Macbeth looked down at his notes. Put them to the side.
‘If these questions mean the press considers we’ve covered our responsibility to report on the murder of Chief Commissioner Duncan, we can now talk about the disappearance of the deputy chief commissioner.’
‘No, but first things first,’ shouted one of the older journalists. ‘We have deadlines looming.’
‘OK,’ Macbeth said. ‘Deputy Chief Commissioner Malcolm didn’t show up — as you appear to know — at our meeting in police HQ at six. On a day when the chief commissioner has been found dead that is of course disturbing. So we instigated a search, and Malcolm’s car was located this afternoon in the container harbour. Subsequently the area was searched, also by divers. And they found—’
‘The body?’
‘—this.’ Macbeth held up a round piece of metal that glinted in the glare of the TV lamps. ‘This is Malcolm’s police badge, and was found on the seabed by the quay.’
‘Do you think someone has killed him?’
‘Possibly,’ Macbeth said, without batting an eyelid, in the deafening silence that followed. ‘If by someone we include Malcolm himself.’ He ran his eye over the audience and continued: ‘A letter was found on the front seat of his car.’
Macbeth addressed the letter. Cleared his throat.
‘The Norse Riders threatened they would kill my daughter, Julia, if I didn’t help them to kill the chief commissioner. But now they have a hold on me and they’ve told me to perform other services for them, too. I know that for as long as I’m alive the threat to my daughter will always be there. That is why — and because of the shame I feel for what I’ve done — I’ve decided to drown myself. It is signed by the deputy chief commissioner.’
Macbeth looked up at the assembled journalists. ‘The first question we — and I presume you, too — are asking is of course whether the letter is genuine. Our Forensics Unit has confirmed that the letter was written on Malcolm’s typewriter at HQ. The paper bears Malcolm’s fingerprints and the signature is Malcolm’s.’
It was as though the room needed a few seconds to digest the information. Then came shrill voices.
‘Do you know if there’s anything else to confirm Malcolm was behind Duncan’s murder?’
‘How could Malcolm have helped the Norse Riders to murder Duncan?’
‘What’s the connection between Malcolm and the bodyguards?’
‘Do you think there are any other police officers involved?’
Macbeth held up his palms. ‘I won’t answer any questions about Duncan’s murder now, as it is all speculation. Only questions about Malcolm’s disappearance. One at a time, please.’
Silence. Then the only female journalist in the room said, ‘Are we to understand that you’ve found Malcolm’s police badge, but not Malcolm?’
‘We have a muddy seabed to contend with, and the water in our harbour is not the cleanest. A light brass badge doesn’t necessarily sink into the mud the way a body does, and brass reflects light. It will take the divers time to find Malcolm.’
Macbeth watched the journalists as they threw themselves over their pads and made notes.
‘Isn’t the most obvious reason for that the current carrying away the body?’ said a voice with rolled ‘r’s.
‘Yes,’ Macbeth replied, and he spotted the face behind the voice. One of the few who wasn’t taking notes. Walt Kite. He didn’t need to; the radio station microphone was placed in front of Macbeth.
‘If Malcolm killed Duncan and regretted it, why—’
‘Stop.’ Macbeth raised a palm. ‘As I said, I won’t answer any questions about Duncan’s murder until we know more. And now please understand that we have to return to work. The number one priority for us is to investigate this case as quickly and efficiently as we can with the resources at our disposal. We also have to appoint a chief commissioner as soon as possible so that we have continuity in the rest of the work the police are doing for this town.’
‘Is it correct that you’re the acting chief at this moment, Macbeth?’
‘In formal terms, yes.’
‘And in practice?’
‘In practice...’ Macbeth paused. Looked down quickly at his sheet. Moistened his lips. ‘We’re a group of experienced unit heads who have already taken the helm, and I’m not afraid to say we are in control. Nor, however, am I afraid to say that filling Duncan’s shoes will take some doing. Duncan was a visionary man, a hero who died in the fight against the powers of evil, who think today they have won a victory.’ He gripped the lectern and leaned forward. ‘But all they have achieved is to make us even more determined that this lost battle will be the start of progress towards the final victory for the power of good. For justice. For security. And through that for rebuilding, re-establishing and regaining prosperity. But we can’t do that alone; to do that we need your trust and the town’s trust. If we have that we will continue the work that Chief Commissioner Duncan started. And I would—’ he stopped to raise his hand as if swearing an oath ‘—like to guarantee personally that we will not stop until we have achieved the goals that Duncan set for this town and all — all — its inhabitants.’
Macbeth let go of the lectern and straightened up. Looked at the faces, which blurred into a sea of eyes and open mouths before him. No, he wasn’t afraid. He saw the effect and was still savouring the sound of his own words. Lady’s words. He had leaned forward exactly when he was supposed to. She had instructed him in front of a mirror and explained how aggressive body language gave the impression of spontaneous passion and hunger for a fight, and that body language was more important than the words he used because it bypasses the brain and speaks directly to the heart.
‘The next press conference is tomorrow morning at eleven here in Scone Hall. Thank you.’
Macbeth collected his papers, and there was a groan of disappointment before a hail of protests and questions. Macbeth peered across the room. He wanted to stay there a couple more seconds. He managed — with some difficulty — to stop the incipient smile at the last moment.
He looks like the bloody captain of a boat, thought Duff, sitting in the front row. A captain fearlessly looking across the stormy sea. Someone has taught him that. It’s not the Macbeth I know. Knew.
Macbeth nodded briefly, marched across the podium and disappeared through the door held open by Priscilla.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Lennox?’ Duff asked while the journalists were still shouting for an encore behind them.
‘I’m moved,’ said the redhead inspector. ‘And inspired.’
‘Exactly. That was more like an election speech than a press conference.’
‘You can interpret it like that or you can interpret it as a clever and responsible tactical move.’
‘Responsible?’ Duff snorted.
‘A town, a country, rests on notions. Notions that banknotes can be exchanged for gold, notions that our leaders think about you and me and not their own good, that crimes will be punished. If we didn’t believe in those notions civilised society would disintegrate in a frighteningly short time. And in a situation where anarchy is knocking on the door Macbeth has just reassured us that the town’s public institutions are fully intact. It was a speech worthy of a statesman.’
‘Or stateswoman.’
‘You think those were Lady’s words, not Macbeth’s?’
‘Women understand hearts and how to speak to them. Because the heart is the woman in us. Even if the brain is bigger, talks more and believes that the husband rules the house, it’s the heart that silently makes the decisions. The speech touched your heart and the brain gladly follows. Believe me, Macbeth doesn’t have it in him; the speech is her work.’