Macbeth

It was half past five and the rain was hammering down on the cobblestones and on the windscreen of Malcolm’s Chevelle 454 SS as he wound his way through the streets. He was aware it was stupid to buy a petrol guzzler in the middle of an oil crisis, and even if he had bought it second-hand for what he considered a reasonable price, he had fallen short in the responsibility argument. First of all, with his ecology-conscious daughter, then with Duncan, who had underscored the significance of leaders showing moderation. In the end Malcolm had said what he felt: he had loved these American exaggerations of cars ever since he was a boy, and Duncan had said that at least it showed economists were humans too.

He had quickly popped home to have a shower and change his clothes, which fortunately didn’t take long because it was a Sunday and there was very little traffic. A large press gathering awaited him at the entrance to HQ, probably hoping for a comment or a better picture than they would get at the press conference at half past seven. The mayor, Tourtell, had already been on TV to make a statement. ‘Incomprehensible’, ‘tragedy’, ‘our thoughts go out to the family’ and ‘the town must stand united against this evil’ was what he had said, only accompanied by a great many more words. Malcolm’s, by contrast, minimal comment had been to ask the press for their understanding; his focus was now on the investigation, and he referred them to the press conference.

Malcolm drove down the ramp to the basement garage, nodded to the guard, who opened the barrier, and swung in. The distance from your parking slot to the lift was in direct proportion to your place in the hierarchy. And when Malcolm backed into his slot it struck him that, from a formal point of view, he could have actually parked in the one that was closest.

He was about to take out the ignition key when the door on the passenger side opened and someone slipped into the back, sliding over behind the driver’s seat. And for the first time since Duncan’s murder Malcolm confronted the thought. With the chief commissioner’s job came not only a parking slot closer to the lift but also a death threat, whenever, wherever; security was a privilege accorded to those who parked further away.

‘Start up the car,’ the person in the back seat said.

Malcolm looked in the rear-view mirror. The person had moved so quickly and so soundlessly that he could only conclude SWAT training was effective. ‘Anything wrong, Banquo?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ve uncovered plans for an attack on your life.’

‘Inside police HQ?’

‘Yes. Drive slowly, please. We have to get away. We don’t know who is involved in the force yet, but we think they’re the same people who killed Duncan.’

Malcolm knew he should be frightened. And he was. But not as frightened as he could have been. Often it was trivial situations — like standing on a ladder or being surrounded by angry wasps — that could trigger pathetic panic-like reactions. But now, just like this morning, it was as though the situation didn’t permit that type of fear; on the contrary it sharpened your ability to think fast and rationally, strengthened your resolve and, paradoxically, calmed him down.

‘If that’s the case, how do I know you’re not one of them, Banquo?’

‘If I’d wanted to kill you, you would already be dead, sir.’

Malcolm nodded. Something about Banquo’s tone told him that the physically smaller and much older man would probably have been able to do so with his bare hands if he so wished.

‘So where are we going?’

‘To the container harbour, sir.’

‘Why not home to—’

‘You don’t want your family caught up in this mess, sir. I’ll explain when we’re there. Drive. I’ll slump down in the seat. Best no one sees me and realises you’ve been informed.’

Malcolm drove out, received a nod from the guard, the barrier was lifted and he was back out in the rain.

‘I have a meeting in—’

‘That’ll be taken care of.’

‘And the press conference?’

‘That too. What you should think about now is you. And your daughter.’

‘Julia?’ Malcolm could feel it now. The panic.

‘She’ll be taken care of, sir. Just drive now. We’ll soon be there.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Whatever has to be done.’

Five minutes later they drove through the gates of the container harbour, which in recent years had been left open as all attempts to keep the homeless and thieves out had achieved had been smashed fences and locks. It was Sunday and the quay was deserted.

‘Park behind the shed there,’ Banquo said.

Malcolm did as instructed, parking beside a Volvo saloon.

‘Sign this,’ Banquo said, holding a sheet of paper and a pen between the front seats.

‘What is it?’ Malcolm said.

‘A few lines written on your typewriter,’ Banquo said. ‘Read it aloud.’

‘The Norse Riders threatened they would kill my daughter—’ Malcolm stopped.

‘Carry on,’ Banquo said.