Ю Несбё - Macbeth

‘The next press conference is tomorrow morning at eleven here in Scone Hall. Thank you.’

Macbeth collected his papers, and there was a groan of disappointment before a hail of protests and questions. Macbeth peered across the room. He wanted to stay there a couple more seconds. He managed — with some difficulty — to stop the incipient smile at the last moment.

He looks like the bloody captain of a boat , thought Duff, sitting in the front row. A captain fearlessly looking across the stormy sea. Someone has taught him that. It’s not the Macbeth I know. Knew.

Macbeth nodded briefly, marched across the podium and disappeared through the door held open by Priscilla.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Lennox?’ Duff asked while the journalists were still shouting for an encore behind them.

‘I’m moved,’ said the redhead inspector. ‘And inspired.’

‘Exactly. That was more like an election speech than a press conference.’

‘You can interpret it like that or you can interpret it as a clever and responsible tactical move.’

‘Responsible?’ Duff snorted.

‘A town, a country, rests on notions. Notions that banknotes can be exchanged for gold, notions that our leaders think about you and me and not their own good, that crimes will be punished. If we didn’t believe in those notions civilised society would disintegrate in a frighteningly short time. And in a situation where anarchy is knocking on the door Macbeth has just reassured us that the town’s public institutions are fully intact. It was a speech worthy of a statesman.’

‘Or stateswoman.’

‘You think those were Lady’s words, not Macbeth’s?’

‘Women understand hearts and how to speak to them. Because the heart is the woman in us. Even if the brain is bigger, talks more and believes that the husband rules the house, it’s the heart that silently makes the decisions. The speech touched your heart and the brain gladly follows. Believe me, Macbeth doesn’t have it in him; the speech is her work.’

‘So what? We all need a better half. As long as the result is what we want it doesn’t matter if the devil himself is behind it. You’re not jealous of Macbeth, are you, Duff?’

‘Jealous?’ Duff snorted. ‘Why would I be? He looks and speaks like a real leader, and if he acts like one as well, it’s obviously best for all of us that he leads and no one else.’

Chairs scraped back behind them. Macbeth hadn’t returned and their deadline was approaching.

It was an hour to midnight. The wind had dropped, but litter and wreckage from last night’s storm were still being blown through the streets. The damp north-westerly was compressed and accelerated through the corridors of the station concourse, past a bundle lying beside the wall and — a few metres further down — a man with a scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth.

Strega went over to him.

‘Afraid you’ll be recognised, Macbeth?’

‘Shh, don’t say my name. I gave a speech this evening and I’m afraid I lost my anonymity.’

‘I saw the evening news, yes. You looked good up there. I believed almost everything you said. But then a handsome face has always had that effect on me.’

‘How come you appear as soon as I show up here, Strega?’

She smiled. ‘Brew?’

‘Have you got anything else? Speed? Cocaine? I’m seeing things and get such terrible dreams from brew.’

‘It was the storm, not brew, that gave you such bad dreams, Macbeth. I don’t touch the stuff, yet I dreamed that all the dogs went mad from the thunder. I saw them going for each other with foam coming from their jaws. And while they were still alive they were eating each other. I was covered in sweat and relieved when I woke up.’

Macbeth pointed at the bundle further up the corridor. ‘There you have your dream.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the corpse of a half-eaten dog, can’t you see?’

‘I think you’re seeing things again. Here.’ She put a little bag in his hand. ‘Brew. Don’t go crazy now, Macbeth. Remember the path is simple, it runs straight ahead.’

As Macbeth passed Bertha and hurried down across the deserted Workers’ Square where it sloped down towards Inverness Casino’s illuminated facade he saw a figure standing in the darkness and rain. And on getting closer he saw to his surprise that it was Banquo.

‘What are you doing here?’ Macbeth said.

‘Waiting for you,’ Banquo said.

‘Midway between Bertha and the Inverness, where neither can give you shelter?’

‘I couldn’t make up my mind,’ Banquo said.

‘Which way to go?’

‘What to do with Malcolm.’

‘You didn’t put the chains around him, is that it?’

‘What?’

‘The divers haven’t found the body yet. Without some weight the current will have taken him.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘No? Let’s go to the Inverness then instead of standing here and getting cold and wet.’

‘For me it’s too late. I’m chilled to the very bottom of my heart. I was waiting for you here because there are journalists outside the casino. They’re waiting for you, the new chief commissioner.’

‘Then we’d better do this quickly. What happened?’

‘I skinned the cat in a different way. You have nothing to fear. Malcolm’s gone for ever and will never come back. And even if he did he has no idea you’ve played a part in this. He thinks Hecate’s behind everything.’

‘What are you talking about? Is Malcolm alive ?’

Banquo shivered. ‘Malcolm thinks I’m in Hecate’s pocket and it was me who influenced Duncan’s bodyguards. I know this wasn’t what we agreed. But I solved our problem and I saved the life of a good man.’

‘Where’s Malcolm now?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where?’ Macbeth said and saw from Banquo’s face that he had raised his voice.

‘I drove him to the airport and put him on a plane to Capitol. From there he’ll go abroad. He knows that if he tries to contact anyone or gives the smallest sign of being alive, his daughter Julia will be liquidated at once. Malcolm is a father, Macbeth. And I know what that means. He will never risk his daughter’s life, never . He’d rather let a town go to the dogs. Believe me, even in the draughtiest attic a flea-bitten Malcolm will wake up every morning hungry, cold and lonely and thank his maker that his daughter can live another day.’

Macbeth raised his hand and then saw something in Banquo’s eyes he had only ever seen once before. Not in all the operations they had carried out together against desperadoes or lunatics who had taken children as hostages. Not the times Banquo had faced an adversary who was bigger, stronger and he knew would — and did — give him a beating. Macbeth had only seen this expression on Banquo’s face once, and it was the time he came home after visiting Vera in hospital and the doctor had told him the result of the latest tests. Fear. Sheer, unadulterated fear. And for that reason Macbeth suspected it wasn’t for himself that Banquo was afraid.

‘Thank you,’ Macbeth said. He laid his hand heavily on Banquo’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, my dear friend, for being kind where I was not. I thought one man was a small sacrifice for such an immense objective as ours. But you’re right: a town can’t be saved from going to the dogs by letting good men die without need. This one could be spared and so he should be spared. And perhaps you’ve saved us both from ending up in hell for such a gross act of cruelty.’

‘I’m so glad you see it that way,’ Banquo exclaimed, and Macbeth could feel the trembling muscles in Banquo’s shoulder relax under his hand.

‘Get off home and sleep now, Banquo. And say hello to Fleance from me.’