Dark Flight Page 13
‘Right away, sir.’
Bill left her sitting there and went straight to his office.
The lab phone rang out half a dozen times before Chrissy picked up.
‘She’s here all right,’ she answered Bill’s swift enquiry. ‘I’ll get her for you.’
Bill had worked with Rhona MacLeod long enough both to respect and like her. But his current view on the world had made him feel estranged from everyone, including her. Despite his best efforts, his voice still sounded gruff. ‘Malcolm Menzies’s mother is here. She wants to speak to you. I’ve told her—’
Rhona interrupted him. ‘I’ll come.’
‘I don’t think she wants to plead his innocence.’
‘I don’t think she does, either. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
The main incident room was ringing with phones, chatter and the relentless click of computer keys. McNab had caught Bill’s eye and followed him to his office, waiting impatiently while he made the call to the lab.
McNab spoke as soon as the receiver went down. ‘The van belongs to the Nigerian Church of God by way of a charity called One World.’
‘Bastard!’ Bill’s fury caused McNab to take a step back. ‘Call DC Clark. She’s with the pastor now. Find out what he knows about that van.’
Bill was still seething when Rhona arrived fifteen minutes later. Her face was pale against the long slim-line black coat. He was struck by the purple shadows under her eyes.
Bill talked to cover the unease between them. ‘Chrissy’s lead to the Nigerian Church of God was a good one. Turns out the van is owned by a subsidiary charity of theirs.’
‘Oh.’ Rhona thought for a moment. ‘If you suspect a member of the church might be involved—’
Bill cut in, his tone abrupt. ‘I need a DNA check on all male church members over sixteen.’
She regarded him coolly, a questioning look in her eyes, then nodded. ‘Of course.’
It would mean a massive effort on both their parts. But such a move had produced results before now.
However, if Stephen were still alive, it might put him in danger . . .
It seemed Rhona was reading his thoughts. ‘I think Stephen’s alive.’ She seemed puzzled by her own certainty.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t explain.’ She shook her head. ‘Is there any chance he’s been smuggled out of the country?’
People were trafficked into the UK. Women and children mostly, to work in brothels and God knows where else. London was the most popular destination but Scotland was by no means free from the trade. With its extensive remote coastline and direct sea links to Northern Europe, it would take an army to watch every possible landing point. If someone brought illegals in, they could take them out as well.
‘His mother requested a miracle before she died.’ Bill felt embarrassed saying it. ‘The church has a miracle service once a month. You put in your request and God answers, apparently.’ He didn’t like the sneer in his own voice.
‘What did she ask for?’ Rhona’s voice was low, almost breathless.
‘Don Allah. Please, God. That’s all.’
Rhona thought about that. ‘She was asking God to protect her son.’
‘You think she knew her attacker?’
‘Circumcision is personal. I think she was punished for bringing Stephen here, away from something or someone. I think whoever punished her wanted Stephen back.’
It made sense, but then many scenarios could be written to try to make sense of the few facts they had.
The next step was Customs and Immigration. To find out where, when and how illegals were arriving in Scotland.
‘My biggest mistake was to let so-called Mr Devlin out of my sight.’
‘We all make mistakes, Bill.’ She looked tired. Tired but determined. ‘Okay, where’s Malchie’s mum?’
26
WOMAN TO WOMAN with Dr MacLeod. That was Malchie’s mother’s request. Bill had agreed, on condition the interview was observed and taped. Mrs Menzies had something to say. If there was the slightest chance it concerned the murder investigation, then it had to be on record.
Rhona waited until the female constable had set the tape running, announced who was present, then exited, shutting the door. She didn’t glance at the two-way glass, behind which Bill and McNab stood unobserved.
‘Mrs Menzies,’ she began.
‘My name’s Sara. Please call me Sara.’
‘Mine’s Rhona.’
They exchanged cautious smiles.
‘I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.’
Rhona’s heart sank. Was that the only reason Mrs Menzies had asked to speak to her?
‘I needed to say that first.’
Rhona waited for her to go on.
A pulse beat rapidly at the side of the woman’s thin neck. Small beads of perspiration clung to her pale forehead. She cleared her throat, then, as though making up her mind, she reached in her handbag and withdrew something.
Rhona caught a flash of black metal. Realising what it was, she raised her hand to indicate to the silent watchers that there was nothing to fear.
Sara laid the fancy black mobile phone on the table between them.
‘He was using it to contact somebody about –’ her voice caught in her throat – ‘that place on the wasteland.’
Rhona could taste the woman’s fear.
‘Somebody was giving my son drugs to keep folk away from that building.’ She wiped an eye with a shaking hand.
‘How long for?’
‘He’s been smoking dope for months. That and drink. So he was getting money from somewhere. Today he took money from me.’
Rhona’s eyes were drawn to the bandaged hand. ‘The police can protect you.’ The words sounded as feeble as the promise.
Sara made a small noise in her throat. ‘Aye.’ The acceptance was more for Rhona’s peace of mind, than her own.
‘What was Malcolm guarding?’
‘I thought it was stolen stuff or drugs.’ Her eyes reluctantly met Rhona’s. ‘Then I worried it might be something worse.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘Malcolm was frightened. He used to be like that when he was a wee boy. Always frightened.’
Rhona recalled the sly face, the cruel twist to his mouth. Malchie had learned that the best way to handle fear was to dole it out.
Sara drew herself up. ‘He came home one night really scared. I heard him being sick in the toilet. When he came out he had a towel wrapped around his hand. He wouldn’t let me see it. I waited till he was asleep and looked. Someone had cut a cross there.’ She pointed to the hollow next to her thumb. ‘The inspector said there was one like it on the wall inside that building.’
Sara had run out of steam. She slumped, folding her body into itself.
‘You did the right thing,’ Rhona said.
Her eyes raised in despair. ‘Betraying my son?’
‘Protecting your son.’
Sara stared at the mobile as though it were a dangerous weapon. ‘Can you find out who gave him that?’
‘We’ll try.’
Her bandaged hand lay on the table. Rhona reached out and touched it gently.
‘Malcolm is safer if we catch this man.’ Even as she said it she wondered how Sara could love a son who inflicted so much pain.
‘Have you got any children?’ Sara asked.
The age-old response of ‘no’ was primed and ready, but Rhona didn’t use it. ‘I have a son.’
‘How old?’
‘Eighteen.’
Sara gave her an appraising look. ‘I have a daughter, Karen. I’m going to stay with her.’
So coming here meant leaving husband, son and home.
‘Your husband . . .’
‘He’s a lorry driver. Away a lot.’ She indicated the mobile. ‘He knows nothing about this. He and Karen fell out. He doesn’t know where she lives. She wants it like that.’
‘Can we contact you there?’
‘I’m not a police officer,’ Rhona tried to explain.
‘If he finds out he’ll come for me.’ It was a bald admission of terror. ‘His’ identity was left to supposition.
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t find out.’ A big promise she would have to try to keep.
Sara seemed to take her at her word. She wrote a number on a piece of paper and passed it across. It was the 0141 prefix for Glasgow followed by a 946 code.
‘Can I call your daughter? Get her to come for you?’
‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘I’ll get the bus.’
Rhona stood up, indicating to those on the other side of the glass that the interview was over. Bill wisely didn’t come in. The woman had come of her own free will. They had no reason not to let her walk back out.
The door was opened by the female constable carrying an evidence bag. Rhona slipped the mobile inside and followed Mrs Menzies to the door. Now that the deed was done, the woman was anxious to leave. Rhona saw her through to reception.
‘I hope you find the wee boy.’
‘Thank you for your help, Sara.’
Sara looked down at the proffered hand. The gesture seemed inappropriate and oddly masculine, but she took it anyway. ‘Don’t phone unless you have to.’
With that she turned abruptly away.
Bill and McNab were waiting in Bill’s office.
McNab looked pleased with the result. ‘We’ll dust the mobile for prints. Then the tech boys can take a look. The provider should have a record of the owner and any calls.’
It wouldn’t be the first time a mobile phone had helped trace a criminal.
‘How long will that take?’ asked Rhona. How often had she fended off that selfsame question?
‘They promised priority,’ McNab assured her.
‘Whoever gave him the phone was giving him money to keep people away from that building. The altar suggests some kind of juju worship was going on there. That could involve more than one person.’
‘We’ll bring Malchie in, find out what he really knows,’ Bill said. ‘Can we have the contact number his mum gave you?’
Rhona reluctantly reached in her pocket and retrieved the slip of paper.
McNab made a note of it. ‘I know that 946 is the code for Maryhill. We’ll get the address from BT.’
‘If only we had a lead on Mr Devlin.’ Rhona didn’t like saying it, knowing how Bill felt. But if they only knew who Devlin really was . . .
McNab came to Bill’s rescue. ‘We have an enhanced image from the footage in the mortuary, although it’s not great. We’ve contacted the main oil firms working in Nigeria to see if they have Devlin on their books.’
The Nigerian connection had to be important.
‘I checked out the foreign office website,’ Rhona told them. ‘There’re only four thousand UK citizens living in Nigeria. Most in Lagos, fewer in Kano. I bet the British consul in Kano knows every white face within a hundred miles, including Carole Devlin.’
Bill looked up. ‘And the pastor said Carole attended one of their churches there.’
‘Wasn’t Kano where they had those big riots a couple of years back?’ McNab asked.
‘According to onlinenigeria, only one percent of Kano residents are Christian and most of them live, or lived, before the riots, in the Sabon Gari. That was why it was so easy to find them. Over a hundred people died, Muslim against Christian.’
‘Sabon Gari?’
‘Hausa for foreigners’ town, apparently.’ Rhona thought for a moment. ‘That’s where the witch doctor advert came from, the one that Sam showed me.’
‘In your report you said the mineral content of Abel’s bones suggested he grew up near Rano,’ Bill said. ‘Is that near Kano?’
‘Half an hour away, near Tiga Dam,’ she told him. ‘When’s Olatunde due back?’
‘University says he has compassionate leave, so no definite date,’ McNab answered.
‘What if Sam’s right and Stephen’s drawing is Olatunde?’
Bill threw Rhona a swift look. ‘Right. We check out the Olatunde home, forensics included.’ He turned to McNab. ‘Get back on to the university. Insist on a contact number or address for our doctor in Nigeria.’
The majority of murders were carried out by someone the victim knew, despite what the tabloids would have you believe. If Carole’s circle in this country was as small as it seemed, Olatunde was one of the few members.
Rhona waited until the office door closed behind McNab. They had made some progress, in thought at least. Bill had slumped back into his chair. She had always thought of him as the captain of the Starship Enterprise when he sat in that chair. Not today.
‘I should have searched Olatunde’s house before now,’ he muttered.
‘On the strength of a child’s drawing?’
‘And Sam’s identification.’
‘Being a member of that church makes Sam a suspect too,’ she countered.
They both digested that.
Bill snorted. ‘I’m losing it.’
‘Losing what?’
He indicated the noisy police office through the glass. ‘Them. This case.’
His eyes were haunted.
‘What’s wrong, Bill?’
‘Apart from three murders and a missing child, you mean?’
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘I mean, with you?’
She watched his defences crumble. His voice when he finally spoke, was heavy with dread.
‘Margaret’s got a lump, probably cancer.’
Rhona suspected she was the first person he’d told. ‘Where?’
‘In her right breast.’
‘How long has it been there?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘Have they done a biopsy?’
He nodded in slow motion. ‘We’re waiting for the results.’
‘She’ll be okay.’
She was saying this as much for herself as for him.
Hope sprang in his eyes. ‘How can you know that?’
‘The survival rate is good if caught early. Margaret is a fighter. And she’s got you.’
The conviction in her voice made hope a brief reality for him. Rhona pushed her own problems to the back of her mind, and smiled encouragingly.
‘Thanks.’
It was as though she had saved his life as well as Margaret’s.
He stood up. ‘Margaret wants me to find the boy. It’s as important to her as what the doctors say.’
That fact had added to his despair. How could he tell Margaret that Stephen died before he got to him?
‘Stephen left that building alive.’ That much Rhona knew.
27
HE’D LEFT THE phone on the fucking bed!
Malchie threw the duvet up in the air, waiting for the thump as the metal hit the carpet. Nothing.
He searched the floor, tossing dirty underpants and socks to one side, muttering to himself all the time.
‘I left it on the fucking bed.’
The combination of dope and drink in his bloodstream was still strong enough to dampen his growing anxiety, until he felt the draught on his face.
He spun around.
The window was open. His brain cells struggled frantically to function. Who the fuck opened the window?
Who else but his stupid mother. Open the window, Malcolm. Let some air into the room.
His father never came in here any more, not since the last attempt at a beating, when Malchie’d pulled out his knife to defend himself. His dad didn’t like that. No fist was as quick as a chib.
Only his mother came in here now, even when he warned her not to.
Had she taken his phone?
His search became more desperate. He stripped the bed and carefully checked inside the duvet cover, then pulled the bed away from the wall and lay across it, searching behind. More dirty clothes and a few empty beer can
s. No phone.
Fear was threatening to swamp the pleasant fug of chemicals in his bloodstream as he took the stairs two at a time.
He didn’t shout her name, not wanting to give any warning. When he threw open the kitchen door, the room was empty, the pot lying where he’d thrown it, its cold congealing contents a thin slick across the floor.
A sick apprehension flowed through him. Where had she gone? He recalled her gasp of pain as the boiling mince hit her hand. Had she gone to the hospital? He dismissed the thought almost immediately. She never went to the hospital, no matter how badly hurt she was. He checked the hook at the back door for her coat; the surfaces, for her handbag. Both were gone.
Malchie felt for the reassuring presence of his knife. The handle was cool to the touch. He pulled it out and set it on the table. His scarred hand had begun to throb. What if she gave the phone to the police? Malchie had no doubt what would happen next. The kitchen swam in front of him and he knew he was going to vomit.
A mess of semi-digested pizza and cider hit the stainless-steel sink. He heaved twice more, before his trembling legs allowed him to sit down at the table.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
They would come for him. He would end up like that kid.
His gaze flicked wildly around the room as the memory of the drums began a steady beat in his head. He could hear the chants again, see the kneeling figures as clearly as when it had happened.
The dog’s eyes bulge in fear, its snapping muzzle bound with barbed wire, preventing it from biting its tormentors. Still it tries to escape, its head twisting wildly, mucus flying from bared teeth.
Its death is swift, a clean slice to the neck, muffled whines ending in silence as blood gushes into the waiting bowl. The hot salt smell of fresh blood sends a ripple of excitement through the kneeling group. Another swift cut and HE holds up the dog’s testicles. The crowd groans in pleasure.
Malchie’s own blood is beating furiously through his veins, bulging his temples, firing his heartbeat, hardening his prick. It’s the same feeling he gets when he holds up his knife and watches the fear on his victim’s face.
They bring the bowl to him and hold it under his nose. His eyes stream as he breathes in. The chanting begins again, rising steadily like his climax. They cut him as he drinks. A swift cross cut into his hand. There is no pain, even when they dribble the purple liquid into the wound.