Macbeth

The receptionist passed him the phone, and Macbeth dialled the number of the HQ switchboard. It answered on the fifth ring. Was that a long or a short time to wait for an answer from the police? He didn’t know, he had never considered it before. But now he would have to. Think about that sort of thing. As well. ‘Put me through to Patrols.’

‘OK.’

He could hear he had been put through, and the phone at the other end began to ring. Macbeth looked at his watch. They were taking their time.

‘I never see you in the gaming room, Jack.’

‘I don’t work as a croupier any more, sir. Not after... well, that night, you know.’

‘I see. It takes a while to get over.’

Jack shrugged. ‘It’s not just that. In fact, I think being a receptionist suits me better than being a croupier. So it’s no tragedy.’

‘But don’t you earn a good deal more as a croupier?’

‘If you’re a fish out of water, it doesn’t matter how much you earn. The fish can’t breathe and dies beside a fat bagful of money. That’s a tragedy, sir.’

Macbeth was about to answer when a voice announced that he had got through to Patrols.

‘Macbeth here. I was wondering if you’d had any reports about a shooting in Gallows Hill during the last hour.’

‘No. Should we have done?’

‘We have a customer here who said he’d just driven by and heard a loud bang. Must have been a puncture.’

‘Must have been.’

‘So there’s nothing in District 2 West?’

‘Only a break-in at a jeweller’s, sir. The closest patrol car was some distance away, but we’re heading there now.’

‘I see. Well, have a good evening.’

‘You, too, Inspector.’

Macbeth rang off. Stared down at the carpet, at the strange needlework, the flowery shapes. He had never thought about them, but now it was as if they were trying to tell him something.

‘Sir?’

Macbeth looked up. Jack had a worried expression on his face.

‘Sir, you’ve got a nosebleed.’

Macbeth put a hand to his top lip, realised the receptionist was right and hurried to the toilet.

Banquo accelerated down the main road. The wind howled outside the doorless passenger side. They passed the Obelisk. It wouldn’t be long before they were at the central station now.

‘Can you see them?’

Fleance said something.

‘Louder!’

‘No.’

Banquo couldn’t hear in the ear on Fleance’s side, either because the auditory canal was blocked with blood or because the bullet had taken his hearing as well. However it wasn’t that shot which bothered him. He looked at the petrol gauge — the indicator had dropped remarkably in the four or five minutes since they had left the shopping area. The machine guns might have sounded harmless, but they had holed the petrol tank. But it wasn’t those shots that bothered him either; they had enough petrol to get to the Inverness and safety.

‘Who are they, Dad? Why are they after us?’

There, in front of them, was the central station.

‘I don’t know, Fleance.’ Banquo concentrated on the road. And breathing. He had to breathe, get air into his lungs. Carry on. Carry on until Fleance was safe. That, and nothing else, was what mattered. Not the road that had begun to blur in front of him, not the shot that had hit him.

‘Someone must have known we would come that way, Dad. The traffic lights, that wasn’t normal. They knew exactly when we would pass Gallows Hill.’

Banquo had worked that one out. But it meant nothing now. What did mean something was that they had passed the central station and that the lights of the Inverness lay before them. Park in front of the entrance, get Fleance inside.

‘I can see them now, Dad. They’re at least two hundred metres behind us.’

More than enough if they didn’t get held up. He should have had the blue light and the siren in the car. Banquo stared at the Inverness. Light. He could drive across Workers’ Square at a pinch. The sirens. Something stuck in his throat. Stuck in his mind.

‘Did you hear any sirens, Fleance?’

‘Eh?’

‘Sirens. Patrol cars. Did you hear them at the jeweller’s?’

‘No.’

‘Absolutely sure? There are always loads of patrol cars in District 2 West.’

‘Absolutely sure.’

Banquo felt the pain and darkness come. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, Macbeth, my boy...’ He held the wheel and turned left.

‘Dad! This isn’t the way to the Inverness.’

Banquo pressed the horn, pulled the Volvo out from behind the car in front and accelerated. He could feel the paralysing pain from his back spreading to his chest. Soon he wouldn’t be able to keep his right hand on the wheel. The bullet probably hadn’t made a big hole in the seat, but it had hit it. And that was the shot that worried him.

In front of them there was nothing. Only the container harbour, the sea and darkness.

But there was one last possibility.