Macbeth

Macbeth cleared his throat. ‘I can see that for the good of the town it’s best the chief commissioner continues to be chief commissioner and carries on his good, close cooperation with the mayor.’

‘Wise words, Macbeth.’

‘So long as this cooperation functions of course.’

‘And you’re referring to?’

‘The rumours that the Obelisk is running a prostitution racket under the auspices of the casino and giving credit illegally to some gamblers.’

‘The former is an old accusation, the latter new. But, as you know, it’s difficult to get to the bottom of such rumours, so they tend to stay that way and don’t go anywhere.’

‘I have a specific suspicions relating to at least two gamblers, and with effective interviewing methods and the promise of an amnesty I’m sure I can establish whether the Obelisk has offered them credit or not. Thereafter the Gambling and Casino Board will presumably have to close the place while the extent of the irregularities is examined more closely.’

The mayor pulled at the lowest of his chins. ‘You mean close down the Obelisk in return for not standing?’

‘I mean only that the town’s political and administrative leaders have to be consistent in their enforcement of laws and regulations. If they don’t want to be suspected of being bought and paid for by those who evade them.’

The mayor clicked his tongue. Like a child with an olive, Macbeth thought. The kind of food that takes you years to like. ‘We’re not talking about a series of possible irregularities,’ Tourtell said as if to himself. ‘And, as I said, it’s difficult to get to the bottom of such rumours. It can take time.’

‘A long time,’ Macbeth said.

‘I’ll prepare the board by saying there’s some information on its way which may necessitate closing the casino down. Where’s Lady, by the way? I would imagine, as she and Duncan...’

‘She doesn’t feel well, I’m afraid. Temporary.’

‘I see. Say hello and wish her well. We’d better go down and offer our condolences to the family.’

‘You go first. I’ll follow.’

Macbeth watched Tourtell waddle down the stairs and grasp Mrs Duncan’s hand in both of his, watched his lips move as he inclined his head in the deepest sympathy. He really did look like a turtle. But there was something Tourtell had said. The sea was full of them. Men who had run off.

‘Everything OK, sir?’ It was Seyton. He had been waiting outside. He couldn’t stand churches, he said, and that was fine; those who had it in for the chief commissioner would hardly be inside.

‘We checked all the passenger boats leaving town,’ Macbeth said, ‘but did anyone think of checking the other ships?’

‘For stowaways, you mean?’

‘Yes. Or simply people who’d got a job on board.’

‘Nope.’

‘Send a precise description of Duff to all the boats which have left since yesterday. Now.’

‘Right, sir.’ Seyton took the steps in two strides and disappeared around the corner.

Meredith. Meredith had ceased to exist. But the scar on his heart was still there. And yet Macbeth wasn’t going to the funeral. Because it was a long time since she had ceased to exist, so long that he had forgotten who she was. So long that he had forgotten who he himself had been then.

He shifted his weight, felt the material against the inside of his thigh, smelled wet wool. And shivered.

27

Duff stood in the galley looking at the men in the mess. They had eaten lunch and now they were rolling cigarettes and talking in low voices, laughing, lighting their cigarettes, drinking their coffee. Only one man sat on his own. Hutchinson. A big skin-coloured plaster on his forehead told those who hadn’t been present about the beating he had been given. Hutchinson tried to look as though he were thinking about something that required concentration as he puffed on his roll-up, but his acting ability wasn’t good enough for him to look anything but lost.

‘We’ll be docking tomorrow,’ the steward said, who himself had lit a cigarette and was leaning against the cooker. ‘You’ve learned fast. Fancy some more peggy?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you staying on for the next trip?’

‘No,’ Duff said. ‘But thank you for asking.’

The steward shrugged. Duff watched someone who was late for lunch balance his soup dish and make for Hutchinson’s table, look up, see who was sitting there and instead squeeze onto a full table. And Duff saw that Hutchinson had registered this and was now concentrating on his fag even harder while blinking furiously.

‘Any of that cheesecake left from yesterday?’

Duff turned. It was the first engineer; he was standing in the doorway with a hopeful expression on his face.

‘Sorry,’ the steward said. ‘All gone.’

‘Hang about,’ Duff said. ‘I think I wrapped up a small slice.’ He went into the freezer room, found a plate wrapped in foil and came back. Passed it to the first engineer. ‘It’s a bit cold.’

‘That’s OK,’ said the first engineer, licking his lips. ‘I like it cold.’

‘One thing...’

‘Yes?’

‘Hutchinson...’

‘Hutch?’