Macbeth

‘Yes,’ Duff said. ‘Macbeth is trustworthy. But above all he’s a craftsman. That was perhaps clear from his performance on the podium today.’

‘Agreed,’ Duncan said. ‘That was why I got him up there, to see how he would tackle it. Around the table we agreed unanimously that what he demonstrated today was an excellent example of a practitioner’s respect for established reporting routines, but also a true leader’s ability to enthuse and inspire. Cawdor’s still hanging there because he was a corrupt policeman.’

Muted laughter around the table at Duncan’s imitation of Macbeth’s rough working-class dialect.

‘If he really has these qualities,’ Duff said, hearing an inner voice whispering that he shouldn’t say this, ‘you have to ask yourself why he hasn’t got further since his police college years.’

‘True enough,’ Lennox said. ‘But this is one of the strongest arguments in favour of Macbeth.’ He laughed — an ill-timed, high-pitched trill. ‘None of us sitting round this table had high posts under the last chief commissioner. Because we, like Macbeth, weren’t in on the game, we refused to take bribes. I have sources who can say with total certainty that this stalled Macbeth’s career.’

‘Then you have answered the question already,’ Duff said stiffly. ‘And of course you’ve taken into consideration his relationship with the casino owner.’

Malcolm glanced at Duncan. Received a nod from him in return and spoke up. ‘The Fraud Unit’s now looking into businesses that were allowed to prosper under the previous administration and, with respect to that, they’ve just carried out a thorough investigation of Inverness Casino. Their conclusion is unambiguous: the Inverness is run in exemplary fashion with regard to accounts, tax and employment conditions. Which is not a matter you can take for granted in gambling joints. At this moment they’re taking a closer look at the Obelisk’s—’ he smiled wryly ‘—cards. And let me say quite openly that this is a different kettle of fish. To be continued, as they say. So, in other words, we have no objections to Lady and her establishment.’

‘Macbeth’s from the east end of town and an outsider,’ Duncan said, ‘while all of us around this table are considered to belong to an inner circle. We’re known to have stood up to Kenneth, we represent a change of culture in the force, but we’ve also had private educations and come from privileged homes. I think it’s a good signal to send. In the police, in our police force, everyone can get to the top, whatever background, whatever connections they have, as long as they work hard and are honest, with emphasis on the honest.’

‘Good thinking, sir,’ Lennox said.

‘Fine.’ Duncan brought his hands together. ‘Duff, anything you’d like to add?’

Haven’t you seen the scars on his arms?

‘Duff?’

Haven’t you seen the scars on his arms?

‘Anything wrong, Duff?’

‘No, sir. I have nothing to add. I’m sure Macbeth is a good choice.’

‘Good. Then let me thank all of you for attending this meeting.’

Macbeth stared at the red traffic lights as the wipers went to and fro across the windscreen of Banquo’s Volvo PV544. The car was as small as Banquo, a good deal older than the others around them, but fully functional and reliable. There was something about the design of the car, especially the set-back bonnet and protruding lower front, that made it look a bit like a throwback to before the war. But internally and under the bonnet, according to its owner, it had everything a man could demand of a modern car. The wipers struggled to dispose of the rain, and the running water reminded Macbeth of melting glass. A boy in a wet coat ran across the road in front of them, and Macbeth saw the light for pedestrians had changed from a green man to red. A human body covered with blood from head to toe. Macbeth shuddered.

‘What is it?’ Banquo asked.

‘I think I’m getting a temperature,’ Macbeth said. ‘I keep seeing things.’

‘Visions and signs,’ Banquo said. ‘It’s flu then. No wonder. Soaked all day yesterday and bitten by a dog today.’

‘Talking about the dog, have we found out where it came from?’

‘Only that it wasn’t Cawdor’s. It must have come in through the open veranda door. I was wondering how it died.’

‘Didn’t I tell you? Seyton killed it.’

‘I know that, but I couldn’t see any marks on it. Did he strangle it?’

‘I don’t know. Ask him.’

‘I did, but he didn’t give me a proper answer, just—’

‘It’s green, Dad.’ The boy on the back seat leaned forward between the two men. Macbeth glanced at the lanky nineteen-year-old. Fleance had inherited more of his mother’s modesty than his father’s good-natured joviality.