Macbeth

Duncan stood up on the podium and looked down at some papers; Duff knew he had written some words there the way he wanted them to be said but that he would ad-lib according to the moment and the situation. Not because the chief commissioner was a loose cannon, far from it. Duff knew he had the words under control, he was as much a man of heart as he was of mind, a man who spoke how he felt and vice versa. A man who understood himself and therefore others too, Duff thought. A leader. Someone people would follow. Someone Duff wished he was, or could be.

‘You all know what happened,’ Duncan said in a low, solemn voice, yet it carried as though he had shouted. ‘I just wanted to brief you fully before the press conference this afternoon. One of our most trusted officers, Inspector Cawdor, had a serious charge of corruption levelled against him. And at the present moment it appears this suspicion was justified. In the light of his close connection with the Norse Riders — against whom we launched a successful operation yesterday — there was clearly a risk that he, given the situation, might try to destroy evidence or flee. For that reason, at ten o’clock this morning I gave the order for SWAT to arrest Inspector Cawdor with immediate effect.’

Duff had hoped his name would be mentioned, but he was also aware that Duncan wouldn’t divulge any details. For if there is one thing you learn in the police it is that rules are rules, even when unwritten. So he was surprised when Duncan looked up and said, ‘Inspector Macbeth, would you be so kind as to come up here and briefly summarise the arrest?’

Duff turned and watched his colleague stride up between the lines of chairs to the podium. Obviously he had been caught by surprise as well. The chief commissioner didn’t normally delegate in these contexts; he would usually say his piece, make it short and to the point and conclude the meeting so that everyone could get back to their job of making the town a better place to live.

Macbeth looked ill at ease. He was still wearing his black SWAT uniform, but the zip at the neck was undone far enough for them to see the bright white bandage on his right shoulder.

‘Well,’ he began.

Not exactly an elegant start, but then no one expected the head of SWAT to be a wordsmith. Macbeth checked his watch as though he had an appointment. Everyone in the room knew why: it is the instinctive reaction of police officers who have been ordered to report back and feel unsure of themselves. They check their watches as though the obligatory time references for past events are written there or the watch face will jog their memory.

‘At ten fifty-three,’ Macbeth said and coughed twice, ‘SWAT raided Inspector Cawdor’s home. A terrace door was open, but there was no sign of a break-in or violence, or that anyone had been there before us. Apart from a dog. Nor any signs that anyone other than Cawdor himself had done it...’ Now Macbeth stopped looking at his watch and addressed the gathering. ‘A chair was knocked over by the terrace door. I’m not going to anticipate the SOCOs’ conclusions, but it looked as if Cawdor didn’t just step off the chair when he hanged himself, he jumped, and when he swung back kicked the chair across the room. That tallies with the way the deceased’s excrement was scattered across the floor. The body was cold. Suicide seems the obvious cause of death, and one of the guys asked if we could skip the procedures and cut the man down as Cawdor had been a police officer all his life. I said no...’

Duff noticed Macbeth’s dramatic pause. As if to allow the audience to listen to his silence. It was a trick Duff might use himself, a method had definitely seen Duncan use, but he hadn’t imagined that the pragmatic Macbeth would have it in his repertoire. And perhaps he didn’t, because he was studying his watch again.

‘Ten fifty-nine.’

Macbeth looked up and pulled his sleeve over the watch in a gesture to suggest he had finished.

‘So Cawdor’s still hanging there. Not for any investigative purpose, but because he was a corrupt policeman.’

It was so quiet in the room that Duff could hear the rain lashing against the window high up the wall. Macbeth turned to Duncan and gave a cursory nod. Then he left the podium and went back to his seat.

Duncan waited until Macbeth had sat down before saying, ‘Thank you, Macbeth. That won’t form part of the press conference, but I think it’s a suitable conclusion to this internal briefing. Remember that a condemnation of all that is weak and bad in us can also be seen as an optimistic tribute to all that is strong and good. So back to your good work, folks.’

The young nurse stood by the door and watched the patient take off his top. He had pulled his long black hair behind his head as the doctor unwound the blood stained bandage from his left shoulder. All she knew about the patient was that he was a police officer. And muscular.