Macbeth

‘It was an innocent victim in the fight against a crime syndicate,’ she said. ‘It happens. Macbeth wanting to hide it from the press to avoid a police scandal doesn’t make him a murderer.’

Caithness saw Angus let go of her arm as if he had burned himself. He took a step back and stared at her. Caithness turned and left.

On the steel staircase to the factory floor the chill hit her warm cheeks.

As she made for the exit she stopped by one of the furnaces. There were stripes and marks made of grey dust.

Lennox stood in the factory doorway waving to the taxi to drive through the gate so that they wouldn’t have to walk through the driving rain. ‘What do you think Angus is after?’ he asked.

‘After?’ Caithness turned and looked up at the foreman’s shed-like office.

‘He must know he’s too young for a management post,’ Lennox said. ‘Hey! Over here! Is it about honour and fame?’

‘Perhaps it’s what he said. Someone has to stop Macbeth.’

‘Duty calls?’ Lennox chuckled, and Caithness heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. ‘Everyone wants something, Caithness. Are you coming?’

‘Yes.’ Caithness could just make out the shape of Angus behind the window — he hadn’t moved since they left him. He was just standing there. Waiting for something, it seemed.

How long would it be before Lennox informed Macbeth about this attempted mutiny?

What was she going to do with what Angus had told them?

She put her hand to her cheek. She knew why it was warm. She was blushing. Blushing with shame.

Lennox took the short cut through the station concourse. He liked short cuts. Always had. He had bought sweets to make friends, lied about diving off the crane on the harbour quay and about paying for a hand job from the girl working at the Indigo kiosk. He had worn higher platform shoes than anyone else, cheated in exams and still had to blag up his grade when the results came out. His father used to say — generally at family gatherings and without any attempt to conceal who he was referring to — that only a man with no spine would take short cuts. When his father had given a smallish gift to the town’s private university, thereby saving himself and Lennox the disgrace of his son studying in the public sector, Lennox had also forged his degree certificate. Not to show potential employers but his father, who had asked to see it. Of course this was a fiasco because Lennox didn’t have the spine to resist his father’s suspicious looks and questions, and his father told him he didn’t know how a mollusc like Lennox could stand up straight; he didn’t have a single bone in his body!

Fair enough, but he definitely had enough spine to ignore the drug dealers who came up to him mumbling their offers. They recognised a user when they saw one. However, this wasn’t how he got his brew; he had it sent in anonymous brown envelopes. Or when he occasionally asked for special treatment, they blindfolded him and led him — like a prisoner of war to a firing squad — to the secret kitchen, where he got his shot straight from the pot.

He passed Bertha Birnam, where Duff had fallen for his bluff about the judge from Capitol. But Hecate hadn’t said anything about Macbeth killing Duff’s wife and children. Lennox stepped up his tempo across Workers’ Square, as though he had to hurry before something happened. Something inside him.

‘Macbeth’s busy,’ said the little receptionist at Inverness Casino.

‘Say it’s Inspector Lennox. It’s important and will only take a minute.’

‘I’ll ring up, sir.’

While Lennox waited he looked around. He couldn’t put his finger on what, but there was something missing. Some final touch. Perhaps it was only the atmosphere that had changed; perhaps it was that some less well-dressed guys were laughing too loudly as they walked into the gaming room. This type of customer was new.

Macbeth came down the stairs.

‘Hello, Lennox.’

‘Hello, Chief Commissioner. The casino’s busy today.’

‘Daytime gamblers straight from the Obelisk. The Gambling and Casino Board closed down their place a few hours ago. I haven’t got much time. Shall we sit here?’

‘Thank you, sir. I just wanted to inform you about a meeting that took place today.’

Macbeth yawned. ‘Oh yes?’

Lennox breathed in. Hesitated. Because there were millions of ways to start. Thousands of ways to formulate the same message. Hundreds of first words. And yet only two options.

Macbeth frowned.

‘Sir,’ the receptionist said. ‘Message from the blackjack table. They’re asking if we can provide them with another croupier. There’s a queue.’

‘I’m coming, Jack. Sorry about the interruption, Lennox. Lady usually deals with this. Well?’

‘Yes. The meeting...’ Lennox thought about his family. Their house. The garden. The safe neighbourhood, where the kids hadn’t got involved in any nastiness. The university they would go to. The pay cheque that made all this possible. Plus the cash on the side that had now become a necessity to make ends meet. This wasn’t for him; it was for the family, the family, the family. His family, not a house in Fife, not...