Ю Несбё - Macbeth

Fleance had given up his struggle, realising that he was trapped, he wouldn’t be able to free himself from the seat belt before it was too late. So he lay sideways on the seat, watched the guy with the sword stand up from behind the smashed counter, fragments of glass falling from his broad shoulders. He was more careful this time. Took up a position beyond Fleance’s reach. Checked he had a good grip on the sword. Fleance knew he was aiming for where he could do most instant damage and remain out of Fleance’s reach. His groin.

‘Bloody shide down,’ the man snarled, spat on the sword, brought back his arm, took the necessary step closer and bared a row of clenched teeth. The soft, warm shop lighting made his brace sparkle, which for one instant looked like it belonged to the shop’s inventory. Fleance raised the gun and fired. Glimpsed a surprised expression and a small black hole in the middle of the brace before the man fell.

The pianoforte’s soft, discreet tones tickled Macbeth’s ears.

‘Dear guests, acquaintances, colleagues and friends of the casino,’ he said, looking at the faces surrounding him, ‘even if not everyone has arrived yet, I’d like on behalf of the woman you all know and fear—’ muted polite laughter and nods to a laughing Lady ‘—to wish you a warm welcome and propose a toast before we take our seats at the table.’

Colin stopped when he saw his cousin from the south fall to the floor. The noise of the shot had drowned the alarm, and he saw a hand holding a revolver sticking out of the car-door opening. He reacted quickly. Fired one barrel. Saw the shell hit, saw the light-coloured inside of the door turn red, the window in the door explode and the revolver fall to the shop floor.

Colin walked quickly towards the motionless car. Adrenaline had made his senses so receptive that he took everything in. The faint vibration of the exhaust pipe, the absence of any heads in the smashed rear window and a sound he just recognised through the drone of the alarm. The belching sound of revving. Shit!

Colin ran the last steps to the door opening. On the passenger seat sat a suit-clad boy in a strangely distorted position. With his seat belt on, a blood-covered hand and his left foot stretched over to where the driver lay lifeless slumped over the wheel. Colin raised the shotgun as the engine raced, caught traction and the car rushed backwards. The open door hit Colin in the chest, but he managed to stick out his left hand and cling to the top of the door. They raced out of the shop, but Colin didn’t let go. He still had the shotgun in his aching right hand, but to get a shot into the car he would have to move it to under his left arm...

Fleance had managed to get his foot over to the pedals, push his father’s foot away and press the clutch so that he could move the gear lever out of neutral and into reverse. Then he gradually raised his heel off the clutch while pressing the accelerator with the tip of his shoe. The open passenger door had hit some guy who was still hanging on, but now they were out of the shop, on their way back. Fleance couldn’t see a damn thing, but he gave it full throttle and hoped they wouldn’t crash into anything.

The guy on the door was struggling to do something, and in a flash he saw what. The muzzle of a shotgun was protruding from under his arm. The next moment it went off.

Fleance blinked.

The guy with the gun was gone. Also the passenger door. He looked over the dashboard and saw the door and the guy wrapped around the post of the NO PARKING sign.

And he saw a side street.

He stamped on the brake and pressed the clutch before the engine died. Checked his mirror. Saw four men dismounting from their motorbikes and coming towards him. Their bikes were parked side by side barricading the narrow street; the Volvo wouldn’t be able to reverse over them. Fleance grabbed the gear lever, noticed now that his hand was bleeding, tried to find first gear but couldn’t, probably because from the position he was in he couldn’t press the clutch right down. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The engine coughed and spluttered, about to breathe its last. He saw in his mirror they had drawn guns. No, machine guns. This was it. This was where it ended. And a strange thought struck him. How bitter it was that he wouldn’t be taking his final exam in law now that he had finally cracked the code and understood the thinking: the difference between wrong and illegal, moral and regulation. Between power and crime.

He felt a warm hand on his, on top of the gear stick.

‘Who’s driving, son? You or your dad?’

Banquo’s eyes were a little dimmed, but he sat upright in the seat with both hands on the wheel. And the next second the engine’s old voice rose to a hoarse roar, and they skidded away on the cobblestones as the machine guns popped and crackled behind them as if it were Chinese New Year.

Macbeth looked at Lady. She sat two seats away from him enthusiastically making conversation with her dinner partner, Jano-something-or-other. The property shark from Capitol. She had placed her hand on his arm. Last year one of the town’s powerful factory owners had sat in the shark’s chair and captured her attention. But this year the factory was closed and its owner was not invited.

‘You and I should have a chat,’ Tourtell said.

‘Yes,’ Macbeth said, turning to the mayor, who was pushing a heavily laden fork of veal into his open jaws. ‘What about?’

‘What about? About the town, of course.’

Macbeth watched with fascination as the mayor’s many chins expanded and compressed as he chewed, like an accordion of flesh.

‘About what’s best for the town,’ Tourtell said with a smile. As though that was a joke. Macbeth knew he should concentrate on the conversation, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts together, hold them here, down on the earth. Now for example he was wondering whether the calf’s mother was still alive. And if so, if she could sense that now, right now, her child was being eaten.

‘There’s this radio reporter,’ Macbeth said. ‘Kite. He spreads malicious gossip and obviously has an unfortunate agenda. How do you neutralise a person like that?’

‘Reporters,’ Tourtell said, rolling his eyes. ‘Now look, that’s difficult. They answer only to their editors. And even if the editors in turn answer to owners who want to earn money, reporters are solemnly convinced that they’re serving a higher purpose. Very difficult. You’re not eating, Macbeth. Worried?’

‘Me? Not at all.’

‘Really? With one chief commissioner dead, another missing and all the responsibility on your shoulders? If you aren’t worried, I’d be worried, Macbeth!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Macbeth looked for help from Lady, who was sitting on the mayor’s other side, but she was now engaged in conversation with a woman who was the town council’s financial adviser or something.

‘Excuse me,’ Macbeth said and stood up. Got a quizzical, slightly concerned look from Lady and strode quickly into reception.

‘Give me the phone, Jack.’

The receptionist passed him the phone, and Macbeth dialled the number of the HQ switchboard. It answered on the fifth ring. Was that a long or a short time to wait for an answer from the police? He didn’t know, he had never considered it before. But now he would have to. Think about that sort of thing. As well. ‘Put me through to Patrols.’

‘OK.’

He could hear he had been put through, and the phone at the other end began to ring. Macbeth looked at his watch. They were taking their time.

‘I never see you in the gaming room, Jack.’

‘I don’t work as a croupier any more, sir. Not after... well, that night, you know.’

‘I see. It takes a while to get over.’