Ю Несбё - Macbeth

Although then Kite, the reporter with the rolled ‘r’s, had said in his radio programme right after the press conference that the acting chief commissioner had yawned a lot, seemed uninvolved and looked at his watch a lot. But to hell with Kite. In the Patrols Section they definitely thought the new chief commissioner was involved enough as he had personally dropped in and redirected the patrols from District 2 West to District 1 East. He explained it was time the neighbourhoods of normal people were also patrolled. It was an important signal to send: the police didn’t prioritise districts with money and influence. And if Kite had been annoyed, Banquo had at least been happy to receive a dinner invitation with instructions to bring along Fleance.

‘Good for the lad to get used to mixing with the big boys,’ Macbeth had said. ‘And then I think you should decide what you’d like to do. Take over SWAT, Organised Crime or become the deputy chief commissioner.’

‘Me?’

‘Don’t get stressed now, Banquo. Just give it some thought, OK?’

And Banquo had chortled and shaken his head. Gentle, as always. As though he didn’t have an evil thought in his mind. Or at least he didn’t have a conscience about having one. Well, tonight the traitor would meet his maker and destroyer.

No one was on the gate of the Norse Riders’ club house. They probably didn’t have anyone left to stand guard.

Macbeth got out of his car and went into the club-room. Stopped in the doorway and looked around. It felt like a strangely long time ago since he had stood there beside Duff and scanned the same room. Now the long table had gone, and at the bar stood three men with low-slung paunches in the club’s leather jackets and two women with high-slung breasts. One was holding a baby, who was wriggling around under a muscular maternal arm tattooed with the name SEAN .

‘Colin, isn’t that the...?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ said the completely bald man with the walrus moustache in a low voice. ‘That’s the one who got Sean.’

Macbeth remembered the name from the report. It was strange how he kept forgetting the names of people he met, but never those that appeared in reports. Sean. He was the one who had been on guard at the gate, the one Macbeth had knifed in the shoulder and whom they had used as a hostage, one of those who was still in custody.

The man glared at the police officer in slack-jawed fury. Macbeth took a deep breath. It was so quiet he could hear the floorboards creak under his heels as he walked over to the bar. He addressed the leather jacket behind the counter and caught himself thinking as he opened his mouth that he shouldn’t have sniffed that last line before leaving HQ. Brew had a tendency to make him cocky. And his concern was confirmed by what came out: ‘Hello, not many people here, where is everybody? Oh, yes, that’s right. In the slammer. Or the morgue. A Glendoran, please.’

Macbeth saw the barman’s eyes flit across, knew an attack was imminent from his left and he still had oceans of time. Macbeth had always had good reflexes, but with brew he was like a fly — he could yawn, scratch his back and study his watch with its incredibly slow second hand while a fist was on its way. But then, as Colin with the walrus moustache thought he was about to connect, Macbeth swayed back, and the fist that was heading for his newly trimmed temple met air. Macbeth lifted and swung his elbow to the side, barely felt the impact, only heard a groan, the crunch of cartilage, staggering footsteps and bar stools toppling over.

‘On the rocks,’ Macbeth said.

Then he turned to the man beside him, in time to see he had clenched his right hand and drawn his shoulder back to deliver a punch. As it arrived, Macbeth lifted his hand and met Colin’s halfway. But instead of the expected crunch of bone on bone,there came the smooth sound of steel in flesh followed by a dull thud when Colin’s knuckles hit the hilt. Then his long drawn-out scream when he saw the dagger running up through his clenched hand into his forearm. Macbeth pulled out the dagger with a jerk.

‘... and some soda.’

The man with the walrus moustache fell to his knees.

‘What the hell is going on?’ said a voice.

This came from the door to the garage. The man had a big beard and a leather jacket with three chevrons on each shoulder. Plus a sawn-off shotgun in his hands.

‘I’m ordering,’ Macbeth said, turning to the barman, who still hadn’t moved.

‘Ordering what?’ said the man, coming closer.

‘Whisky. Among other things.’

‘And what else?’

‘You’re the sergeant. You run the shop when Sweno’s not here, don’t you? By the way, where’s he hiding this time?’

‘Say what you came to say and get outta here, cop scum.’

‘I won’t hear a bad word about the place, but the service could be friendlier and quicker. What about you and me doing this in peace and quiet, in a back room, Sarge?’

The man looked at Macbeth for some moments. Then he lowered the gun barrel. ‘There’s not much more damage you can do here anyway.’

‘I know. And Sweno’s going to like my commission, I can guarantee you that.’

The sergeant’s little office — for that’s what it was — had posters of motorbikes on the walls and a very small selection of engine parts on the shelves. With a desk, telephone and in and out trays. And a chair for visitors.

‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, cop.’

‘My order is for a hit job.’

If the sergeant was shocked he didn’t show it. ‘Wrong address. We don’t do that stuff for cops any more.’

‘So the rumour’s true? You used to do hit jobs for Kenneth’s men?’

‘If there was nothing else...’

‘Only this time it isn’t a competitor you would have to dispatch into the beyond,’ Macbeth said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘It’s two cops. And the payment is your Norse Riders being set free immediately afterwards and all charges dropped.’

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. ‘And how would you do that?’

‘Procedural error. Spoiled evidence. This shit happens all the time. And if the chief commissioner says we haven’t got a case, we haven’t got a case.’

The sergeant crossed his arms. ‘Carry on.’

‘The person who has to be dispatched is the guy who ensured the dope you were going to live off ended up in the river. Inspector Banquo.’ Macbeth watched the sergeant nod slowly. ‘The other is a cop sprog who will be in the same car.’

‘And why are they to be expedited?’

‘Is that important?’

‘Usually I wouldn’t ask, but this is police officers we’re talking about, and that means there’s going to be loads of trouble.’

‘Not with these ones. We know Inspector Banquo is working with Hecate, we just can’t prove it, so we have to get rid of him another way. This is the best option from our point of view.’

The sergeant nodded again. Macbeth had counted on him understanding this logic.

‘How do we know you’ll keep your part of a potential deal?’

‘Well,’ Macbeth said, squinting at the calendar girl above the sergeant’s head. ‘We have five witnesses in the bar who can vouch for Acting Chief Commissioner Macbeth being here in person and giving you a commission. You don’t think I’d want to give you any reason to make that public, do you?’

The sergeant leaned back in his chair so far it touched the wall, studying Macbeth while making growling noises and pulling at his beard. ‘And when and where would this job potentially take place?’

‘Tonight. You know Gallows Hill in District 2 West?’

‘That’s where they hanged my great-great-grandfather.’

‘On the main road above the lanes where the West Enders go shopping there’s a big junction.’