‘From this distance? Thanks for your confidence. No, you’ll soon see, old man. As in see.’
Banquo looked up from his binoculars and discovered that Macbeth had stood up and grabbed the pole on to which the light on the roof was bolted. The veins in Macbeth’s powerful neck stood out and his teeth shone in either a grimace or a grin, Banquo couldn’t decide which. The pole was screwed down to withstand the feisty north-westerlies that blew for eight of the year’s twelve months, but Banquo had seen Macbeth lift cars out of snowdrifts before now.
‘Three,’ Macbeth groaned.
The first screws popped out of their sockets.
‘Two.’
The pole came loose and with a jerk tore the cable away from the wall below.
‘One.’
Macbeth pointed the light at the gangway.
‘Now.’
It sounded like two whiplashes. Duff opened his eyes in time to see the man with the automatic weapon topple forward and hit the ground helmet first. Where Sivart stood there was now light, and Duff could see him clearly and also the man behind him. He was no longer holding a gun to Sivart’s head but resting his chin on Sivart’s shoulder. And in the light Duff also saw the hole in the visor. Then, like a jellyfish, he slid down Sivart’s back to the ground.
Duff turned.
‘Up here, Duff!’
He shaded his eyes. A peal of laughter rang out behind the dazzling light and the shadow of a gigantic man fell over the quay.
But the laughter was enough.
It was Macbeth. Of course it was Macbeth.
2
A seagull swept in over Fife through the silence and moonlight under a cloud-free night sky. Below, the river shone like silver. On the west of the river — like an immense fortress wall — a steep black mountain rose to the sky. Just short of the top a monastic order had once erected a large cross, but as it had been put up on the Fife side the silhouette appeared to be upside down to the residents of the town. From the side of the mountain — like a drawbridge over the fortress moat — jutted an impressive iron bridge. Three hundred and sixty metres long and ninety metres high at its tallest point. Kenneth Bridge, or the new bridge as most people called it. The old bridge was by comparison a modest but more aesthetically pleasing construction further down the river, and it meant a detour. In the middle of the new bridge towered an unlovely marble monument in the shape of a man, meant to represent former Chief Commissioner Kenneth, erected at his own orders. The statue stood inside the town boundary by a centimetre as no other county would give the rogue’s posthumous reputation a centimetre of land for free. Even though the sculptor had complied with Kenneth’s order to emphasise his visionary status by creating a characteristic horizon-searching pose, not even the most benevolent of artists could have refrained from drawing attention to the chief commissioner’s unusually voluminous neck and chin area.
The seagull flapped its wings to gain height, hoping for better fishing on the coast across the mountain, even though that meant crossing the weather divide. From good to bad. For those wishing to travel the same way there was a two-kilometre-long narrow black hole from the new bridge through the mountain. A mountain and a partition many appeared to appreciate — neighbouring counties referred to the tunnel as a rectum with an anal orifice at each end. And indeed as the seagull passed over the mountain peak it was like flying from a world of quiet harmony into a freezing-cold filthy shower falling onto the foul-smelling town beneath. And as if to show its contempt the seagull shat, then continued to swerve between the gusts of wind.
The seagull shit hit the roof of a shelter, below which an emaciated trembling boy crept onto a bench. Although the sign beside the shelter indicated it was a bus stop the boy wasn’t sure. So many bus routes had been stopped over the last couple of years. Because of the decreasing population, the mayor said, the fathead. But the boy had to get to the central station for brew; the speed he had bought from some bikers was just crap, icing sugar and potato flour rather than amphetamine.
The oily wet tarmac glinted beneath the few street lamps that still worked, and the rain lay in puddles on the potholed road leading out of town. It had been quiet, not a car to be seen, only rain. But now he heard a sound like a low gurgle.
He raised his head. Pulled on the string of his eyepatch, which had slipped over from his empty eye cavity and now covered the remaining eye. Perhaps he could hitch a lift to the centre?
But no, the sound came from the wrong direction.
He drew up his knees again.
The gurgle rose to a roar. He couldn’t be bothered to move, besides he was already drenched, so he just covered his head with his arms. The lorry passed, sending a cascade of filthy water into the bus shelter.
He lay there thinking about life until he realised it was wiser not to.
The sound of another vehicle. This time?
He struggled upright and looked out. But no, it was coming from the town too. Also at great speed. He stared into the lights as they approached. And the thought came into his head: one step into the road and all his problems were solved.
The van passed him without going into any of the potholes. Black Ford Transit. Cops, three of them. Great. You don’t want a lift with them.
‘There it is, ahead of us,’ Banquo said. ‘Step on it, Angus!’
‘How do you know it’s them?’ Olafson asked, leaning forward between the front seats of the SWAT Transit.
‘Diesel smoke,’ Banquo said. ‘My God, no wonder there’s an oil crisis in Russia. Get right behind them so that they can see us in their rear-view mirror, Angus.’
Angus maintained his speed until they reached the black exhaust. Banquo rolled down his window and steadied his rifle on the wing mirror. Coughed. ‘And now alongside, Angus!’
Angus pulled out and accelerated. The Transit drew alongside the snorting, groaning lorry.
A puff of smoke came from the lorry window. The mirror under Banquo’s rifle barrel broke with a crack.
‘Yes, they’ve seen us,’ Banquo said. ‘Get behind them again.’
The rain stopped suddenly and everything around them became even darker. They had driven into the tunnel. The tarmac and the hewn black walls seemed to swallow the lights of the headlamps; all they could see was the lorry’s rear lights.
‘What shall we do?’ Angus asked. ‘The bridge at the other end, and if they pass the middle...’
‘I know,’ Banquo said, lifting his rifle. The town stopped by the statue, their area of jurisdiction stopped, the chase stopped. In theory of course they could carry on, it had happened before: enthusiastic officers, rarely in the Narco Unit though, had arrested smugglers on the wrong side of the boundary. And every time they’d had a nice fat juicy case thrown out of court and had to face censure for gross misjudgement in the course of duty. Banquo’s Remington 700 recoiled.
‘Bull’s eye,’ he said.
The lorry began to swerve in the tunnel; bits of rubber flew off the rear wheel.
‘Now you’ll feel what a heavy steering wheel is really like,’ Banquo said and took aim at the other rear tyre. ‘Bit more distance, Angus, in case they go straight into the tunnel wall.’
‘Banquo!’ came a voice from the back seat.
‘Olafson?’ Banquo said, slowly pressing the trigger.
‘Car coming.’
‘Whoops.’
Banquo lifted his cheek off the rifle as Angus braked.
In front of them the ZIS-5 veered from side to side, alternately showing and cutting off the headlights of the oncoming car. Banquo heard the horn, the desperate hooting of a saloon car that saw a lorry bearing down on it and knew it was too late to do anything.