Dark Flight Read online

  Malchie swallows the last of the blood. Salt and metal. He feels it flow down his throat in a warm red stream. As it hits his stomach, he feels his prick spray inside his pants. An intense pleasure fills his body and he feels himself sway. Strong arms lift him then and drag him towards the door. Malchie doesn’t want to go. His fear has dissolved. He is one of them now.

  On the way out he sees the black kid, gagged and tied up against the back wall. His head is tipped back, his eyes rolling white in his head.

  When Malchie’s head stopped swimming, he checked the couch in the living room in the vain hope the phone was down the back. Then he fetched a can of cider from his bedroom and sat down to wait for his mum to return. No point in telling Danny yet, until he was sure the mobile was really gone. Danny hadn’t been at the initiation ceremony. Danny knew only what he told him and that wasn’t much. And it meant Malchie could split the money and the drugs the way he liked, with plenty for himself. Danny was useful to cover for him, that was all.

  He must have dozed off, because the rattle of the letter box woke him. He jumped up, convinced it was his mother. But the key didn’t turn in the lock and the front door didn’t open.

  Malchie stood for a moment before walking through to the hall. At first glance there was nothing on the carpet. Then he saw the wizened shapes tied together with red thread near the foot of the door. Someone had posted them through the letter box.

  Malchie ran panic-stricken to the kitchen for his knife. The weight of it in his hand gave him the courage to go through to the sitting room and look out of the window.

  The street was empty. Grey rain splattered the pavements. The street lights had come on, throwing an eerie orange glow on the puddles.

  Whoever had posted the dog’s testicles through his letter box was long gone.

  Back in the hall, Malchie slid down the wall and sat, knees up, the object of his terror a metre away. Adrenalin twitched his legs in a parody of running and he was a wee boy again, listening to his mother’s screams, knowing he should go and help her, but choosing self-preservation instead.

  He spat out his childhood disgust and guilt and wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. The stupid bitch never learned. In that moment Malchie knew the truth. She had taken the phone to the police. His mother was upset about that woman on the waste ground. His stupid mother had fucked him up because of that.

  The object on the mat reminded him he had to get away from here, and quickly. He thought about calling Danny to warn him what had happened, then dismissed the idea. Danny would have to look out for himself.

  Malchie stood up and slipped the knife out of sight, then went upstairs to collect his gear.

  Day 5

  Friday

  28

  BEING BACK IN church gave Chrissy a bad feeling. She didn’t like to call it guilt, because it was much more complex than that. The Nigerian Church of God was nothing like a Catholic chapel. No statues of the Virgin Mary, no Jesus with sorrowful eyes and bleeding hands and feet. But they did have a miracle list. Chrissy eyed it with interest and a certain degree of anticipation, much as she read her stars in the newspapers, particularly the Sunday Herald magazine, which always guaranteed something nice was going to happen. She wasn’t sure how she would have reacted had Sam’s name appeared on the list. What would he have asked for?

  She hadn’t had the nerve to tell Sam to his face that she couldn’t see him any more. She’d taken the cowardly text route: V busy work cant see u fr a while. Now that the Nigerian Church of God was part of the murder investigation, she couldn’t see him at all.

  DC Clark was with the pastor discussing the DNA testing. The rest of the team were due any minute. According to Janice, the pastor had given them the room normally used for the Sunday School. Chrissy picked up her forensic case and went to check it out.

  Someone had already cleared the child-size tables and chairs to one side. The room was warm and carpeted, the walls decorated with brightly coloured crayoned posters. Jesus figured in a lot of them, telling stories, suffering the little children to come unto him. In the drawings Jesus was a black man, the children a mix of colours and creeds, which made a pleasant change. The words and music of a song sat on an upright piano. ‘One More Step Along the World I Go’. Chrissy felt a lump rise in her throat. That had been one of her favourites in school. The tune came back into her head and she found herself singing the words quietly. As a child it had made her feel safe. A bit like ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ did for adults. In both, the darkness of the world couldn’t get to you. Not like in real life.

  ‘It is a good song.’ The male voice was deep and resonant. The man came towards her and extended his hand. ‘I am Pastor Achebe.’

  Her hand was encased in his large warm handshake.

  ‘Chrissy McInsh, forensics.’

  ‘At the forefront of science.’ He smiled.

  ‘We try.’

  ‘I’m a CSI fan myself, although I set great store by human intuition.’

  ‘Intuition is often at the heart of the investigation,’ she agreed. ‘Science provides the proof.’

  ‘So you do not believe in blind faith?’ His gaze was compelling and not a little scary.

  ‘I prefer hard evidence.’

  Pastor Achebe was a charismatic character. The height, the voice, the eyes. His flock must love him. Probably do anything for him. The thought chilled her.

  Her childhood priest, Father Riley, had many of the same characteristics. Crinkly smiling eyes and a persuasive way with words. She had escaped his sexual advances, being a girl. Her friend, Neil MacGregor, had not.

  The remainder of the team had arrived. She heard McNab’s voice in the main hall. He was asking Janice where Rhona was.

  The pastor handed Chrissy a printed list of names. ‘I have spoken to the men of my congregation and explained how important it is that they come here today.’

  Chrissy glanced at the paper. It looked like at least fifty names.

  ‘Many of them have come from countries where you cannot trust the police.’

  She met his eye. ‘If they are innocent they have nothing to worry about.’

  He shrugged. ‘Innocence has not protected them up to now.’

  ‘No two people share the same DNA unless they are twins.’

  ‘You and I know that, they don’t. Many of these men are deeply superstitious as well as religious.’

  Chrissy stopped herself from suggesting they were one and the same thing. ‘We take a small scraping of cells from inside the mouth,’ she explained. ‘Painless and quick.’

  McNab came in, preventing further discussion.

  Chrissy wondered how diligent Pastor Achebe had been at persuading his flock to attend. And what about those who were here illegally? There were plenty of those, if you believed the tabloids. Would any of them turn up?

  McNab took a good look around. ‘Where’s Dr MacLeod?’ He tried to sound casual.

  ‘Dublin.’

  That floored him. ‘Dublin?’ he repeated.

  ‘At a funeral. Sean’s father died.’

  A swift angry look crossed his face, before he managed to replace it with an attempt at compassion. ‘She never said.’

  ‘Well,’ Chrissy met his eye, ‘she wouldn’t, would she?’ She couldn’t resist the jibe. Just in case McNab had any ideas about muscling back in. ‘This is routine stuff,’ she went on. ‘Dr McLeod doesn’t need to be here.’

  She handed him the list.

  ‘You can check off the names.’ Whether he would be able to pronounce any of them was another matter.

  ‘Have you organised an interpreter?’ he asked.

  ‘I would need several. Hausa, Yoruba, Ibo, and that’s only the main Nigerian tribes. Pastor Achebe assures me they all speak English. It’s the language of government and the school qualification system.’

  McNab smiled. ‘The good old British Empire.’

  Kola Belgore looked as though he was wearing his entire wardrobe against the Sco
ttish weather. He had at least three jumpers on under a padded jacket. His face was pinched with cold and fear, his eyes darting about, as though waiting for the devil himself to appear.

  Sam had taught her some Hausa phrases. Basic polite greetings that should be answered in a certain way. Also a few general expressions and some sexual innuendoes. The basic Hausa greetings were proving very handy. Using them seemed significantly to reduce the terror in her victims, including Kola.

  ‘Sannu.’

  His face lit up. ‘Yawa, sannu.’

  ‘Lafiya?’

  He grinned, despite her strangled rendition of his language. ‘Lafiya, lau. Da godiya.’

  She returned the smile. ‘That’s about all I can manage. Can we switch to English?’

  ‘Of course.’ His voice was solemn.

  Chrissy showed him the cotton stick. ‘I need to take a small sample of skin cells from inside your mouth. Is that okay?’

  He nodded and opened wide. His teeth were a brilliant white. No Glasgow diet of sweets and ginger or stains from chewing kola nuts, despite his name.

  She scraped the inside cheek and transferred the results to the waiting receptacle. All mouth scrapes from this morning’s testing would be quickly frozen for later DNA extraction.

  He sat waiting.

  ‘That’s it,’ she assured him.

  His relief was obvious.

  ‘Na gode,’ she added for good measure.

  As he left, McNab popped his head around the door. ‘One more.’

  Forty-six at the last count. Chrissy looked longingly at the fast-cooling cup of coffee Janice had brought a few minutes previously.

  ‘Send him in.’

  Her preoccupation with the constant stream of frightened young men had made her forget the obvious. Sam.

  He stood, hesitant, in the doorway.

  Chrissy was filled with conflicting emotions at the sight of him. Delight at seeing him again, an intense longing to touch him, coupled with a desire to run.

  ‘Sannu.’

  ‘Sannu da aiki.’

  ‘Don’t know that one.’

  ‘It means “greetings in your work”.’

  She gestured him to a seat. ‘I’m going to take some cells from . . .’

  ‘I am a medical student, remember. You don’t have to explain.’

  She felt a fool, although his words were light-hearted enough.

  He opened his mouth to her, and in that moment she could taste him, his tongue meeting hers, the press of his lips.

  She pulled herself together. This wasn’t professional. Someone else had to take this sample. ‘If you could wait a moment, please.’

  She walked swiftly to the door. Janice was standing in the main hall, talking to McNab. Helen, the assistant who had been helping her, emerged from the toilet and Chrissy waved her over. ‘I’d like you to take the last sample.’

  McNab looked over, puzzled by her tone.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  Helen followed her into the room.

  Sam sat where she had left him, his long slim hands clasped together in his lap.

  Chrissy handed Helen the cotton stick.

  Afterwards, she wrote on the sample container that it had been taken by Helen White.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Haruna,’ she said for Helen’s benefit. ‘You can go now.’

  ‘Sai da yamma?’ His eyes met hers, willing her to understand.

  ‘Yauwa, sai da yamma.’

  Sam bowed graciously and left.

  Helen was impressed. ‘I didn’t know you could speak the lingo.’

  McNab was watching from the door. ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘I’ve just sampled nearly fifty men, most of whom speak Hausa. I asked how to say the greetings. It made them more relaxed.’

  Helen bought her story; McNab she wasn’t so sure about. He didn’t go to the jazz club, as far as she knew, and he hadn’t shown any recognition when Sam came in. Chrissy would explain to DI Wilson what she had done. There was no need to expose her private life to McNab.

  Until tonight, Sam had said. He wanted to see her and she had indicated he would. Speaking to him at the jazz club wasn’t breaking any rules. Whether she was strong enough not to go home with him was another matter.

  29

  WHEN BILL DECIDED to examine the Olatunde home forensically, Rhona knew it provided a perfect excuse not to go to Dublin.

  Immersion in work was infinitely preferable to checking up on Sean. Her initial dismay at Kitty’s phone call had been followed by anger, then an overwhelming suspicion that threatened to cloud her judgement. Eventually the rule by which she lived had reasserted itself. She was first and foremost a forensic scientist.

  She made arrangements to meet Bill at the Olatunde flat early on Friday morning, about the time she should have been boarding the plane.

  University Avenue was quiet; it was too early for either staff or students. When she was a student here, her maths lecture had been scheduled for nine o’clock. An unholy hour to contemplate set theory or the delights of integral calculus, however much you enjoyed the subject.

  She had lived then in a tiny two-room flat in Partick. The flat just off Dunbarton Road had been left to a friend’s mother on the death of an elderly relative. It had been as basic as they come, a two-bar electric fire, an ancient gas cooker and no shower or hot water. She’d loved it despite its lack of home comforts. A twenty-minute walk or a couple of stops on the underground took her to the university campus.

  Today she brought the car and parked near the lab, grateful not to meet Chrissy, who wouldn’t have bought her story. It wasn’t as if she was the only member of the forensic team equipped to examine the Olatunde residence.

  The doctor had rented an upstairs flat in Ashton Road, where University Avenue met Byres Road. The row of renovated Victorian properties was a perfect example of style-conscious Glasgow, lights at the various windows illuminating a selection of classy interiors.

  Bill was sitting in his car. He didn’t see her approach but continued to stare straight ahead, his face haggard and lost in thought. When she knocked on the window, he got out and joined her on the pavement. At her questioning look, he shook his head, indicating silently that there was no further news on Margaret’s tests.

  ‘The university authorities gave me a contact mobile number for Olatunde in Nigeria,’ Bill said. ‘His home address there is the Sabon Gari, Kano.’

  ‘Any luck contacting him?’

  ‘No connection.’

  ‘Maybe he put a spell on it.’

  Bill pulled a wry face. ‘I’m beginning to think we need a witch doctor on our side for a change.’

  Rhona had spent the previous evening researching African juju practices via the internet. The search had thrown up a variety of links, including newspaper articles on the torso in the Thames and their own gruesome discovery in the Kelvin. Most tabloid articles had the UK overrun by immigrants from the dark continent who brought their evil practices with them.

  Anything she read only served to reinforce what she knew already. Children were killed to provide potions for a variety of purposes, which included increasing sexual prowess, curing AIDS and ending infertility. The biggest horror was that people believed what the witch doctor told them was true.

  ‘Okay,’ Bill said, ‘what are we looking for?’

  ‘I’d like some of Olatunde’s DNA. Then anything that suggests Stephen or his mother visited here.’

  When Bill rang the doorbell, the owner of the flat opened the door almost immediately.

  ‘Mr Kirk?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Mr Kirk, Rhona guessed, was in his forties, but trying to look younger. His head was shaven to a stubble, echoed by a carefully tended designer-stubble chin, and he smelt of expensive cologne.

  He examined the identification Bill produced, then gave a cautious smile. His voice was cultured and a little higher than your average tenor.
He looked and sounded embarrassed by this interest from the police force. ‘Dr Olatunde was recommended by the university authorities. I don’t just take anyone as a tenant, you know.’

  ‘When is Dr Olatunde due back from Nigeria?’

  ‘Nigeria?’ Mr Kirk pulled a face. ‘He didn’t tell me he was going to Nigeria.’ He made it sound like another planet.

  ‘The university gave him compassionate leave to go home to Kano.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  Mr Kirk shook his head adamantly. ‘He told me he had bought a flat in Athole Gardens and was moving in immediately. I was quite angry. It takes time to advertise for a new tenant.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  Bill glanced up the wrought-iron staircase. ‘Has anyone been up there since?’

  ‘I’ve been away at a conference. I flew back late last night. I’ve not had time—’

  ‘We’d like to take a look.’

  They followed him up the staircase. He was making small irritated noises in his throat, intimating his displeasure at the world in general and his absent tenant in particular.

  He paused on the halfway landing. ‘I’ve forgotten the key.’ He tutted as though it was their fault. ‘I’ll have to go back down for it.’

  Bill stepped to one side to let him pass, then went on climbing. At the top was another landing. A well-built and tasteful extension created a single-door entrance to what had originally been the upper rooms of the two-storey house.

  Mr Kirk came bustling up to join them. ‘Of course, he forgot to leave his set of keys, which means I’ll have to have the locks changed.’ He threw his glance ceiling-wards in disgust.

  Bill held out his hand for the key. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Kirk, it would be better if you waited downstairs.’

  The man looked as though he might argue, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have to leave for work in an hour,’ he warned them.

  They waited for his footsteps to descend then Bill turned the key in the lock.