Ю Несбё - Macbeth

‘I will. Goodnight.’

Macbeth crossed the square, pensive. Sometimes good men did die for no need, he thought. And sometimes there was a need. He entered the light from the Inverness, ignored the journalists’ barked questions about Malcolm, about Duncan’s bodyguards, about whether it really was he who had shot them both.

Inside, Lady received him.

‘They broadcast the whole of the press conference live on TV, and you were fantastic,’ she said and hugged him. He wouldn’t let her go again. He held her until he could feel heat returning to his body. Felt the wonderful electric currents down his back as her lips touched his ear and she whispered, ‘Chief Commissioner.’

Home. With her. The two of them. This, this was all he wanted. But to have this you had to merit it. That is how it is in this world. And, he thought, also in the next.

‘Are you home?’

Duff turned in the doorway to the children’s room, to the surprised voice behind him. Meredith had put on a dressing gown and stood with her arms crossed, shivering.

‘Just popped by,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. Doesn’t Ewan want to sleep in his own room?’ He nodded towards his son, who lay curled up in the bed beside his big sister.

Meredith sighed. ‘He’s started going to Emily when he can’t sleep. I thought you would be staying in town while you’re working on these dreadful things?’

‘Yes. Yes, but I had to escape for a while. Get some clean clothes. See if you all still existed. I thought I’d sleep a couple of hours in the guest room and then be on my way.’

‘All right, I’ll make up the bed. Have you eaten?’

‘I’m not hungry. I’ll have a sandwich when I wake up.’

‘I can make you some breakfast. I can’t sleep anyway.’

‘You go and sleep, Meredith. I’ll be up for a bit, then I’ll make up the bed.’

‘As you like.’ She stood there with her arms crossed looking at him, but in the darkness he couldn’t see her eyes. She turned and went.

‘But I want to know why ,’ Duff said, placing his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. ‘Why didn’t Andrianov and Hennessy run off? Why would two treacherous bodyguards first kill their boss and then lie down for a sleep in the adjacent room, covered in blood and evidence from here to hell? Come on, you’re detectives, you must have some bloody suggestions at least!’

He looked around. Several of the Homicide Unit’s twelve detectives sat in the room in front of him, but the only one who opened his mouth did so to yawn. It was Monday morning — perhaps that was why they were so uncommunicative, looked so ill-at-ease and switched off? No, these faces would look just as tired tomorrow unless someone got a grip on things. There was a reason the Homicide Unit had been without a formal leader for the two months that had passed since Duncan had given the previous head an ultimatum: resign or an internal enquiry will be set up to investigate suspected corruption. There were no qualified applicants. Under Kenneth, the Homicide Unit had had the lowest clear-up rate in the country, and corruption was not the only reason. While the Homicide Unit in Capitol got the best in the field, the Homicide Unit at police HQ had only the dregs: the apathetic and the dysfunctional.

‘This has to be turned round,’ Duncan had said. ‘The success or failure of the Homicide Unit determines to a large extent people’s confidence in the police. That’s why I’m putting one of our finest officers on the case. You, Duff.’

Duncan had known how to serve up bad news to his staff in an inspiring way. Duff groaned. He had a pile of reports beside him worth less than the paper they were written on — meaninglessly detailed interviews with guests at Inverness Casino all telling the same story: they hadn’t seen or heard anything apart from the hellish weather. Duff knew the silence around the table might be because they were simply afraid of his fury, but he didn’t give a damn. This wasn’t a popularity contest, and if they had to be frightened into doing something, fine by him.

‘So we think the guilty bodyguards just slept the sleep of the innocent, do we? As it had been a long day at work. Which of you idiots votes for that?’

No reaction.

‘And who doesn’t believe that?’

‘Not of the innocent,’ said Caithness, who had just breezed in through the door. ‘Of the medicated. Apologies for my late arrival, but I had to pick up this.’ She waved something horribly resembling a report. Which it was, Duff established as it landed in front of the pile on the table with a thud. More precisely, a forensic report. ‘Blood samples taken from Andrianov and Hennessy show they had enough benzodiazepines in their bodies to sleep for twelve hours.’ Caithness sat down on one of the unoccupied chairs.

‘Bodyguards who take sleeping tablets?’ Duff said in disbelief.

‘They calm you down,’ said one guy rocking on a chair at the back of the room. ‘If you’re going to assassinate your boss, you’re probably a bit shaky. Lots of bank robbers take benzos.’

‘And that’s why they fuck it up,’ said a detective with nervous twitches around his nose wearing a shoulder holster over a white polo neck.

Laughter. Short-lived.

‘What do you reckon, Caithness?’ Duff said.

She shrugged. ‘Detection is not my field of expertise, but to me it seems pretty obvious that they needed to take something to calm their nerves, but they don’t know a lot about drugs, so they messed up the dosage. During the murder the drugs worked as intended. Their reflexes were still fast, but the nervousness was gone, and the clean cuts show a steady hand. But after the murder, when the chemical really kicked in, they lost control of the situation. They wandered around getting blood all over themselves and in the end both simply fell asleep in chairs.’

‘Typical,’ said the polo neck. ‘Once we nabbed two doped-up bank robbers who had fallen asleep in their getaway car at the lights. I’m not kidding. Criminals are so bloody stupid you can—’

‘Thank you,’ Duff interrupted. ‘How do you know their reflexes were still fast?’

Caithness shrugged. ‘Whoever made the first stab managed to remove their hand from the knife before the blood spurted out. Our blood-spatter analyst says the blood on the handle is from the spurt. It didn’t run, drip or get smeared on.’

‘In which case I agree with all your other conclusions,’ Duff said. ‘Who disagrees?’

No reaction.

‘Anyone agree?’

Mute nods.

‘Good, let’s say that answers that then. Now let’s go to the other loose thread. Malcolm’s suicide.’ Duff stood up. ‘His letter says that the Norse Riders threatened to kill his daughter if he didn’t help them kill Duncan. My question is: instead of doing as Sweno and the Norse Riders want and taking his own life, why not go to Duncan and have his daughter moved to a safe house? Threats aren’t exactly something new for the police. What do you think?’

The others looked at the floor, each other and out of the window.

‘No opinions? Really? A whole Homicide Unit of detectives and no—’

‘Malcolm knows Sweno has contacts in the police,’ said the chair rocker. ‘He knows Sweno would have found his daughter anyway.’

‘Good, we’re up and running,’ Duff said, bent over and pacing to and fro in front of them. ‘Let’s assume Malcolm thinks his daughter can be saved by doing as Sweno says. Or by dying so that Sweno no longer has any reason to kill his daughter. OK?’ He saw that none of those present had a clue where he was going.

‘So if Malcolm — as the letter suggests — cannot live if either he loses his daughter or he becomes an accessory to Duncan’s murder, why didn’t he commit suicide before Duncan was murdered and save them both?’