Macbeth

They glided through the streets. She saw the unemployed men leaning against the walls sheltering from the rain, fags in mouths, wet coats, hungry, weary eyes. Hyenas. Not because they were born like that; it was the town. Duncan had said if carrion was all there was on the menu, you ate carrion, whoever you thought you were. And irrespective of what they did at police HQ the best way to reduce crime was to get the town’s citizens back to work.

‘Are you opening Estex again?’ the driver asked, squinting at Caithness.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I think Macbeth is smarter than Duncan, the blockhead.’

‘Oh?’

‘Closing a great factory just because it’s leaking some gunge? Christ, everyone who worked there smokes. They’ll die anyway. That was five thousand jobs. Five thousand jobs this town needed! Only some upper-class twit from Capitol could be so snobbish. Macbeth, on the other hand, is one of us — he understands and he does something. Let Macbeth take charge for a bit and maybe people will be able to afford a taxi again in this town.’

‘Talking of Macbeth,’ Caithness said, turning to the back seat. ‘He’s cancelled the morning meeting two days in a row and he looked very pale in church. Is he ill?’

‘Not him,’ Lennox said, ‘but Lady. He’s barely been at HQ.’

‘Of course it’s good of him to look after her, but he’s the chief commissioner and we have a town in our charge.’

‘Good job he has us there.’ Lennox smiled.

The taxi stopped in front of the gate, from which hung a chain with a padlock. The CLOSED sign had fallen onto the potholed tarmac. Caithness got out, stood by the driver’s open window and scanned the abandoned industrial wasteland while waiting for her change. No telephone boxes, and the telephones at Estex had probably been cut off.

‘How will we get hold of a taxi when we want to go back?’ she asked.

‘I’ll park here and wait,’ the driver said. ‘There’s no work in town anyway.’

Inside the factory gate was a rusty fork-lift truck and a tower of rotting wooden pallets. The pedestrian entrance beside the big retractable door was open.

Caithness and Lennox stepped into the factory building. It was cold outside, even colder under the high vaulted roof. The furnaces stood like gigantic pews inside the rectangular hall as far as the eye could see.

‘Hello?’ Caithness called, and the echo sent shivers down her spine.

‘Here!’ came the answer from up on the wall where the foreman’s office and surveillance platform were located. Like a watchtower in a prison, Caithness thought. Or a pulpit.

The young man standing up there pointed to a steel staircase.

Caithness and Lennox went up the steps.

‘Police Officer Angus,’ he said shaking hands with them. His open face displayed his nervousness, but also determination.

They followed him into the foreman’s office, which smelled of a marinade of dried sweat and tobacco. The large windows facing the factory floor had a strange yellow frosted glaze which looked as if it had been burned into the glass. On the tables there were open files that had clearly been taken from the shelves along the walls. The young man was unshaven and wearing tight faded jeans and a green military jacket.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ Angus said, indicating the peeling wooden chairs.

‘I don’t want to pressurise you, but I hope this is important,’ Lennox said, taking a seat. ‘I had to leave an important meeting.’

‘As you haven’t got much time, indeed as none of us has got much time, I’ll get straight to the point.’

‘Thank you.’

Angus crossed his arms. His jaws were working, and his eyes roamed, but there was a determination about him — he was like a man who knows he is right.

‘Twice I’ve been a believer,’ Angus said, swallowing, and Caithness knew he was memorising something he had written and rehearsed for the occasion. ‘And twice I’ve lost that belief. The first was in God. The second in Macbeth. Macbeth is no saviour, he’s a corrupt murderer. I wanted to say that first so that you know why I’m doing this. This is to rid the town of Macbeth.’

In the ensuing silence they could hear the deep sighs as drops of water hit the floor of the factory. Angus breathed in.

‘We were—’

‘Stop!’ Caithness said. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Angus, but before you say any more, Inspector Lennox and I have to decide whether we want to hear.’

‘Let Angus finish,’ Lennox said. ‘Then we can discuss it later without anyone else present.’

‘Wait,’ Caithness said. ‘There’s no way back if we receive information which—’

‘We were sent to the club house to kill everyone,’ Angus said.

‘I don’t want to hear this,’ Caithness said and stood up.

‘No one was going to be arrested,’ Angus said in a louder voice. ‘We started shooting at the Norse Riders, and they managed to fire off one—’ he held up a forefinger which trembled as much as his voice ‘—one single bloody shot in self-defence! Unlike at—’

Caithness stamped on the floor to drown out Angus’s voice, opened the door, was about to step outside and leave when she heard his name and froze.