Macbeth

Hutchinson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was on the detail to load up the ammo boxes. There was a skinny, bald police bloke with his arms crossed who looked as if he wanted to spit on us as we loaded them onto his truck.’

Duff waited. For the rest of his explanation.

‘People do things for each other,’ Hutchinson said and sniffed. ‘It seems.’ Sniff. ‘And if I’ve understood you right, you’re alone against—’ he pointed to the decks above them ‘—them. And I know a bit about how that feels.’

Alone. Them.

‘Thank you.’

‘No worries, Johnson.’ The engineer shook Duff’s hand. Briefly, almost shyly. And then he ran his hand over the plaster on his forehead. ‘Next time I’ll be ready, and it’ll be your turn for a beating.’

‘Of course.’

Duff was east of the centre now.

‘Sorry. District 6?’

‘Over there.’

He passed a kiosk with a news-stand. The houses were becoming smaller, the streets narrower.

‘Tannery Street?’

‘Down to the lights and the second or third left.’

A police siren rose and sank. They had a different sound here in the capital, not so harsh or sharp. And a different tune. Not as gloomy, not so piercingly disharmonious.

‘Dolphin?’

‘The nightclub? Isn’t it closed? Anyway, do you see that café there? Right next to it.’ But the eyes lingered too long on the scar, trying to remember something.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all.’

Number 66 Tannery Street.

Duff studied the names next to the bells by the rotting big wooden door. None of them meant a thing to him. He pulled at the door. Open. Or to be more precise, a smashed lock. It was dark inside. He stood still until his pupils began to widen. A staircase. Wet newspaper, smell of urine. Sound of tuberculous coughing from behind a door. A sound like a hard wet slap. Duff set off up the stairs. There were two front doors on every floor, as well as a low door on every landing. He rang one of the doorbells. From inside came the angry barking of a dog and shuffling steps. A small, almost comical, wrinkled lady opened the door. No safety chain.

‘Yes, love?’

‘Hello, I’m Inspector Johnson.’

She eyed him sceptically. Duff assumed she could smell Hutchinson from the Esso T-shirt. The scent appeared to have quietened the little fluffball of a dog anyway.

‘I’m looking for—’ Yes, what was he looking for? ‘—someone a friend of mine, Banquo, gave me an address for.’

‘Sorry, young man. I don’t know any Banquo.’

‘Alfie?’

‘Oh, Alfie. He lives on the second floor, right-hand side. Excuse me, but you... erm... you’re losing your beard.’

‘Thank you.’

Duff tore off the beard and glasses as he went up to the second floor. The door to the right had no name on it, just a bell with a button hanging from a spiral metal spring.

Duff knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. Another wet slap from the ground floor. He pulled at the door. Locked. Should he wait and see if anyone came? It was a better alternative than showing his face on the street.

Low cough. The sound came from behind the low door on the landing. Duff walked down the five steps and turned the door knob. It moved a little, as though someone was holding on to it on the inside. He knocked.

No answer.

‘Hello? Hello, is anyone there?’

He held his breath and put his ear to the door. He heard something which sounded like the rustle of paper. Someone was hiding in there.

Duff went down the stairs with loud, heavy footsteps, took off his shoes on the floor below and tiptoed back.

He grabbed the door knob and gave it a sharp pull. Heard something go flying as the door swung open. A piece of string.

He stared at himself.

The picture wasn’t particularly big and positioned to the right at the bottom of the page underneath the headline.

The newspaper was lowered, and Duff stared into the face of an old man with a long, unkempt beard. He was sitting leaning forward with his trousers around his ankles.

A splash box. Duff had seen them before, in the old workers’ blocks of flats along the river. He assumed they got their name from the sound made when shit from the upper floors hit the container on the ground floor. Like a wet slap.

‘Sorry,’ Duff said. ‘Are you Alfie?’

The man didn’t answer, just stared at Duff. Then he slowly turned the page of the newspaper, looked at the photo and back up at Duff. Moistened his lips. ‘Louder,’ he said, pointing to his ear with one hand.

Duff raised his voice. ‘Are you Alfie?’

‘Louder.’

‘Alfie!’

‘Shh. Yes, he’s Alfie.’

Perhaps it was because of the shouting that Duff didn’t hear someone come. He just felt a hard object being pressed against the back of his head, and there was something vaguely familiar about the voice that whispered in his ear: ‘And yes, this is a gun, Inspector. So don’t move; just tell me how you found us and who sent you.’

Duff made to turn, but a hand pushed his face forward again, to face Alfie, who clearly regarded the situation as resolved and had resumed his reading.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Duff said. ‘I found the impression of an address on a notepad in Banquo’s car. And no one sent me. I’m alone.’

‘Why have you come here?’