Ю Несбё - Macbeth

The receptionist went off.

‘Thanks, Macbeth, but I’ve been told to collect Duncan.’

‘Is it that urgent? And aren’t you a bit early?’

‘We’ve arranged a time to be home, and I remembered that Kenneth Bridge was still out of action, so we’ll have to take the detour over the old bridge.’

‘Relax.’ Macbeth laughed, grabbing Duff under the arm. ‘She won’t be setting a stopwatch, will she? And you look exhausted, so if you’re driving you’ll need some strong coffee. Come on, let’s sit down.’

Duff hesitated. ‘Thanks, my friend, but that’ll have to wait.’

‘A cup of coffee and she won’t notice the smell of whisky quite as easily.’

‘I’m considering becoming a teetotaller like you.’

‘Are you?’

‘Booze leads to three things: a colourful nose, sleep and pissing. In Duncan’s case, obviously sleep. I’ll go up and—’

Macbeth held on to his arm. ‘And booze is lust’s dupe, I’ve heard. Increases your lust but reduces performance. How was your night? Tell me. Slowly and in detail.’

Duff arched an eyebrow. Slowly and in detail. Was he using the interrogation term from their police college days as a jokey parody or did he know something? No, Macbeth didn’t talk in riddles. He didn’t have the patience or the ability. ‘There’s not much to tell. I stayed with a cousin.’

‘Eh? You never told me you had any family. I thought your grandfather was the last relation you had. Look, here’s the coffee. Just put it on the table, Jack. And try ringing Duncan again.’

Reassured that the receptionist was on the case, Duff went down the steps and greedily reached for the coffee. But stayed standing.

‘The family, yes,’ Macbeth said. ‘It’s a source of a constant guilty conscience, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, maybe,’ said Duff, who had burned his tongue with his first sip and was now blowing on the coffee.

‘How are they? Are they enjoying Fife?’

‘Everyone enjoys Fife.’

‘Duncan still isn’t answering his phone, sir.’

‘Thanks, Jack. Keep trying. Lots of people will have heavy heads this morning.’

Duff put down his cup. ‘Macbeth, I think I’ll wake him first and drink coffee afterwards, so we can get going.’

‘I’ll go up with you. He’s next to us,’ Macbeth said, taking a sip of his coffee. He spilled it on his hand and jacket sleeve. ‘Whoops. Have you got a paper towel, Jack?’

‘I’ll just—’

‘Hang about, Duff. That’s it, yes. Thanks, Jack. Come on, let’s go.’

They walked up the stairs.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Duff asked.

‘No. Why?’

‘I’ve never seen you climb stairs so slowly.’

‘I might have pulled a muscle during the Norse Rider chase.’

‘Hm.’

‘Otherwise. Sleep well?’

‘No,’ Duff said. ‘It was a terrible night. Thunder, lightning and rain.’

‘Yes, it was a bad night.’

‘So you didn’t sleep either?’

‘Well, I did—’

Duff turned and looked at him.

‘—after the worst of the storm had died down,’ Macbeth finished. ‘Here we are.’

Duff knocked. Waited and knocked again. Grabbed the door knob. The door was locked. And he had a sense, a sense something was not as it should be.

‘Is there a master key?’

‘I’ll go and ask Jack,’ Macbeth said.

‘Jack!’ Duff shouted. And then again, from the bottom of his lungs: ‘Jack!’

After a few seconds the receptionist’s head appeared over the edge of the stairs. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Have you got a master key?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come here and open the door at once.’

The receptionist ran up to them, taking short steps, rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key, put it in the lock and twisted.

Duff opened the door.

They stood staring. The first person to speak was the receptionist.

‘Holy shit.’

Macbeth examined the scene, conscious of the door threshold pressing against the sole of his foot, and heard Duff smash the glass of the fire alarm, which immediately began to howl. The dagger had been removed from the right-hand side of Duncan’s neck and Lady had added a stab on the left. The gun on the duvet had also been removed. Otherwise everything appeared to be how it had been.

‘Jack!’ Duff called over the howl. ‘Get everyone out of their rooms and assemble them in reception now. Not a word about what you’ve seen, all right?’

‘All r-right, sir.’

Doors down the corridor opened. Out of the closest came Lady, barefoot and in her dressing gown.

‘What’s up, darling? Is there a fire?’

She was good. They were back following the plan, he was still in the zone, and Macbeth felt at this second, at this moment, with everything apparently in chaos, that everything was actually on track. Right now he and the woman he loved were unbeatable, right now they were in total control — of the town, fate, the orbit of the stars. And he felt it now, it was like a high, as strong as anything Hecate could offer.

‘Where on earth are his bodyguards?’ Duff shouted, furious.

They hadn’t imagined it would be Duff in the role of witness to what was about to happen, but one of the more perplexed and frightened overnight guests they had placed in neighbouring rooms, such as Malcolm. But now Duff was here he was impossible to ignore.

‘In here, darling,’ Macbeth said. ‘You too, Duff.’

He pushed them into Duncan’s room and closed the door. Took his service pistol from the holster on his trouser belt. ‘Listen carefully now. The door was locked and there was no sign of a break-in. The only person who has a master key to this room is Jack...’

‘And me,’ said Lady. ‘I think so anyway...’

‘Apart from that, there’s only one possibility.’ Macbeth pointed to the door to the adjacent room.

‘His own bodyguards?’ Lady said in horror and put a hand to her mouth.

Macbeth cocked his gun. ‘I’m going in to check.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Duff said.

‘ No , you won’t,’ Macbeth said. ‘This is my business, not yours.’

‘And I choose to ma—’

‘You’ll choose to do what I tell you, Inspector Duff.’

Macbeth initially saw surprise in Duff’s face. Afterwards it slowly sank in: the head of Organised Crime outranked the head of Homicide.

‘Take care of Lady, will you, Duff?’

Without waiting for an answer Macbeth opened the door to the guards’ room, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The bodyguards were still in their chairs. One of them grunted; perhaps the fire alarm was penetrating the heavy veil of drugs.

Macbeth struck him with the back of his hand.

One eye half-opened, its gaze floated around the room and landed on Macbeth. It remained there before gradually taking in his body.

Andrianov registered that his black suit jacket and white shirt were covered with blood, then he felt that something was missing. The weight of his gun in its holster. He put a hand inside his jacket and down into the holster, where his fingers found instead of his service pistol cold sharp steel and something sticky... The bodyguard removed his hand and looked at it. Blood? Was he still dreaming? He groaned, a section of his brain received what it interpreted as signals of danger, and he desperately tried to collect himself, automatically looked around, and there, on the floor beside his chair he saw his gun. And his colleague’s gun, beside the chair where he lay, apparently asleep.

‘What...’ Andrianov mumbled, looking into the muzzle of the gun held by the man in front of him.

‘Police!’ the man shouted. It was Macbeth. The new head of... of... ‘Hold the guns where I can see them or I’ll shoot.’