Duff noticed Macbeth’s dramatic pause. As if to allow the audience to listen to his silence. It was a trick Duff might use himself, a method had definitely seen Duncan use, but he hadn’t imagined that the pragmatic Macbeth would have it in his repertoire. And perhaps he didn’t, because he was studying his watch again.
‘Ten fifty-nine.’
Macbeth looked up and pulled his sleeve over the watch in a gesture to suggest he had finished.
‘So Cawdor’s still hanging there. Not for any investigative purpose, but because he was a corrupt policeman.’
It was so quiet in the room that Duff could hear the rain lashing against the window high up the wall. Macbeth turned to Duncan and gave a cursory nod. Then he left the podium and went back to his seat.
Duncan waited until Macbeth had sat down before saying, ‘Thank you, Macbeth. That won’t form part of the press conference, but I think it’s a suitable conclusion to this internal briefing. Remember that a condemnation of all that is weak and bad in us can also be seen as an optimistic tribute to all that is strong and good. So back to your good work, folks.’
The young nurse stood by the door and watched the patient take off his top. He had pulled his long black hair behind his head as the doctor unwound the blood stained bandage from his left shoulder. All she knew about the patient was that he was a police officer. And muscular.
‘Oh my goodness,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll have to give you a few stitches. And you’ll need a tetanus injection, we always do that with dog bites. But first a little anaesthetic. Maria, can you...?
‘No,’ said the patient, staring stiffly at the wall.
‘Sorry?’
‘No anaesthetic.’
A silence ensued.
‘No anaesthetic?’
‘No anaesthetic.’
The doctor was about to say something about pain when she caught sight of the scars on his forearms. Old scars. But the type of scar she had seen all too often after she moved to this town.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘No anaesthetic.’
Duff leaned back in his office chair and pressed the receiver to his ear.
‘It’s me, love. What are you all doing?’
‘Emily’s gone swimming with friends. Ewan has got toothache. I’ll take him to the dentist.’
‘OK. Love, I’m working late today.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I may have to stay over here.’
‘Why’s that?’ she repeated. Her voice didn’t reveal any annoyance or frustration. It just sounded as if this was information she would like, perhaps to explain his absence to the children. Not because she needed him. Not because...
‘It’ll soon be on the news,’ he said. ‘Cawdor has committed suicide.’
‘Oh dear. Who’s Cawdor?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘The head of the Gang Unit. He was a strong candidate for the Organised Crime post.’
Silence.
She had never taken much interest in his work. Her world was Fife, the children and — at least when he was at home — her husband. Which was great for him. In the sense that he didn’t have to involve them in the grimness of his work. On the other hand, her lack of interest in his ambition meant she didn’t always show much understanding for what the job demanded of his time. For his sacrifice. For... what he needed, for goodness’ sake.
‘The head of Organised Crime, who will be number three in the chain of command at HQ, after Duncan and Deputy Commissioner Malcolm. So, yes, this is a big deal, and it means I have to be here. Probably for the next few days, too.’
‘Just tell me you’ll be here for the pre-birthday.’
The pre-birthday. Oh, hell! It was a tradition they had, the day before the child’s real birthday it was just the four of them, meat broth and Mum and Dad’s presents. Had he really forgotten Ewan’s birthday? Perhaps the date had slipped his mind with all the events of the last few days, but he had gone out to buy what Ewan said he wanted after Duff told him how the undercover officers worked in the Narco Unit — sometimes they donned a disguise so that they wouldn’t be recognised. In the drawer in front of Duff there was a nicely wrapped gift box containing a false beard and glue, fake glasses and a green woolly hat, all adult sizes so that he could assure Ewan it was exactly what Daddy and the others in the Narco Unit wore.
A light flashed on his telephone. An internal call. He had an inkling who it might be.
‘Just a mo, love.’
He pressed the button below the light. ‘Yes?’
‘Duff? Duncan here. It’s about the press conference this afternoon.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I’d like to show we haven’t been rendered impotent by what’s happened and we’re thinking about the future, so I’m going to announce the name of the acting head of Organised Crime.’
‘Organised Crime? Er... already?’
‘I’d have done it at the end of the month anyway, but as the Gang Unit no longer has a leader it’s expedient to appoint an acting head straight away. Can you come up to my office?’
‘Of course.’
Duncan rang off. Duff sat staring at the extinguished light. It was unusual for the chief commissioner to ring personally; it was always his secretary or one of his assistants who called meetings. Acting head. Who would probably take over the post when the formalities — application phase, appointment board’s deliberations and so on — were at an end. His gaze picked up another light. He had completely forgotten his wife was on hold.
‘Love, something’s happened. I’ve got to run.’
‘Oh? Nothing awful, I hope.’
‘No,’ Duff laughed. ‘Nothing awful. Not at all. I think you should switch on the radio news this afternoon and listen to what they say about the new appointment for Organised Crime.’
‘Oh?’
‘Kiss on the neck.’ They hadn’t used this term of endearment for years. Duff rang off and ran — he couldn’t stop himself — out of his office and up the stairs to the top floor. Up, up, up, higher and higher.
The secretary told Duff to go straight in. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ She smiled. Smiled? She never smiled.
Around the circular oak table in the chief commissioner’s large, airy but soberly furnished office sat four people, not counting Duncan. Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm, prematurely grey and bespectacled. He had studied philosophy and economics at the university in Capitol, spoke accordingly and was seen by many as a strange bird in HQ. He was an old friend of Duncan’s, who claimed he had brought him in because they needed his broad range of management skills. Others said it was because Duncan needed Malcolm’s unqualified ‘Yes’ vote at management meetings. Beside Malcolm, Lennox leaned forward, as keen as ever, albino-pale. His section, the Anti-Corruption Unit, had been established during Duncan’s reorganisation. There had been a brief discussion as to whether anti should be in the title, some arguing that they didn’t say the Anti-Narcotics Unit or the Anti-Homicide Unit. Yet under Kenneth the Narcotics Unit had been known as the corruption unit in local parlance. On the other side of Duncan sat an assistant taking minutes of the meeting, and beside her, Inspector Caithness.
As Duncan didn’t allow smoking in his office there were no ashtrays on the table with cigarette ends to tell Duff roughly how long they had been sitting there, but he registered that some of the notepads on the table had coffee stains and some of the cups were nearly empty. And the open, gentle, almost relaxed atmosphere suggested they had reached a conclusion.