Macbeth Read online

  Duff clambered up next to her on the rock. From where they sat they could see over to the red cabin.

  He lay on his back on the sun-warmed rock. Closed his eyes and felt waves of pleasure run through his body. Sometimes it was worth getting cold to enjoy warming up afterwards, he thought.

  ‘Are you home again now, Duff?’

  When you lose something and find it again, the pleasure is greater than before you lost it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Her shadow fell over him.

  And when they kissed he wondered why he now – and not before – thought a woman’s lips wetted by freshwater tasted better than wetted by saltwater, but concluded that it must be the body at some point telling you that freshwater can be drunk but not saltwater.

  Afterwards when they lay entwined and sweaty from the sun and making love, he said he had to go to town.

  ‘Right. It’s broth at the usual time.’

  ‘I’ll be back in good time before. I just have to pick up Ewan’s present. It’s in the desk drawer in my office.’

  ‘He wanted the undercover cop outfit, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s one other thing I have to sort out ASAP.’

  She stroked a finger down his forehead and nose. ‘Something come up?’

  ‘Yes and no. I should have sorted it out ages ago.’

  ‘In which case—’ her finger, which knew him so well, caressed his lips ‘—you do whatever you think you have to do. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Duff sat up on his elbows and looked down at her. ‘Meredith.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know, Duff. You just forgot for a while.’

  Duff smiled. Kissed her freshwater lips again and stood up. Went to dive in, then stopped. ‘Meredith?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did Ewan say who won the fight?’

  ‘Did the chief commissioner say why they have to be driven to their club house?’ the driver asked.

  The prison warder looked down at the bunch of keys to find the right one for the next cell. ‘Not enough evidence to keep them in custody.’

  ‘Not enough evidence? Bloody hell, the whole town knows it was the Norse Riders who picked up the dope at the harbour. And they know it was the Norse Riders who killed that policeman and his son. But I didn’t ask why they were being set free – I’m used to that malarkey – I was wondering why we don’t just let them go. When I drive prisoners it’s usually from one prison to another, not as a bloody taxi service so they don’t have to walk home.’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ the warder said, unlocking the cell. ‘Hey, Sean! Off your bed and home to your missus and daughter!’

  ‘All hail Macbeth!’ came a cry from inside the cell.

  The warder shook his head and turned to the driver. ‘You’d better bring the bus to the exit and we’ll assemble there. We’ll send two armed officers with you.’

  ‘Why? Aren’t these boys free?’

  ‘The chief commissioner wants to be sure they’re delivered where they’re going with no trouble.’

  ‘Can I put leg shackles on them too?’

  ‘Not according to the book, but do as you like. Hey! Do up your shoes. We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Do you mean it? Are the good times back, like under Kenneth?’

  ‘Heh, heh. It’s a bit early to say, but Macbeth’s shaping up well, they say.’

  ‘His problem is the unsolved police murders. If you don’t fix things smartish you’re soon out on your arse.’

  ‘Maybe. Kite said on the radio today that Macbeth’s a catastrophe.’ He repeated ‘catastrophe’ exaggerating the rolled ‘r’, and the driver laughed. And gave a shudder when he saw the tattoo on the forehead of the prisoner who came out.

  ‘Livestock transport,’ he mumbled as the warder pushed the prisoner in the direction they were going.

  Duff popped into his office, stuffed the parcel for Ewan in his jacket and hurried out. At Forensics on the second floor he was told that Caithness was in the darkroom in the garage. He took the lift down and let himself in. At some point when Caithness was sharing a flat with a girlfriend Duff had persuaded the caretaker that as head of Narco it would be useful if he had a key to the garage where Forensics had a firing range for ballistic analysis, a chemistry room, a darkroom to develop crime scene photographs, plus an open area inside the garage door facing the street where they could keep larger objects, such as cars, that had to be examined for evidence. After work hardly anyone did overtime in the cold damp basement; they went up to the offices on the second floor. For a year Duff and Caithness had had a regular rendezvous after work in the basement, as well as their weekly lunchtime meeting in Room 323 under the name of Mittbaum at the Grand Hotel. After Caithness had acquired her attic flat, strangely enough, Duff had missed these rushed trysts.

  And opening the door and feeling the raw air hit him, he thought they must have been very much in love. In the middle of the garage stood Banquo’s bullet-ridden Volvo. It was covered with a tarpaulin, presumably because the door on the passenger side had been torn off and they wanted to protect possible evidence in the car from the rats that roamed the basement at night. Duff stopped outside the darkroom and took a deep breath. The decision was made. Now it was just the deed that needed doing. The deed. He pressed down the door handle and went into the darkness. Closed the door after him. Stood inhaling the ammonia smell from the fixer liquid, waiting for his pupils to expand.

  ‘Duff?’ he heard from the darkness. The same friendly, slightly tentative voice that had woken him in the meeting room yesterday morning. The same friendly, slightly tentative voice that had woken him on so many mornings in her attic flat. The friendly, tentative voice he wouldn’t hear any more, not in the same way, not there.

  ‘Caithness, we can’t—’

  ‘Roy,’ she said, ‘can you leave us alone for a while?’

  Duff’s eyes got used to the darkness in time for him to see the forensic photographer leave.

  ‘Have you seen these?’ asked Caithness, pointing a red light at the three recent dripping exposures hanging on a line.

  One showed Banquo’s car. The second, Banquo’s headless body on the tarmac outside the car. The third was a close-up of the skin of Banquo’s neck where it had been severed. She pointed to the last one. ‘We think it was cut by a large blade, like the sabre you said Sweno has.’

  ‘I see,’ Duff said, staring at the picture.

  ‘We found traces of other blood on the spine. Isn’t that interesting?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sweno, or whoever it is, clearly hasn’t been very particular about washing his sabre, so as the sabre cut through the spine here—’ she pointed ‘—it scraped old dried blood off the blade. If we can determine which blood group it is, it might help us in other murder cases.’

  Duff’s stomach was on the point of turning, and he clutched the bench.

  ‘Still feeling ill?’ Caithness asked.

  Duff took some deep breaths. ‘Yes. No. I just had to get away. We have to talk.’

  ‘What about?’ He could hear in her voice she already knew. She had probably already known when he burst in; talking about the photos had been a kind of panic reaction.

  ‘About meeting,’ he said. ‘It won’t work any longer.’

  He tried to see her face, but it was too dark.

  ‘Is that all we’ve done?’ she said. Her voice was tearful. ‘Meet?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you’re right of course – it was more than meeting. And all the more reason for it to stop.’

  ‘You want to stop, dump me, here, at work?’

  ‘Caithness—’

  Her bitter laugh interrupted him. ‘Well, that’s very fitting. A relationship that has taken place in a dark room is concluded in a darkroom.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s out of consideration for—’

  ‘You. You, Duff. Not the children, not the family, but you. You’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met, so don’t try to tell me it’s out of consideration for anyone else but you.’

  ‘As you like. It’s out of consideration for me.’

  ‘And out of which consideration are you dumping me, Duff? Is there an even younger, even more naive girl out there, who you know won’t nag you to commit, to sacrifice something? Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Does it help if I say I’m only thinking about the personal, selfish well-being I hope to feel when I imagine I’m doing the right thing for those I have obligations towards? If I’m breaking up with you because I’m scared stiff not to be included among the saved souls on the Day of Judgement?’

  ‘Do you think you will be?’

  ‘No. But the decision has been taken, Caithness, so just tell me how you want me to pull the tooth, slowly or all in one go?’

  ‘Why should the torment stop now? Come to my flat at four.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘To hear me cry, curse and beg. I can’t do that here.’

  ‘I’ve promised to eat with the family at five.’

  ‘If you don’t come, first of all I’ll throw all your possessions out on the street, then I’ll ring and tell your wife about your escapades—’

  ‘She knows already, Caithness.’

  ‘—and your parents-in-law. Tell them how you deceived their daughter and grandchildren.’

  Duff gulped. ‘Caithness—’

  ‘Four o’clock. If you’re nice and listen you’ll get to your bloody meal.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll c
ome. But don’t think this will change anything.’

  The crime photographer was leaning against the garage door and smoking when Duff came out.

  ‘Nasty?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Cutting off his head like that.’

  ‘Murder’s always nasty,’ Duff said, making for the exit.

  Lady was in the bedroom, standing in front of the door to Macbeth’s wardrobe. Listening to the sound of wet rats scurrying across the wooden floor. She told herself the sounds were only in her imagination; the floor was thickly carpeted. Sounds in her imagination. Soon it would be voices. The voices her mother had talked about that wouldn’t leave her in peace, the same voices her mother’s mother had heard – their forefathers speaking, commanding them to sleepwalk at night, to hurtle towards death. She had been so afraid when she saw Macbeth hallucinating at the table during the dinner. Had she infected her only true love with this illness?

  The scurrying rat feet had been in her imagination a long time now and they didn’t want to disappear.

  All she could do was scurry herself. Away from the sounds, away from her imagination.

  She opened the wardrobe door.

  Pulled out the drawer under the shelf. There was a little bag of powder inside. Macbeth’s escape. Did it work? Would she escape if she went to the same place he went? She didn’t think so. She closed the drawer again.

  Looked up at the hat shelf. At the parcel Jack had been given. It was wrapped in paper, tied with twine and with transparent plastic on top. It was only a parcel. And yet it was as though it was staring down at her.

  She opened the drawer again and took out the bag. Sprinkled a tiny bit of powder on the table in front of the mirror, rolled up a banknote and – unsure of how you actually did it – put one end in one nostril and held the other above the powder and breathed in, half with her nose, half with her mouth. As that didn’t work, and after a couple more attempts, she arranged the powder in a line, inserted the note in her nostril and inhaled hard while running the note along the line, vacuuming it up. She sat for a while studying herself in the mirror. The sound of scurrying rats disappeared. Then she went to the bed and lay down.

  ‘Here they come!’ the sarge shouted. He stood in the Norse Riders gateway watching the yellow prison bus come up the road. It was half past three, bang on time. He glanced over at those who had gathered outside the club house in the drizzle. Everyone in the club was duty-bound to welcome back the injured they’d had to leave to the police that night. The women had also turned up – the girls who had a boyfriend among the released prisoners and those who did the rounds. The sergeant smiled at the laughing baby in Betty’s arms; Betty was looking for her Sean. Even their cousins from the south had decided to join them again for this party, which already promised to be legendary. Sweno had given orders that there should be enough booze and dope to entertain the average village because they were celebrating more than just the release of their comrades. The Norse Riders had avenged the losses they had suffered with the dispatching of Banquo and – even more importantly – gained a new and gold-plated alliance. As Sweno had said, by making a personal appearance at the club house and ordering a hit job, Macbeth had sold his soul to the devil, and there was no right of cancellation on that. Now he was in their pocket just as much as they were in his.

  The sarge went into the street and signalled to the bus to pull up outside the gate. No one except one-hundred-per-cent-ID’d members were allowed inside, that was the new club rule.

  And then they trooped off the bus as the stereo in the club house was turned up. ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’. Some walked and some danced to the gate, where they were received with clapping and raised fists by comrades and hugs and wet kisses by the women.

  ‘This is fun,’ shouted the sergeant, ‘but the booze is inside.’

  Calls and laughter. They moved inside. But the sarge stood at the doorway, scanning their surroundings one more time. The bus on its way down the road again. Chang, who had been joined by two men, guarding the gate. The empty factory buildings around, which they had checked to make sure no one was watching the club. The sky to the west, where it actually seemed that a little blue was on the way. Now perhaps he could relax a little. Perhaps Sweno was right: perhaps better times really were coming their way.

  The sergeant went in, refused spirits and put a mug of beer to his mouth. Party or not, these were critical times. He looked around. Sean and Betty were smooching in the corner with the baby squeezed between them, and the sarge thought it would be a bizarre way to end a young life. But there were plenty of things a lot bloody worse than being suffocated by undiluted love.

  ‘Norse Riders!’ he shouted. The music was turned down, and conversations died away.

  ‘This is a day of happiness. And a day of sadness. We haven’t forgotten the fallen. But there’s a time to cry and a time to laugh, and today we’re partying. Cheers!’

  Cheering and raised glasses. The sergeant took a huge swig and wiped the foam from his beard.

  ‘And this is a new start,’ he continued.

  ‘To the speech?’ shouted Sean, and everyone laughed.

  ‘We lost a few men; they lost a few men,’ the sergeant said. ‘The drugs from Russia are water under the bridge.’ No laughter. ‘But as a man whose name you all know said to me today, “With this head-case as the chief commissioner better times are coming our way.” ’

  More cheering. The sarge felt as if he could talk for quite some time yet, say a few things about the club, about comradeship and sacrifice. But he had taken up enough time and space. No one but the sergeant knew that Sweno was waiting in the wings somewhere right now. It was time for the evening’s grand entrance.

  ‘And with these words,’ he said, ‘let me pass you over—’

  In the dramatic pause that followed he heard something. The deep growl of a lorry with a powerful engine and in too low a gear. Well, there were lots of poor drivers out there.

  ‘—to—’

  He heard a roar. And knew the gate had flown off its hinges. And that the evening’s grand entrance had a rival.

  Duff stood outside the grey five-storey block of flats. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to four. He could still make it to the birthday party by quite a margin. He rang the bell.

  ‘Come up,’ said Caithness’s voice from the intercom.

  After their conversation in the darkroom he had gone to the Bricklayers Arms, sat in one of the booths and had a beer. He could of course have spent the time working in his office, but Macbeth’s orders had been to stay at home in Fife. And then he had another. Giving himself time to think.

  Now he walked up the stairs, not with the plodding, heavy steps of someone going to the scaffold, but with the quick, light steps of someone wanting to get a scene over with and survive. And who had another life he wanted to get back to.

  The flat door was open.

  ‘Come in,’ he heard Caithness shout from somewhere. He gave a sigh of relief when he saw she had collected all his possessions on the table in the hall. A toilet bag. A shaver. A couple of shirts and underwear. The tennis racket she had bought him as they both played, though it had never been used. A necklace and pearl earrings. Duff’s fingers caressed the jewellery he had bought her. It had been worn often.

  ‘In here,’ she shouted. From the bedroom.

  The stereo was on. Elvis. ‘Love Me Tender’.

  Duff walked towards the open bedroom door, hesitating, not so light-footed now. He could smell her perfume from where he was.

  ‘Duff,’ she said with a sniffle when he appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m giving you back what you gave me, but I expect a farewell present.’