero who sacrificed his mobility to save the town’s mayor. And no one knows that Lennox works for me.’

‘But Malcolm’s back. And everyone knows Lennox runs Macbeth’s errands.’

‘Lennox followed orders like a loyal policeman should. And Malcolms and Duffs can disappear again. Roosevelt won a world war from a wheelchair. Yes, I could get Lennox into the chief commissioner’s office. What do you reckon?’

Jack looked at Lennox. Without answering.

Hecate laughed and laid a big soft hand on Jack’s narrow shoulder. ‘I know what you’re thinking, flounder. What about you? Who will employ you if Macbeth has gone? So let’s hope Macbeth rides the storm, eh? Come on, let me show you out.’

Jack cast a final glance at Lennox, then he turned and walked back with Hecate to the toilet door and the station.

‘Wait,’ Lennox said as the sister placed the needle against his skin. He put his free right hand into the big side pocket of the wheelchair. Pulled the cord from the end of the handle.

‘Now,’ he said.

She pushed the needle in and pressed the plunger as he took his hand from the pocket, swung his arm low alongside the chair and let go. What Priscilla had brought from the office rumbled along the concrete floor and disappeared under the table bearing the flasks, tubes and pipes beside the tank.

‘Hey, what was that?’ Strega asked.

‘According to my grandfather, it was a grenade he had thrown at his head,’ Lennox said, feeling the high, which would never be like the first time but still made him shiver with pleasure. Which was, after all these years of searching, still the closest he had come to the meaning of life. Unless it was this. The full stop.

‘It might be a Model 24 Stielhandgranate. Or an ashtr—’

That was as far as he got.

Jack was halfway up the stairs when the explosion sent him flying. He picked himself up and turned back to the toilet. The door had been blown off and smoke was drifting out. He waited. When there were no more explosions he walked slowly down the stairs and into the toilet. The cubicle and door to the kitchen had gone. There was a fierce fire inside, and in the light of the flames he could see everything had been destroyed. The kitchen and those inside didn’t exist any more. And five seconds earlier he had been—

‘Bonus...’

The voice came from directly in front of him. And there, from under the steel door on the floor, it crawled out. A smashed cockroach in a white linen suit. The soft face was covered with shit and his eyes were black with shock.

‘Help me...’

Bonus grabbed hold of the old man’s hands and pulled him across the floor to the toilet door. There he turned Hecate onto his back. He was a wreck. His stomach was slashed open and blood was pouring out. The immortal Hecate. The Invisible Hand, he couldn’t have many minutes or seconds left to live. All the blood... Jack turned away.

‘Hurry, Jack. Find something you can—’

‘I have to get a doctor,’ Jack said.

‘No! Find something to close the wound with before I run out of blood.’

‘You need medical help. I’ll hurry.’

‘Don’t leave me, Jack! Don’t...’ The body in front of Jack arced and let out a howl.

‘What?’

‘Stomach acid! Something’s leaking. Christ, I’m burning up. Help, Jack! Hel—’ The shout morphed into another hoarse howl. Jack watched him, unable to move. He did look like a cockroach lying on its back, its arms and legs thrashing helplessly.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Jack said.

‘No, no!’ Hecate screamed and made a grab for his legs.

But Jack stepped away, turned and left.

At the top of the stairs he stopped, looked left, west towards the Inverness. Towards Macbeth. Towards St Jordi’s. There was a phone box in the waiting area that way. He turned to the east. To the mountain. To the other side. To new waters. Dangerous, open waters. But these were decisions a man — and a suckerfish — had to make sometimes to survive.

Jack breathed in. Not because he was hesitant, but because he needed air.

Then he headed east.

The crystal murmured and sang above Macbeth’s head. He looked up. The chandelier swung back and forth, tugging at the ropes from which it hung.

‘What was that?’ yelled Seyton from the mezzanine, from the Gatling gun in the south-eastern corner of the Inverness.

‘The end of the world,’ Macbeth said. And added, in a low voice and to himself, ‘I hope.’

‘It came from the station,’ Olafson shouted from the machine gun in the south-west corner. ‘Was that an explosion?’

‘Yessir!’ Seyton sang. ‘They’re bringing up the artillery.’

‘Are they?’ Olafson said, shocked.

Seyton’s laughter echoed between the walls. When they had discussed how the Inverness should be defended it had been easy to conclude that any attack would have to come from Workers’ Square, as the bricked-up, windowless side facing Thrift Street was nothing less than a fortress wall.

‘I can smell your fear from over here, Olafson. Can you smell it down there, boss?’

Macbeth yawned. ‘I can barely remember the smell of fear, Seyton.’ He rubbed his face hard. He had dropped off and dreamed he was lying on the bed next to Lady when the door to the suite slid silently open. The figure in the doorway was wearing a cloak, with a hat pulled so low that it was only when the figure stepped in and the light fell on him that he could see it was Banquo. One eye was gone and white; worms were wriggling out of his cheek and forehead. Macbeth had reached inside his jacket, drawn a dagger from his double shoulder holster and thrown. It bored into Banquo’s brow with a soft thud as if the bone behind had already been eaten up. But it didn’t stop the ghost advancing towards the bed. Macbeth screamed and shook Lady.

‘She’s dead,’ the ghost said. ‘And you have to throw a silver dagger, not steel.’ It wasn’t Banquo’s voice. It was...

Banquo’s head toppled from under the hat, fell on the floor and rolled under the bed, and from the hat Seyton’s face laughed at him.

‘What do you want?’ Macbeth whispered.

‘What you want, sir. To give you both a child. Look, she’s waiting for me.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Trust me. I don’t want much in return.’

‘She’s dead. Go away.’

‘We’re all dead. Do it now, sow your seeds. If you don’t I’ll sow mine.’

‘Get away!’

‘Move over, Macbeth. I’ll take her like Duff took Meredi—’

The second dagger hit Seyton in his open mouth. He clenched his teeth, grasped the handle, broke it off and passed it back to Macbeth. Showed him his bloody, sliced tongue and laughed.

‘Anything on the radio?’

Macbeth gave a start. It was Seyton, shouting.

‘Nothing,’ Macbeth said, rubbing his face hard and turning up the volume on the radio. ‘Still twenty minutes to sun-up.’ He looked at the white line of finely chopped powder on the mirror he had placed on the felt in front of him. Saw his face reflected. The line of power ran like a scar across the shiny surface.

‘And then will we really kill the boy?’ Olafson shouted.

‘Yes, Olafson!’ Seyton shouted back. ‘We’re men, not cissies!’

‘But... what then? We’ll have nothing to negotiate with.’

‘Does that sound familiar, Olafson?’ More laughter from the south-east.

‘We have nothing to fear,’ Macbeth said.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘No man born can harm me. Hecate promised me I’ll be chief commissioner until Bertha comes to get me. You can say a lot about Hecate, but he keeps his word. Relax. Tourtell will give in.’ Macbeth looked at Kasi, who sat quietly with his back to the pole, staring into the distance. ‘What can you see, Seyton?’

‘People have gathered up by Bertha. They look like police officers and civilians. A few automatic weapons, some rifles and handguns. Shouldn’t be much of a problem if they attack with those.’

‘Can you see any grey coats?’

‘Grey coats? No.’

‘And your sector, Olafson?’

‘None here either, sir.’

But Macbeth knew that they were there. Watching over him.

‘Have you heard of Tithonos, Seyton?’

‘Nope. Who’s he?’

‘A Greek. Lady told me about him. I looked him up. Eos was this goddess of the dawn and she stole a young lover, a pretty ordinary guy called Tithonos. Made sure the boss himself, Zeus, gave the guy eternal life, like her. The guy didn’t ask for it, he just had it forced on him. But the goddess had forgotten to ask for eternal youth for the guy. Do you understand?’

‘Maybe, but I don’t understand where you’re going with this, sir.’

‘Everything disappears, everyone else dies, but there’s Tithonos rotting away in his old age and loneliness. He hasn’t been given anything, the opposite in fact — he’s in prison, his eternal life is a bloody curse.’

Macbeth got up so quickly he felt giddy. This was just gloom and a hangover from the dope talking. He had a town lying at his feet, and soon it would be irrevocably his, only his, and he could have his every slightest wish fulfilled. Then all he would need to think about were desires and pleasures. Desires and pleasures.

Duff ran a finger over the crack in the base in front of Bertha’s nose. Heard Malcolm’s voice: ‘Sorry, let me through!’

He looked up and saw Malcolm forcing his way through the crowd up to the top of the steps.

‘Did you hear that too?’ he asked, out of breath.

‘Yes,’ Caithness said. ‘I thought the roof was going to come down. Felt like an underground test explosion.’

‘Or an earthquake,’ Duff said, pointing to the crack.

‘Looks like a bigger turnout than I’d planned,’ Malcolm said, scanning the people who had gathered at the foot of the steps behind the barricade of police cars and a big red fire engine. ‘Are all these people firemen and police officers?’

‘No,’ said a man coming up the steps. Malcolm examined his black uniform.

‘Naval captain?’

‘Pilot,’ said the little man. ‘Fred Ziegler.’

‘What’s a pilot doing here?’

‘I heard Kite on the radio last night, rang around and heard rumours about what was going to happen here. Tell me what I can do.’

‘Have you got a weapon?’

‘No.’

‘Can you shoot?’

‘I was in the marines for ten years.’

‘Good. Go to the man in the police uniform down there and he’ll give you a rifle.’

‘Thank you.’ The pilot put three fingers to his white cap and left.

‘What does Tourtell say?’ Duff asked.

‘Capitol has been informed about the hostage,’ Malcolm said. ‘But they can’t help us until an arrest warrant has been issued this afternoon.’

‘Jesus, there are people’s lives at risk here.’

‘One life. That doesn’t qualify for federal intervention unless our chief commissioner requests it.’

‘Bloody politics! And where’s Tourtell now?’ Duff stared to the east. At the edge of the mountain the pale blue sky was getting redder and redder.

‘He went to the radio studio,’ Caithness said.

‘He’s going to declare a state of emergency,’ Malcolm said. ‘We have to attack Macbeth now while we can still act under the mayor’s orders. As soon as a state of emergency’s declared we’ll be lawless revolutionaries and none of these people will be with us.’ He nodded towards the crowd.

‘Macbeth has barricaded himself in,’ Caithness said. ‘People’s lives will be lost.’

‘Yes.’ Malcolm put the megaphone to his mouth. ‘My good men and women! Take up your positions!’

The crowd ran to the barricade at the foot of the steps. Rested their weapons on car roofs, took cover behind the SWAT armoured car and the fire engine and aimed at the Inverness.

Malcolm pointed the megaphone in the same direction. ‘Macbeth! This is Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm speaking. You know, and we know, you’re in a hopeless situation. All you can achieve is to defer the inevitable. So release the hostage and give yourself up. I’ll give you one, I repeat, one minute.’

‘What did he say?’ Seyton shouted.

‘He’s giving me a minute,’ Macbeth said. ‘Can you see him?’

‘Yes, he’s standing at the top of the steps.’

‘Olafson, take your rifle and shut Malcolm up.’

‘Do you mean—’

‘Yes, I mean exactly that.’

‘All hail Macbeth!’ Seyton laughed.

‘Listen,’ Macbeth said.

Duff alternated between looking at the mountain, his watch and the men around him. His elbows and shoulders twitched with nerves. They were shifting position because of his knees and calves, which had started to shake. Apart from the six SWAT volunteers and some of the other policemen, the crowd was made up of people with ordinary jobs in accounting offices and fire stations, who had never fired a shot in anger. Or been shot at. And yet they had come here. They were willing, despite their inadequacy, to sacrifice everything. He counted down the final three seconds.

Nothing happened.

Duff exchanged glances with Malcolm and shrugged.

Malcolm sighed and lifted the megaphone to his mouth.

Duff hardly heard the bang.

Malcolm staggered back, and the megaphone fell to the ground with a clang.

Duff and Fleance reacted at once, throwing themselves over Malcolm and covering him as he fell to the ground. Duff felt for blood and a pulse.

‘I’m fine,’ Malcolm groaned. ‘I’m fine. Up you get. He hit the megaphone. That was all.’

‘When you said shut him up, I thought you meant permanently,’ Seyton shouted. ‘Now they’ll think we’re weak, sir.’

‘Wrong,’ Macbeth said. ‘Now they know we mean business, but we’re sane. If we’d killed Malcolm we’d have given them an excuse to attack us with the fury of righteousness. Now they’ll still hesitate.’

‘I think they’re going to attack anyway,’ Olafson said. ‘Look, there’s our armoured car. It’s coming towards us.’

‘Well, that’s different. A chief commissioner is allowed to defend himself. Seyton?’

‘Yes?’

‘Let the Gatling girls speak.’

Duff peeped from behind Bertha and followed the lumpen armoured car — known as a Sonderwagen — as it made its way across the square towards the Inverness. Thick, heavy diesel smoke drifted up from the vehicle’s exhaust. German engineering, steel plates and bulletproof glass. Ricardo’s plan followed usual tactics. The six SWAT volunteers would drive up to the entrance in the Sonderwagen, dismount to fire tear-gas canisters through the windows, then break down the doors and storm the building wearing gas masks. The critical point was when they emerged from the armoured car to fire the tear gas. This would take only seconds, but in those seconds they needed covering fire from the others.

Malcolm’s walkie-talkie crackled, and they heard Ricardo’s voice.

‘Covering fire in three... two... one...’

‘Fire!’ Malcolm roared.

It sounded like a drum roll as the weapons fired from the barricade. From an all-too-small drum, Duff thought. And the sound was drowned by a rising howl from the other side.

‘Holy Jesus,’ Caithness whispered.

At first it resembled a shower of rain whipping up dust from the cobbles in front of the Sonderwagen. Then with a cackle it hit the vehicle’s grille, its armour, the windscreen and the roof. The vehicle seemed to sag at the knees and sink.

‘The tyres,’ Fleance said.

The vehicle kept moving, but more slowly, as though it were driving into a hurricane.

‘It’s fine. It’s an armoured car,’ Malcolm said.

The vehicle advanced more and more slowly. And stopped. The side mirrors and bumper fell off.

‘It was an armoured car,’ Duff said.

‘Ricardo?’ Malcolm called on the walkie-talkie. ‘Ricardo? Withdraw!’

No answer.

Now the vehicle seemed to be dancing.

Then the barrage stopped. Silence fell over the square, broken only by a seagull’s lament as it flew over. Smoke, like red vapour, rose from the armoured car.

‘Ricardo! Come in, Ricardo!’

Still no answer. Duff stared at the vehicle, at the wreck. There were no signs of life. And now he knew how it had been. That afternoon in Fife.

‘Ricardo!’

‘They’re dead,’ Duff said. ‘They’re all dead.’

Malcolm sent him a sidelong glance.

Duff ran a hand over his face. ‘What’s the next move?’

‘I don’t know, Duff. That was the move.’

‘The fire engine,’ Fleance said.

The others looked at the young man.

He shrank beneath their collective gaze and for a moment seemed to stagger under the weight of it. But he straightened up and said with a slight quiver of his vocal cords, ‘We have to use the fire engine.’

‘It’s no good,’ Malcolm objected.

‘No, but if we drive it round to the back, to Thrift Street.’ Fleance paused to swallow before continuing. ‘You saw they hit the armoured car with both machine guns, and that must mean they’re not covering their rear.’

‘Because they know we can’t get in there,’ Duff said. ‘There are no doors and no windows, there’s only brick, which you’d need a pneumatic drill or heavy artillery to go through.’

‘Not through,’ Fleance said. His voice was firmer now.

‘Round?’ Duff queried.

Fleance pointed a finger to the sky.

‘Of course!’ Caithness said. ‘The fire engine.’

‘Spit it out. What’s so obvious?’ growled Malcolm, snatching a glance at the mountain.

‘The ladder,’ Duff said. ‘The roof.’

‘They’re moving the fire engine,’ Seyton shouted.

‘Why?’ Macbeth yawned. The boy was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and eyes closed. Calm and silent, he seemed to have reconciled himself to his fate and was just waiting for the end. Like Macbeth.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about you, Olafson?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘All right,’ Macbeth shouted. He had taken out the silver dagger and whittled a match to a point. He poked it between his front teeth. Left the dagger on the felt. Picked up two chips and began to flip them between the fingers of each hand. He had learned how to do this at the circus. It was an exercise to balance the difference between the motor functions of his left and right hands. He sucked the matchstick, flipped the chips and examined what he was feeling. Nothing. He tried to work out what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking about Banquo and he wasn’t thinking about Lady. He was just thinking that he didn’t feel anything. And he thought one more thing: Why? Why...?

He thought about that for a while...

Then he closed his eyes and began to count down from ten.

‘This is not like a ladder against a house. It’s going to sway more the higher we go,’ said the man in the harbour pilot’s uniform to Fleance and the two other volunteers. ‘But make only one movement at a time, one hand, then one foot. Nothing to be afraid of.’

The pilot yawned loudly and smiled quickly before grasping the ladder and starting to climb.

Fleance watched the little man, wishing he was equally unafraid. Thrift Street was empty apart from the fire engine with its fifteen-metre ladder pointing up the windowless wall.

Fleance followed the pilot, and strangely enough the fear diminished with every step. The worst was over, after all. He had spoken. And they had listened. Nodded and said they understood. Then they had got into the fire engine and driven east from the station in a great arc through the Sunday-still streets, arriving at the rear of the Inverness unseen.

Fleance looked up and saw the harbour pilot signalling from the roof that the way was clear.

They had gone through the drawings of the Inverness so thoroughly last night that Fleance knew exactly where everything was. The flat roof led to a door, and inside it there was a narrow ladder down to a boiler room with a door leading to the top corridor in the hotel. There they would split up, two men would take the northern staircase, two the southern. Both led down to the mezzanine. In a few minutes they would start shooting from the station and keep the machine-gunners’ attention focused on Workers’ Square, drowning out any sounds made by Fleance and the three others, who would sneak up from behind and eliminate the machine-gunners. The three volunteers had synchronised their watches with Fleance’s without a word of protest that they were being led by a police cadet. The cadet seemed to know the odd thing about such actions. What was it his dad had said? And if you’ve got better judgement you should lead, it’s your damned duty to the community.

Fleance heard them open fire from the station.

‘Follow me.’

They approached the roof door, pulled. Locked. As expected. He nodded to one of the policemen, a guy from the Traffic Unit, who rammed a crowbar into the crack between the door and its frame and pushed hard. The lock broke at the first attempt.

It was dark inside, but Fleance felt the heat coming from the boiler room beneath. The other policeman, a white-haired guy from the Fraud Unit, wanted to go first, but Fleance held him back. ‘Follow me,’ he whispered and stepped in over the high metal threshold. In vain he tried to distinguish shapes in the darkness and had to lower his machine gun as he groped for the railing of the ladder. The metal ladder sang as he took his first tentative step and then found the next rung. He froze, dazzled by a light. A torch had been switched on below him and shone at his face.

‘Bang,’ said a voice from behind the torch. ‘You’re dead.’

Fleance knew he was standing in the line of fire of the three behind him. And he knew he wouldn’t have time to fire his machine gun. Because he knew whose the voice was.

‘How did you know...?’

‘I wondered to myself, Why oh why would you move a fire engine when there’s no fire alarm to be heard?’ The voice in the darkness became a low chuckle. ‘Still wearing my shoes, I see.’ Uncle Mac sounded drunk. ‘Listen, Fleance, you can save lives today. Your own and those of the other three mutineers with you. Back out now and get behind the barricade. You’ll have a better chance of getting me from there.’

Fleance ran his tongue around his mouth searching for moisture. ‘You killed Dad.’

‘Maybe,’ the voice slurred. ‘Or perhaps it was the circumstances. Or perhaps it was Banquo’s ambitions for his family. But probably — ’ in the pause came the sound of a deep sigh ‘— it was me. Go now, Fleance.’

Fluttering through Fleance’s brain were all those pretend-fights he’d had with Uncle Mac at home on the sitting-room floor, when he had let Fleance get the upper hand, only to whisk him round at the last minute and pin him flat on the floor. This wasn’t due to his uncle’s strength, but his speed and precision. But how drunk was Uncle Mac now? And how much better coordinated was Fleance? Perhaps he had a chance after all? If he was quick, perhaps he could get a shot in. Save Kasi. Save the town. Avenge—

‘Don’t do it, Fleance.’

But it was too late. Fleance had already grabbed his machine gun, and the sound of a brief volley hammered against the eardrums of all five men in the cramped boiler room.

‘Agh!’ Fleance yelled.

Then he fell from the ladder.

He didn’t feel himself hit the floor, felt nothing until he opened his eyes again. And then he saw nothing, although there was a hand against his cheek and a voice close to his ear.

‘I told you not to.’

‘Wh... where are they?’

‘They left as instructed. Sleep now, Fleance.’

‘But...’ He knew he had been shot. A leak. He coughed, and his mouth filled.

‘Sleep. Say hello to your dad when you arrive and tell him I’m right behind you.’

Fleance opened his mouth, but all that came out was blood. He felt Macbeth’s fingers on his eyelids, gentle, careful. Closing them. Fleance sucked in air as if for a dive. As he had done when he fell from the bridge into the river, into the black water, to his grave.

‘No,’ Duff said when he saw the fire engine driving towards them. ‘No!’

He and Malcolm ran to meet the vehicle, and when it stopped they tore open the doors on each side. The driver, two police officers and the harbour pilot tumbled out.

‘Macbeth was waiting for us,’ groaned the pilot, still breathless. ‘He shot Fleance.’

‘No, no, no!’ Duff leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut.

Someone laid a hand on his neck. A familiar hand. Caithness’s.

Two men in black SWAT uniforms ran over and halted in front of Malcolm. ‘Hansen and Edmunton, sir. We heard about this and came as soon as we could. And there are more coming.’

‘Thank you, guys, but we’re finished.’ Malcolm pointed. They couldn’t see the sun yet, but the silhouette of the upside-down cross at the top of the mountain had already caught its first rays. ‘Now it’s up to Tourtell.’

‘Let’s exchange hostages,’ Duff said. ‘Let Macbeth have who he wants, Malcolm. Us two. In exchange for Kasi.’

‘Don’t you think I’ve considered that?’ Malcolm said. ‘Macbeth will never exchange a mayor’s son for small change like you and me. If Tourtell declares a state of emergency Kasi will be spared. You and I will be executed whatever. And who will lead the fight against Macbeth then?’

‘Caithness,’ Duff said, ‘and all those people in this town you say you have such belief in. Are you afraid or...?’

‘Malcolm’s right,’ Caithness said. ‘You’re worth more to this town alive.’

‘Damn!’ Duff tore himself away and went towards the fire engine.

‘Where are you going?’ Caithness shouted.

‘The plinth.’

‘What?’

‘We have to smash the plinth. Hey, Chief!’

The man who had driven the fire engine stood up. ‘Erm, I’m not—’

‘Have you got any fire axes or sledgehammers in the vehicle?’

‘Of course.’

‘Look!’ Seyton shouted. ‘The sun’s shining on the top of the Obelisk. The boy has to die!’

‘We all have to die,’ Macbeth said softly and put one chip under the heart symbol on the red part of the felt, the other on black. Leaned to the left and took the ball from the roulette wheel.

‘What actually happened up on the roof?’ Seyton shouted.

‘Banquo’s boy,’ Macbeth shouted back and spun the wheel. Hard. ‘I took care of it.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I took care of it, I said.’ The roulette wheel spun in front of Macbeth, the individual numbers blurring as they formed a clear, unbroken circle. Unclear and yet clear. He had counted down to the zone and he was still there. The wheel whirled. This time it would never stop, this time he would never leave the zone — he had closed the door behind him and locked it. The wheel. Round and round towards an unknown fate, yet so familiar. The casino always wins in the end. ‘What’s that banging out there, Seyton?’

‘Why don’t you come up for a look yourself, sir?’

‘I prefer roulette. Well?’

‘They’ve started banging away at Bertha, the poor thing. And now the sun’s out, sir. I can see it. Nice and big. The time’s up. Shall we—’

‘Are they smashing up Bertha?’

‘The base she’s standing on, anyway. Keep an eye on the square and shoot at everything approaching, Olafson.’

‘Right!’

Macbeth heard the pad of feet on the stairs and looked up. The reddish tint to Seyton’s face was more noticeable than usual, as though he was sunburned. He walked past the roulette table and over to the pole, where Kasi was sitting hunched with his head lowered and his hair hanging in front of his face.

‘Who said you could leave your post?’ Macbeth said.

‘Won’t take long,’ Seyton said, pulling a black revolver from his belt. Put it to Kasi’s head.

‘Stop!’ Macbeth said.

‘We said to the second, sir. We can’t—’

‘Stop, I said!’ Macbeth turned up the volume of the radio behind him.

‘... Mayor Tourtell speaking to you. Last night I was given an ultimatum by Chief Commissioner Macbeth, who has recently been responsible for a number of murders, including that of Chief Commissioner Duncan. Last night he kidnapped my son, Kasi, after a failed attempt to kill me. The ultimatum is that unless I declare a state of emergency, thereby giving Macbeth unlimited power and preventing federal intervention, my son will be killed when the sun rises above our town. But we don’t want, I don’t want, you don’t want, Kasi doesn’t want, this town doesn’t want another despot in power. For this, good men have sacrificed their lives over the last few days. And their sons. Sacrificed their sons the way we in this and other towns did during world wars when our democracy was threatened. And now the sun is rising and Macbeth is sitting by his radio waiting for me to confirm that this day and this town are his. Here’s my message to you, Macbeth. Take him. Kasi is yours. I’m sacrificing him as I know and hope he would have sacrificed me or the son he will never have. And if you can hear me, Kasi, goodbye, apple of my eye.’ Tourtell’s voice thickened. ‘You are loved not only by me but by a whole town, and we’ll burn candles at your grave for as long as democracy exists.’ He coughed. ‘Thank you, Kasi. Thank you, citizens of this town. And now the day is ours.’

After a short silence there was a crackly recording of a man’s sonorous voice singing ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’.

Macbeth switched off the radio.

Seyton laughed and applied pressure to the trigger. The hammer rose. ‘Surprised, Kasi? A whore’s son isn’t worth much to a whoremonger, you know. But if you surrender your soul to me now I promise you a painless shot in the head instead of the stomach. Plus revenge over the whoremonger and his gang. What do you say, boy?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Seyton fixed his disbelieving eyes on the source of the answer.

‘No,’ Macbeth repeated. ‘He mustn’t be killed. Put down your revolver, Seyton.’

‘And let them out there get what they want?’

‘You heard me. We don’t shoot defenceless children.’

‘Defenceless?’ Seyton snarled. ‘What about us ? Aren’t we defenceless? Are we going to let Duff and Malcolm piss all over us again, as they always have? Are you planning to abandon your cause now that—’

‘Your revolver’s pointing at me, Seyton.’

‘Perhaps it is. Because I’m not going to let you stop the kingdom that is coming, Macbeth. You’re not the only one with a calling. I’m going—’

‘I know what you’re going to do, and if you don’t put that revolver away, you’re a dead man. A dead something anyway.’

Seyton laughed. ‘There are things you don’t know about me, Macbeth. Such as you can’t kill me.’

Macbeth looked into the muzzle of the revolver. ‘Do it then, Seyton. Because only you can send me to her. You’re not born of woman, you were made. Made of bad dreams, evil and whatever it is that wants to break and destroy.’

Seyton shook his head and pointed the revolver at Kasi’s head without taking his eyes off Macbeth. At that moment the first ray of sun penetrated the large windows on the mezzanine. Macbeth saw Seyton raise a hand to shade his eyes as the ray hit his face.

Macbeth threw at the sunshine on the tree trunk out there on the other side, at the heart carved into the wood. Knowing it would hit, for lines, veins from his fingertips, went to that heart.

There was a thud. Seyton wobbled and looked down at the handle of the dagger protruding from his chest. Then dropped the revolver and grabbed the dagger as he sank to his knees. Raised his eyes and looked at Macbeth with a fogged gaze.

‘Silver,’ Macbeth said, poking the matchstick between his front teeth again. ‘It’s said to work.’

Seyton fell forward and lay with his head by the boy’s naked feet.

Macbeth placed the white ivory ball on the wooden frame around the rotating roulette wheel and sent it hard in the opposite direction.

‘Keep going!’ Duff shouted to the men beating away with sledgehammers and fire axes at the front of the plinth, where they had already dislodged big lumps of concrete.

And then the plinth cracked, and the locomotive’s plough-shaped cow catcher dropped with an almighty bang. Duff almost fell forward in the driver’s cab, but grabbed a lever and managed to hold on tight. The locomotive’s nose, in front of him, was pointing downwards, but it didn’t move.

‘Come on!’

Still nothing.

‘Come on then, you old woman!’

And Duff felt something through his feet. It had moved. Hadn’t it? Or... He heard a sound like a low lament. Yes, it had moved, for the first time in eighty years Bertha Birnam had moved, and now the wailing of its movable metal parts rose, rose in a crescendo to a scream of protest. Years of rust and the laws of friction and inertia tried to hold on, but gravity was invincible.

‘Keep clear!’ Duff shrieked, tightening the strap of his machine gun and holding the butt of the reserve weapon he had tucked inside his belt.

The steam engine’s wheels turned, wrenched out of their torpor, rolled slowly down the eight-metre length of rail and tipped off the plinth. The front wheels hit the top of the steps and the flagstones broke with a deafening crunch. For a moment it seemed the train would stop there, but then Duff heard the next step crack. And the next. And he knew that nothing could now stop this slowly accelerating massive force.

Duff stared fixedly ahead, but from the corner of his eye he registered that someone had jumped onto the train and was standing beside him.

‘Single to the Inverness, please.’ It was Caithness.

‘Sir!’ It was Olafson.

‘Yes?’ Macbeth’s gaze followed the ivory’s rumbling revolutions.

‘I think it... it’s... coming.’

‘What’s coming?’

‘The... train.’

Macbeth raised his head. ‘The train?’

‘Bertha! She’s coming... here! It’s—’

The rest was drowned. Macbeth got up. From where he was standing in the gaming room he couldn’t see up to the station building, only the sloping square outside the tall window. But he could hear. It sounded like something was being crunched to pieces by a bellowing monster. And it was coming closer.

And then, crossing the square in front of the Inverness, it came into his field of vision.

He gulped.

Bertha was coming.

‘Fire!’

Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm stared in disbelief. Because he knew that whatever happened now he was never going to see the like of this again in his lifetime. A steam engine eating stone and making its own track across Workers’ Square. A form of transport their forefathers had built with iron, too heavy and solid to be held back, with ball bearings that didn’t rust or dry out after a mere eighty years of neglect, a locomotive against which a hail of bullets from a Gatling gun produced sparks but was repelled like water as it held its course straight towards Inverness Casino.

‘That is one solid building,’ someone said next to him.

Malcolm shook his head. ‘It’s just a gambling den,’ he said.

‘Hold on tight!’ Duff yelled.

Caithness had sat down on the iron floor with her back to the side of the cab to avoid ricochets from the bullets screaming over their heads. She shouted something, her facial muscles tensed and her eyes closed.

‘What?’ yelled Duff.

‘I love—’

Then they hit the Inverness.

Macbeth enjoyed the sight of Bertha filling the window before she smashed through. He had a feeling the whole building — the floor he was sitting on, the air in the room — everything was pushed back as the train broke through the wall into the room. The noise lay like a coating on his eardrums. The funnel on the steam engine cut through the eastern part of the mezzanine and its cow catcher dug into the floor. The Inverness had braked her, but Bertha was still eating her way forward, metre by metre. She stopped half a metre in front of him, with the funnel against the railing of the west mezzanine and the cow catcher touching the roulette table. For a moment there was total silence. Then came a rattle of crystal. And Macbeth knew what that was. Bertha had sliced the ropes holding the chandelier above him. He made no attempt to move, he didn’t even look up. All he noticed before everything went black was that he was covered in Bohemian glass.

Duff climbed up onto the train with the machine gun in his hands. The low rays of sun shone through the dust filling the air.

‘The Gatling gun in the south-east corner is unmanned!’ Caithness shouted behind him. ‘What about—’

‘Unmanned on the south-west too,’ Duff said. ‘Seyton’s lying by the roulette table with a dagger in him. Looks pretty dead.’

‘Kasi’s here. Looks like he’s unharmed.’

Duff scanned what once had been a gaming room. Coughed because of the dust. Listened. Apart from the frenetic rolling of a roulette ball in the wheel, there was silence. Sunday morning. In a few hours the church bells would peal. He clambered down. Stepped over Seyton’s body to the chandelier. Used the sabre to sweep away the bits of glass from Macbeth’s face.

Macbeth’s eyes were wide open with surprise, like a child’s. The point of the chandelier’s gilt spire had disappeared into his right shoulder. Not much blood ran from the wound, which contracted rhythmically as if sucking from the light fitting.

‘Good morning, Duff.’

‘Good morning, Macbeth.’

‘Heh heh. Do you remember we used to say that every morning when we got up in the orphanage, Duff? You were in the top bunk.’

‘Where are the others? Where’s Olafson?’

‘Clever lad, that Olafson. He knows when the time’s right to scarper. Like you.’

‘Your SWAT men don’t scarper,’ Duff said.

Macbeth sighed. ‘No, you’re right. Would you believe me if I said he’s behind you and will kill you in... erm, two seconds?’

Duff eyed Macbeth for a moment. Then he whirled round. Up where the mezzanine was cut in two, he saw two figures against the morning sun shining in through the hole in the east wall. One was a medieval suit of armour. The second, Olafson, kneeling with his rifle resting on the balustrade. Fifteen metres. Olafson could hit a penny from there.

A shot rang out.

Duff knew he was dead.

So why was he still standing?

The echo of the shot resounded through the room.

Macbeth saw Olafson fall against the suit of armour, which toppled back, fell through the gap in the mezzanine and clattered to the gaming-room floor. On the mezzanine Olafson lay with his face pressed to the railing. His cheek was pushed over one eye, the other was closed, as though he had fallen asleep over his Remington 700 rifle.

‘Fleance!’ Caithness shouted.

Duff turned to the northern end of the mezzanine.

And there, up where the stairs came down from the upper floors, stood Fleance. His shirt was drenched with blood, he was swaying and clinging to a still-smoking gun.

‘Caithness, get Kasi and Fleance out,’ Duff said. ‘Now.’

Duff slumped into the chair beside the roulette table. The ball in the wheel was slowing; the sound had changed.

‘What happens now?’ Macbeth groaned.

‘We wait here until the others come. They’ll patch you up at the hospital. Custody. Federal case. They’ll be talking about you for years, Macbeth.’

‘Still think you’ve got the top bunk, do you, Duff?’

Crystal rattled. Duff looked up. Macbeth had raised his left hand.

‘You know I have the speed of a fly. Before you’ve let go of that sabre and reached for your gun you’ll have a dagger in your chest. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Possibly,’ Duff said. Instead of feeling fear he felt just an immense weariness creeping over him. ‘And you’ll still lose, as always.’

Macbeth laughed. ‘And why’s that?’

‘It’s just one of those self-fulfilling things. You’ve always known, all your life, you’re doomed to lose in the end. That certainty is and always has been you, Macbeth.’

‘Oh yes? Haven’t you heard? No man born of woman can kill me. That’s Hecate’s promise, and he’s shown several times that he keeps his promises. So do you know what? I can just get up from here and go.’ He tried to lever himself up into a sitting position, but the weight of the chandelier pressed down on him.

‘Hecate forgot to take me into account when he made you that promise,’ Duff said, keeping an eye on Macbeth’s left hand. ‘I can kill you, so just lie still.’

‘Are you hard of hearing, Duff? I said—’

‘But I wasn’t born of woman,’ Duff wheezed.

‘You weren’t?’

‘No. I was cut out of my mother, not born.’ Duff leaned forward and ran his forefinger down the scar over his face.

Macbeth was blinking with his child-eyes. ‘You... you weren’t born when Sweno killed her?’

‘She was pregnant with me. I was told she was trying to stop the bleeding at the house of an officer when Sweno swung this—’ Duff raised the sabre ‘—and cut open her stomach.’

‘And your face.’

Duff nodded slowly. ‘You won’t get away from me, Macbeth. You’ve lost.’

‘Loss after loss. We start off having everything and then we lose everything. I thought it was the only thing that was certain, the amnesty of death. But not even that is guaranteed. Only you can give me death and send me to where I can be reunited with my beloved, Duff. Be my saviour.’

‘No. You’re under arrest and will rot alone in a prison.’

Macbeth chuckled. ‘I can’t, and you can’t stop yourself. You couldn’t stop yourself trying to kill me in the alley and you can’t now. We are as we are, Duff. Free will is an illusion. So do what you have to do. Do what you are. Or shall I help you and say their names? Meredith, Emily and—’

‘Ewan,’ Duff said. ‘You’re the one who can’t change from the person you’ve always wanted to be, Macbeth. That’s how I knew there was still hope for Kasi even though the sun had risen over the mountain. You’ve never been able to kill a defenceless man. And even if you’re remembered as more brutal than Sweno, more corrupt than Kenneth, it is your good qualities that have brought you down, your lack of brutality.’

‘I was always the reverse of you, Duff. And hence your mirror image. So kill me now.’

‘Why the hurry? The place awaiting the likes of you is hell.’

‘So let me go.’

‘If you ask for your sins to be forgiven, maybe you’ll escape.’

‘I’ve sold that chance, Duff. And happily, because I’m looking forward to meeting my beloved again, even if it’s to burn together for all eternity.’

‘Well, you’ll get a fair trial and your sentence will be neither too severe nor too mild. It will be the first proof that this town can be civilised. It can become whole again.’

‘You fatuous idiot!’ Macbeth screamed. ‘You’re fooling yourself. You believe you’re thinking the thoughts you want to think, you believe you’re the person you want to be, but your brain’s desperately searching right now for a pretext to kill me as I lie here defenceless, and that’s precisely why something in you resists. But your hatred is like that train: it can’t be stopped once it has got going.’

‘You’re mistaken, Macbeth. We can change.’

‘Oh yes? Then taste this dagger, free man.’ Macbeth’s hand reached inside his jacket.

Duff reacted instinctively, folded both hands round the handle of the sabre and thrust.

He was surprised by how easily the blade sliced through Macbeth’s chest. And when it met the floor beneath, he felt a tremble spread from Macbeth’s body to the sabre and himself. A long sigh issued from Macbeth’s lips, and a fine spray of pink blood came from his mouth and settled on Duff’s hands like warm rain. He looked down into Macbeth’s eyes, not knowing what he was after, only that he didn’t find it. All he saw was a light extinguishing as the pupils grew and slowly ousted the irises.

Duff let go of the sabre and stepped back two paces.

Stood there in silence.

Sunday morning.

Heard voices approaching from Workers’ Square.

He didn’t want to. But he knew he would have to. So he did. Pulled Macbeth’s jacket open.

Macbeth’s left hand lay flat on his chest. There was nothing there, no shoulder holster, no dagger, only a white shirt gradually turning red.

A pecking sound. Duff turned. It came from the roulette table. He got to his feet. On the felt a chip lay on red, under the heart, another on black. But the sound came from the wheel, which was still spinning but more and more slowly. The white ball danced between the numbers. Then it came to rest, finally trapped.

In the one green slot, which means the house takes all.

None of the players wins.

43

Church bells pealed in the distance. The one-eyed boy stood in the waiting room at the central station looking out into the daylight. It was a strange sight. From the waiting room Bertha had always blocked the view of the Inverness, but now the old steam engine skewered the facade of the casino. Even in the sharp sunlight he could see the rotating blue lights of the police cars and the flashes of the press photographers. People had flocked to Workers’ Square, and occasionally there was a glimpse of light behind the windows in the Inverness too. That would be the SOC team taking pictures of the dead.

The boy turned and went down the corridor. As he approached the stairs down to the toilet he heard something. A low continuous howl, as if from a dog. He had heard it before, a penniless junkie who hadn’t had his fix. He peered over the railing and saw pale clothes shining in the fetid darkness below. He was about to go on when he heard a cry, like a scream: ‘Wait! Don’t go! I’ve got money!’

‘Sorry, Grandad. I haven’t got any dope and you haven’t got any money. Have a not very nice day.’

‘But I’ve got your eye!’ The boy stopped in his tracks. Went back to the railing. Stared down. That voice. Could it really be...? He went over to the stairs, looked around. There was no one else there. Then he descended into the cold damp darkness. The stench got worse with every step.

The man was lying across the threshold of the men’s toilet. Wearing what had perhaps once been a white linen suit. Now it was the ragged remains soaked in blood. Just like the man himself. Ragged, blood-soaked remains. A triangular shard of glass protruded from his forehead under a dark fringe. And there was the stick with the gilt handle. It damn well was him! The man he had been searching for all these years. Hecate. The boy’s eye gradually got used to the darkness and he saw the gaping wound, a tear across stomach and chest. It was pumping out blood, but not so much, as though he was running dry. Between each new surge of blood he could see the slimy pale-pink intestines inside.

‘Bring my suffering to an end,’ the old man rasped. ‘Then take the money I have in my inside pocket.’

The boy eyed the man. The man from all his dreams, his fantasies. Tears of pain ran down the old man’s soft cheeks. If the boy wanted, he could take out the short flick knife that he used to chop powder, the one with the narrow blade that had once removed an eye. He could stick it into the old man. It would be poetic justice.

‘Has your stomach sprung a leak?’ the boy asked, reaching inside the man’s jacket. ‘Is there acid in the wound?’ He examined the contents of the wallet.

‘Hurry!’ the old man sobbed.

‘Macbeth’s dead,’ the boy said, quickly counting the notes. ‘Do you think that makes the world a better place?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think Macbeth’s successors will be any better, fairer or more compassionate? Is there any reason to think they will be?’

‘Shut up, boy, and get it over with. Use the stick if you want.’

‘If death is what’s most precious for you, Hecate, I won’t take death from you as you took my eye. Do you know why?’

The old man frowned, stared, and the boy saw signs of recognition in his tear-filled eyes.

‘Because I think we have the ability to change and become better people,’ the boy said, putting the wallet in his ragged trousers. ‘That’s why I think Macbeth’s successors will be a little better. Small, small steps, but a little better. A little more humane. Isn’t it strange, by the way, that we use the word humane, human really, to describe what is good and compassionate?’ The boy pulled his knife, and the blade sprang out. ‘Bearing in mind all we’ve done to one another all the way through history, I mean?’

‘Here,’ groaned the old man, pointing to his throat. ‘Quickly.’

‘Do you remember that I had to cut out my eye myself?’

‘What?’

The boy pressed the handle of the knife into the man’s hand. ‘Do it yourself.’

‘But you said... more humane... I can’t do it... please!’

‘Small steps, small steps,’ the boy said, getting up and patting his pocket. ‘We’re getting better, but we won’t be saints overnight, you know.’

The howls followed the boy through the station, all the way until he emerged into the radiant sunshine.

44

The shiny raindrop fell from the sky, through the darkness, towards the shivering lights of the port below. North-westerly gusts of wind drove the raindrop east of the slow-flowing river that divided the town in two and south of the busy train line that split the town diagonally. The wind carried the raindrop over District 4 to the Obelisk and a new building, the Spring, two hotels where business people from Capitol stayed. Occasionally a yokel wandered into the Obelisk and asked whether this hadn’t been a casino before. Most had forgotten, but they all remembered the other casino, the one that had been in the railway building which now housed the recently opened town library. The raindrop drifted over police HQ, where lights burned in Chief Commissioner Malcolm’s office as he held a management meeting about restructuring. At first there had been some frustration among staff that Mayor Tourtell and the town council were demanding downsizing — a consequence of the statistics showing a strong fall in crime rates. Was this how you rewarded the police for doing such a good job over the last three years? But they realised that Malcolm was right: the job of the police was, as far as possible, to make themselves redundant. Of course this predominantly affected the Narcotics Unit and those departments that had an indirect link to the collapse of the drugs trade, such as the Homicide Unit. Staff numbers remained the same at Anti-Corruption, while the new Financial Crime Unit was the only one allowed to employ more staff. This was because of increased financial activity as a consequence of the town attracting more business and a recognition that white-collar criminals had had it too easy, contributing to a feeling that the police first and foremost served the rich. Duff had defended the size of the Organised Crime Unit by saying that he needed resources to prevent crime and that if professional criminals were to gain a foothold in the town again, this would be far more expensive to clear up. But he understood that he, like everyone else, had to accept cuts. The head of the Homicide Unit, Caithness — who had argued convincingly that with present officer numbers they could finally offer citizens a satisfactory level of efficiency in murder investigations — had even been forced to resign. So Duff was happy it was finally the weekend, and he and Caithness had planned a picnic in Fife. He was both looking forward to it and dreading it. The house had been demolished and he had let the plot grow wild. But the cabin was still there. He wanted them to lie there in the boiling sun and smell the fragrance of the tar in the planks. And listen to see if the echo of Emily and Ewan’s laughter and joyous shouts still hung there. And then he wanted to swim alone out to the smooth rock. They say there are no roads back to the places — and the person — you were. He just had to find out if this was true. Not to forget. But so that he could finally look ahead.

The raindrop continued eastwards, over the expensive shopping streets in District 2 West before descending towards a forest-clad hillside next to the ring road, which glittered like a gold necklace around the town’s neck this evening. There, at the top of Gallows Hill, the raindrop fell between the trees until with a splash it hit a large green oak leaf. Ran to the tip of the leaf, hung, collecting gravity, ready to fall the last few metres onto two men standing in the darkness under the tree.

‘It’s changed,’ a deep voice said.

‘You’ve been gone a long time, sir,’ a higher-pitched one answered.

‘Gone. Exactly. That’s what I thought I was. And you haven’t told me how you found me, Mr Bonus.’

‘Oh, I keep my eyes and ears open. I listen and look, that’s kind of my talent. The only one, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t know if I believe you entirely there. Listen — I’ll make no bones about it — I don’t like you, Mr Bonus. You remind me a bit too much of those creatures you find in the water that attach themselves to bigger animals and suck.’

‘Suckerfish, sir?’

‘I was thinking of leeches. Horrible little things. Though harmless enough. So if you think you can help me to get my town back you can suck a bit by all means. Just watch it though. If you suck too hard I’ll cut you off. Now tell me.’

‘There are no competitors in the market. Many of the junkies moved to Capitol when the dope dried up here. The town council and the chief commissioner have finally begun to lower their guard. Downsizing. The timing’s perfect. The potential for new, young customers is unlimited, and I’ve also found the sister who survived when Hecate’s drug factory exploded. And she still has the recipe. Customers won’t have alternatives to what we can offer them, sir.’

‘And why do you need me?’

‘I don’t have the capital, the dynamism or your leadership qualities, sir. But I have...’

‘Eyes and ears. And a suckermouth.’ The old man threw down a half-smoked Davidoff Long Panatella as the raindrop on the branch above him lengthened. ‘I’ll think about it. Not because of what you’ve said, Mr Bonus. All towns are potentially good markets if you’ve got a good product.’

‘I see. So why here?’

‘Because this town took my brother from me, my club house — everything. So I owe it something.’

The raindrop let go. Landed on an animal’s horn. Ran down it to the shiny surface of a biker’s helmet.

‘I owe it hell on earth.’