Macbeth

Of course he knew he had been lying to himself. He had become good at it: the more he had practised self-deception the easier it had been to see what he wanted to see. But in the last few days the scales had fallen from his eyes and now he was there and couldn’t not see what lay before his eyes. The feathers from the mattress were everywhere, as though snow had been falling. Perhaps that was why everything seemed so peaceful. Meredith looked as if she had tried to keep Ewan and Emily warm as they sat on the floor in the far corner with her arms around them. Red feathers were stuck to the walls around them.

Duff’s breathing came in gasps. And then came a sob. One single, bitter, raging sob.

Everything was lost.

Absolutely everything was lost.

22

Duff remained standing in the doorway. Saw the blanket on the bed. He knew it wouldn’t help if he waded into the feathers; all he would do was contaminate the crime scene and potentially destroy the evidence. But he had to cover them up. Cover them up for a last time, they couldn’t stay like that. He stepped inside, then stopped.

He had heard a sound. A shout.

He backed out and strode into the sitting room, over to the smashed window facing south-east, towards the lake. There was the cry again. So far away he couldn’t see who was shouting, but sound carried well out there in the afternoon. The voice sounded angry. It had repeated the same word, but Duff couldn’t make out what it was. He pulled out the remains of a chest drawer, took out the binoculars kept there, focused on the cabin. One lens of the binoculars was pierced, but the other was good enough for him to see a fair-haired man hurrying towards the house on the narrow road. Behind him, in front of the cabin, stood a lorry, on the back of which was a man whose face he recognised. Seyton. He was standing between what looked like two enormous meat-mincers on stands. Duff remembered Macbeth’s words. Stay in bed for two days at least... an order. Macbeth had known. Known that Duff was about to reveal that he had killed Duncan. Lennox. Lennox, the traitor. There was no judge from Capitol coming to town tomorrow.

Duff saw Seyton’s mouth moving before the sound reached him. The same furious word: ‘Angus!’

Duff moved back from the window so that the glass in the binoculars wouldn’t reflect the sun and give him away. He had to escape.

As darkness fell over the town, news of the massacre at the Norse Riders’ club house was already spreading. And at nine o’clock most of the town’s journalists, TV and radio crews were gathered in Scone Hall. Macbeth stood in the wings listening to Lennox welcome them to the press conference.

‘We would ask you not to use flash until the chief commissioner has finished, and please ask questions by raising a hand and speaking. And now here is this proud town’s chief commissioner, Macbeth.’

This introduction — and possibly the rumours of the victory over the Norse Riders in the battle at the club house — were cause enough for a couple of the less experienced journalists to clap when Macbeth appeared on the podium, but the thin applause died under the eloquent gazes of the more seasoned members of the audience.

Macbeth walked up to the lectern. No, he took the lectern by force, that was how it felt. It was strange that this — speaking to an audience — was what he had feared most; now he didn’t just like it, he longed for it, he needed it. He coughed, looked down at his papers. Then he started.

‘Today the police carried out two armed operations against those behind the recent murders of our officers, among them Chief Commissioner Duncan. I’m pleased to say that the first operation, given the circumstances, was one-hundred-per-cent successful. The criminal gang known as the Norse Riders has ceased to exist.’ A single hurrah from the audience broke the silence. ‘This was a planned action based on new information that emerged after the release of some Norse Rider members. The circumstances were that the Norse Riders fired shots at SWAT, and we had no choice but to hit back hard.’

A shout from the back of the hall: ‘Is Sweno among the dead?’

‘Yes,’ said Macbeth. ‘He is indeed one of the bodies that cannot be identified because of the comprehensive nature of his injuries, but I think you all recognise this...’ Macbeth held up a shiny sabre. More hurrahs, and now some of the more experienced journalists joined in the spontaneous applause. ‘And with it an era is over. Fortunately.’

‘There are rumours that women and children are among the dead.’

‘Yes and no,’ Macbeth said. ‘Adult women who had chosen to associate with the club, yes. Many of them have what we might call a sullied record and none of them did anything to stop the Norse Riders firing at us. As for children, that’s just nonsense. There were no innocent victims here.’

‘You mentioned a second operation. What was that?’