‘Of course,’ Macbeth said. ‘Hecate’s a difficult man to arrest, but if the opportunity should offer itself—’
‘My experience, I’m afraid to say, is that opportunities don’t offer themselves,’ Tourtell said. ‘They have to be created and then grasped. So what’s your plan for arresting Hecate?’
Macbeth coughed, played with his coffee cup. Tried to collect his thoughts. He had noticed he could suddenly have difficulty doing this, as though it were too much: there were too many balls to keep in the air at once, and when one ball fell, they all fell, and he had to start anew. Was he taking too much power? Or too little? Macbeth’s eyes sought Seyton’s, who had sat down at the coffee table, but there was no help to be found there. Of course not. Only she could help him. Lady. He would have to give up the drugs, talk to her. Only she could blow away the fog, clarify his thinking.
‘I want to lure him into a trap,’ Macbeth said.
‘What kind of trap?’
‘We haven’t got the details worked out yet.’
‘We’re talking about the town’s number-one enemy, so I would appreciate it if you keep me informed,’ Tourtell said and stood up. ‘Perhaps you could give me the plan in broad outline at Duncan’s funeral tomorrow? Along with your decision regarding the election.’
Macbeth took Tourtell’s outstretched hand without getting up. Tourtell nodded to the wall behind him. ‘I’ve always liked that painting, Macbeth. I’ll find my own way out.’
Macbeth watched him. Tourtell seemed to have grown every time he saw him. He hadn’t touched the coffee. Macbeth swivelled on his chair to face the picture. It was big and showed a man and a woman, both dressed as workers, walking hand in hand. Behind them came a procession of children and behind that the sun was high in the sky. The bigger picture. He guessed Duncan had hung it; Kenneth had probably had a portrait of himself. Macbeth angled his head to one side but still couldn’t work out what it meant.
‘Tell me, Seyton. What do you think?’
‘What I think? To hell with Tourtell. You’re more popular than he is.’
Macbeth nodded. Seyton was like him, not a man with an eye for the bigger picture. Only she had that.
Lady had locked herself in her room.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Macbeth said.
No answer.
‘Darling!’
‘It’s the child,’ Jack said.
Macbeth turned to him.
‘I took it from her. It was beginning to smell, and I didn’t know what else to do. But she thinks you ordered me to take it.’
‘Good. Well done, Jack. It’s just that I needed her advice on a case and... Well...’
‘She can hardly give you the advice you need in the state she’s in right now, sir. May I ask — no. Sorry, I was forgetting myself. You aren’t Lady, sir.’
‘Did you think I was Lady?’
‘No, I just... Lady usually airs her thoughts with me and I help in any way I can. Not that I have much to offer, but sometimes hearing yourself say something to someone can clear your mind.’
‘Hm. Make us both a cup of coffee, Jack.’
‘At once, sir.’
Macbeth went to the mezzanine. Looked down into the gaming room. It was a quiet evening. He saw none of the usual faces. Where were they?
‘At the Obelisk,’ Jack said, passing Macbeth a cup of steaming coffee.
‘What?’
‘Our regulars. They’re at the Obelisk. That was what you were wondering, wasn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I was in the Obelisk yesterday and I counted five of them. And spoke to two of them. Turns out I’m not the only one spying. The Obelisk’s got its people here too. And they’ve seen who our regular customers are and have offered them better deals.’
‘Better deals?’
‘Credit.’
‘That’s illegal.’
‘Unofficially, of course. It won’t appear in any of the Obelisk’s ledgers and if they’re confronted they’ll swear blind they don’t give credit.’
‘Then we’d better offer the same.’
‘I think the problem runs deeper than that, sir. Can you see how few there are in the bar downstairs? In the Obelisk there are queues. Beer and cocktails cost thirty-per-cent less, and that not only increases the number of customers and the turnover in the bar, it makes people less guarded in the gaming rooms.’
‘Lady thinks we appeal to a different, more quality-conscious clientele.’
‘The people who go to casinos in this town can be divided broadly into three groups, sir. You have the out-and-out gamblers who don’t care about the quality of the carpets or expensive cognac; they want an efficient croupier, a poker table with visiting country cousins they can fleece and — if it’s possible — credit. The Obelisk has this group. And then you have the country folk I mentioned, who usually come here because we have the reputation of being the real casino. But now they’ve discovered they prefer the simple more fun-filled sinful atmosphere at the Obelisk. These are people who tend to go to bingo rather than the opera.’
‘And we’re the opera?’
‘They want cheap beer, cheap women. What’s the point of an outing into town otherwise?’
‘And the last group?’
Jack pointed down to the room. ‘West Enders. The ones who don’t want to mingle with the dregs. Our last loyal customers. So far. The Obelisk plans to open a new gaming room next year with a dress code, higher minimum stakes and more expensive brands of cognac in the bar.’
‘Hm. And what do you suggest we do?’
‘Me?’ Jack laughed. ‘I’m just a receptionist, sir.’
‘And a croupier.’ Macbeth looked down at the blackjack table where he, Lady and Jack had first met. ‘Let me ask you for some advice, Jack.’
‘A croupier just watches people placing bets, sir. They never give advice.’
‘Fine, you’ll have to listen then. Tourtell came to tell me he didn’t want me to stand as mayor.’
‘Had you planned to do that, sir?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve probably half-thought about doing it and half-rejected it and then half-thought about it again. Especially after Tourtell so patronisingly explained to me what politics was really about. What do you think?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant mayor, sir. Think of all the things you and Lady could do for the town!’
Macbeth studied Jack’s beaming face — the undisguised happiness, the naive optimism. Like a reflection of the person he had once been. And a strange thought struck him: he wished he were Jack, the receptionist.
‘But I have a lot to lose as well,’ Macbeth said. ‘If I don’t stand now Tourtell will support me next time. And Tourtell’s right about the sitting mayor invariably being elected.’
‘Hm,’ Jack said, scratching his head. ‘Unless there’s a scandal just before the elections, that is. A scandal so damaging that the town can’t possibly let Tourtell continue.’
‘For example?’
‘Lady asked me to check out the young boy Tourtell brought to the dinner. My sources tell me Tourtell’s wife has moved to their summer cottage in Fife, while the boy has moved in. And he’s underage, sexually. What we need is concrete evidence of indecent behaviour. From employees in the mayor’s residence, for instance.’
‘But, Jack, this is fantastic!’ Excitement at the thought of skewering Tourtell warmed Macbeth’s cheeks. ‘We gather the evidence, and I get Kite to set up a live election debate, and then I can throw this unseemly relationship straight in Tourtell’s face. He won’t be prepared for that. How about that?’