Dark Flight Page 19

  A murmur of ‘Amen’ rippled among the bowed heads like a breeze over a barley field. Bill muttered his own ‘Amen’.

  The pastor walked with Bill to the door. ‘You spoke to Isa?’

  ‘He’s agreed to come to the station for further questioning.’

  A flicker of worry shone in the pastor’s liquid brown eyes. ‘Isa was eight when he was captured by rebels and forced to become a soldier.’

  ‘So he knows how to kill?’

  ‘We all know how to kill, Inspector. That doesn’t make us murderers.’

  Bill acknowledged this in silence.

  ‘Isa is frightened of the past and of the future,’ the pastor said.

  ‘Is he here legally?’

  ‘The Home Office is considering his case. If they send him back he will be killed.’

  Going to a police station was like a death sentence for Isa. No wonder he looked scared.

  ‘Tell Isa I’ll be in touch if I need to talk to him again.’

  Pastor Achebe looked satisfied with this small concession.

  ‘Have my team sampled every adult male in your congregation?’

  ‘All, Inspector, including myself.’ The pastor smiled as though he had made a joke.

  Every time Pastor Achebe looked pleased with himself, Bill felt he had been fooled in some way. Weren’t men of God supposed to tell the truth?

  He left the pastor at the door, saying goodbye to his flock. Bill drove to Pitt Street instead of heading home. A murder enquiry continued whatever day of the week it was.

  The office was quieter than on a weekday but those on overtime were working just as hard as usual.

  DC Clark looked up with relief when Bill came in. ‘I tried your mobile, but it was switched off.’

  ‘I was at church,’ Bill told her.

  ‘Mr Devlin’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Carole’s husband died five years ago. He was a British engineer working in the oil business in Nigeria. He was killed when an oil rig was taken over by rebels. His family was originally from Nigeria but he was born in London.’

  ‘Then who the hell was our Devlin?’

  ‘That I don’t know yet.’

  The imposter had Devlin’s passport. It was his photograph inside. And he’d believed the guy, even allowed him to be alone with the body. Once again Bill wondered if he was losing it because of his worry over Margaret.

  ‘Passports are stolen all the time,’ Janice said, sensing his anger. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  Her reassurance only made Bill feel worse.

  ‘The fake Devlin took photos of Carole’s injuries. Why?’ he said. ‘If he was the murderer he already knew what he’d done.’

  To walk into a police station like that, he’d have to be either completely innocent or a very cool customer; or thought he was above the law.

  Bill turned to Janice, who was watching him expectantly. ‘Check with the Foreign Office,’ he said. ‘I want the names, addresses and photographs of all Nigerians with diplomatic immunity currently in the UK.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Janice realised where that line of thought had originated.

  There had been an incident two weeks earlier. A posh flat in Glasgow’s west end, where the tenant had complained of harassment by a landlord. He’d come to his neighbours for help after the landlord had gripped him around the neck. The neighbours had encouraged him to call the police. He had, but then chickened out. When Janice checked up, the landlord turned out to have diplomatic immunity, which meant the police couldn’t prosecute without the permission of the UK Crown Prosecution Service and the Foreign Office. In most cases this resulted in nothing more than a warning issued by the Head of Mission of the foreign country involved.

  Bill went to his office and sat back in his favourite chair. Through the window Glasgow was still enjoying its Sunday morning slumber, with only the occasional pedestrian or car going past. He let his thoughts run free. The fake Devlin had been courteous, but there was an underlying arrogance in his manner. Bill had the impression Devlin viewed him as a lackey whom he would rather not deal with. But the big question was why did the false Devlin want to see the body?

  Because he wanted to be sure that Carole was dead?

  Because he wanted to be sure she had been circumcised?

  That was why he came to the police station, why he pretended to be her husband. And he didn’t care about Stephen, because he already knew where he was.

  Bill carefully examined his hypothesis. It was a leap of faith, based on intuition and simple logical deduction. He had no concrete proof, yet instinctively he knew he was on the right track.

  If they found the fake Devlin, he would lead them to the killer, because he had organised the kill.

  38

  CHRISSY STARED AT the text message. Just two words. ‘I’m sorry.’ She checked the time of arrival: 2.30 a.m. The middle of the night. Why had Sam needed to apologise in the middle of the night? She was the one who had dumped him. But she hadn’t dumped him. She had told him she couldn’t see him while the investigation involved his church and everyone in it, the pastor included.

  A strange sense of unease lifted the hair on her forearms. Was Sam in trouble? She texted back: ‘don’t b. r u ok?’ The resulting image suggested the text had gone, but then a message appeared telling her it had failed to deliver.

  Chrissy frowned at the screen. This had never happened before. Sam was obsessed with his phone. He always answered text messages right away. She used to joke with him about it. How could he play jazz piano and answer texts at the same time?

  Chrissy rang the number this time. She wanted to hear Sam’s voice. Only that would convince her he was okay.

  The unfamiliar tone that resulted prompted her to phone the provider, who told her that the phone must be out of range of European transmitters.

  But Sam was in Glasgow. She had been with him on Friday night, all night. Her continuing sense of unease made her phone the jazz club number, but no one was about at this time on a Sunday morning. Her last port of call was Sean. Chrissy knew she had woken him by the sleepy tone of his voice. She explained she was trying to contact Sam but there was something wrong with his phone.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Sean replied. ‘He didn’t turn up last night and I couldn’t reach him either.’

  ‘But he always answers his phone.’

  They both fell silent.

  ‘Maybe he’s ill,’ Chrissy suggested.

  ‘He usually phones in. He’s very reliable.’ Chrissy sensed the growing worry in Sean’s voice.

  ‘I’ll try the church first. He goes there every Sunday. Then I’ll try his flat.’

  ‘Good idea. When you find him, tell him we could use him tonight.’

  Chrissy said goodbye, aware that Sean was almost as concerned as she was. He was right. Reliable was Sam’s middle name. He wouldn’t leave Sean in the lurch.

  She made herself a coffee and moped about the flat for a while. The last thing she wanted was to phone the Nigerian Church of God during the Sunday service.

  When she finally reached Pastor Achebe, he was decidedly unhelpful.

  ‘Sam was not at this morning’s service.’ He made it sound as though it was Chrissy’s fault.

  ‘There seems to be something wrong with his mobile.’

  The pastor didn’t offer an explanation or sympathise with her dilemma. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’ His tone was nippy.

  ‘Chrissy McInsh. I’m a friend of Sam’s. We met when I came with the forensic team.’

  Silence. Then, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

  The phone clicked down. Chrissy muttered a curse under her breath. The pastor either didn’t like her or didn’t like her connection with the police. What happened to his philosophy that love was greater than hate?

  The next-door tenement to Sam’s was in the process of renovation and covered in scaffolding. A chute for broken stone ran the height of the building into a waiting skip. Someone had d
ecided the skip was for general use and had thrown in old pieces of fitted kitchen cupboards.

  Chrissy glanced up at Sam’s window. The curtains were drawn. She checked her watch. Three o’clock. Maybe Sam was ill and staying in bed? If so, should she disturb him?

  She’d told him she didn’t want to see him until after the investigation was complete. Now she was back here on his doorstep. This was madness. Chrissy turned to walk away, then something caught her eye.

  The bag of clothes was wedged in the skip between a chipboard door and a crumbling block of stone. Chrissy reached in and pulled out Sam’s jumper. The one he wore against the vagaries of the Scottish weather. He’d bought it in a Cancer Research shop. It was dark-blue heavy-knit wool. Thick and warm. His favourite.

  Her worry was fast changing to fear.

  Sam wouldn’t throw his favourite jumper away.

  Chrissy made for the front door and pressed the buzzer for his flat. She waited, instinct telling her there would be no answer, wishing she’d accepted the spare key Sam had offered.

  She rang the buzzer for five minutes until an irate neighbour pushed up his window and told her to ‘Fuck off!’

  Chrissy returned the compliment.

  When he slammed down the window, she buzzed one more time in defiance, then left, still clutching the jumper.

  The lab was eerily silent, but going home didn’t seem an option when she was this worried. It was better to have something to do. Rhona had left a detailed list. It read like a guilt trip. Leaving an investigation as difficult and emotive as this one wasn’t something she’d done by choice. Chrissy set to work on the Velcro from the child’s shoe.

  General skin cells found at a crime scene were not great sources of DNA for routine analysis. Skin cells rubbed off in sweat were better. The DNA material they got from urine, blood and semen richer still. But Velcro had a habit of removing skin cells, microscopic but plentiful.

  The Velcro fastener was rich in DNA. Chrissy eventually identified Stephen’s own pattern, his mother’s, his granny’s and someone else’s.

  When she checked against the database, the search threw up a match from the samples she’d taken at the Nigerian Church of God. Stephen had been there more than once. He was a Sunday School pupil. It was highly probable that a member of the church had helped Stephen fasten his shoes. Most likely his Sunday School teacher, Isa. But the DNA profile was not a match for Isa.

  According to the results, Sam had touched the Velcro on Stephen’s trainer, even though he’d told Chrissy he’d never met either the missing boy or his mother.

  39

  THEY ARRIVED IN the late afternoon to find the city shrouded in red dust. Rhona only realised they’d landed when they thumped down on the tarmac. She’d tried to watch their descent, mesmerised and frightened at the same time, but the dust cloud that engulfed the runway was too thick.

  The jolt when the wheels hit the runway jerked her against McNab. The roar of the backward-thrusting engines drowned out her apology.

  They taxied towards a white two-storey building fronted by a row of pink oleander bushes. A large sign announced their arrival at Mallam Aminu Kano Airport. McNab was already unfastening his seat belt.

  Rhona must have looked relieved they were down, because he gave her a quick quizzical ‘Okay?’

  She answered by undoing her own belt and standing up to retrieve her forensic case from the overhead compartment.

  Then the door opened and the overwhelming smell of heat and dust swept in.

  They were met in the luggage retrieval section by a smartly dressed man who told them his name was Abdul Bunda. He showed them a card with the insignia of the British High Commission. His intervention began the quick movement of their bags through customs via a firm handshake between Abdul and a custom’s officer. If money changed hands, it was too quick and discreet even for Rhona’s sharp eye.

  Abdul showed them to a white car waiting under the spreading branches of a tall mango tree, its doors standing open. The driver lay across the front seat, snoring softly, his head in the fresh air. Abdul shouted something in Hausa, waking him so swiftly that he hit his head on the doorframe. Rhona had to smother a laugh. Abdul gave her a smile in return, his teeth blinding white.

  He indicated that she and McNab should sit in the back, while he sat beside the driver and issued brisk instructions.

  As they left the airport, the sun was setting on the horizon, its red rays diffused in the lingering dust cloud.

  They said nothing as the car negotiated the packed streets of honking horns, weaving people and roadside vendors. Every time the vehicle slowed down, a woman or child appeared at the window, a tray balanced on their head, offering nuts or fruit for sale.

  Rhona stole a quick glance at McNab. She had seen this before, and remembered quite vividly her first reaction to Africa. Sweat was trickling down the side of his face, rolling under his shirt collar. The air was clammy, like red soup. They were breathing in the Sahara Desert.

  ‘Harmattan dust,’ Abdul explained. ‘It should have gone with the rains.’ He shook his head, annoyed by nature’s trick on them.

  The honorary consulate was in a leafy cul-de-sac, magically quiet after the madness of the teeming streets. They drew up in front of a wide verandah festooned with white and blue blossoms, the cooling air thick with their scent.

  A man and woman rose from easy chairs to greet them. Henry Boswell OBE and his wife, Karen, were the epitome of charm. Everything Rhona had heard about ‘our man in Kano’ proved to be true. When he offered them a gin and tonic sundowner, she couldn’t resist throwing McNab a ‘told you so’ look.

  Sitting on the verandah with her drink, the remains of an African sunset streaking the sky, Rhona wished she were here for reasons other than the murder and abduction of minors. But after the niceties of hospitality, their host brought them swiftly to the task in hand. Abdul had been offered a seat beside them. The consul spoke intermittently to him in Hausa as he discussed with Rhona and McNab the details of the trip.

  ‘First of all, your accommodation. The Prince Hotel is directly across the road. It is surprisingly good.’ He didn’t say ‘for Nigeria’. That was implied in his wry smile. ‘I have set up a meeting with John Adamu. He is your contact with the police force. Abdul will take you to meet him tomorrow.’

  ‘Did you know Carole Devlin?’ Rhona asked.

  The consul glanced briefly at his wife. It was she who answered. ‘I met her about six years ago. Her husband was an engineer. She was pregnant at the time.’

  ‘That must have been Stephen,’ Rhona said. ‘And you never met her again?’

  ‘She moved to Lagos before the child was born.’

  ‘But she was living in Kano before she returned to Scotland?’

  ‘When she came back from Lagos she was with another man, a Nigerian, I believe. She no longer mixed with expats.’ Karen seemed embarrassed. ‘This is a divided society,’ she explained. ‘The British are tolerated, but we are no longer a sizeable minority. If a British woman forms a relationship with a Nigerian, she joins their society. Carole never kept up with any of her friends here and most of them have left Nigeria now.’

  ‘She apparently attended church here. The Nigerian Church of God.’

  Abdul came in at this point, muttering quietly to Boswell in Hausa. When the conversation was over, the consul told them, ‘Kano State is predominantly Muslim and currently under Sharia law. The Christian church is tolerated but its members keep a low profile. The leader of that particular church is Pastor Oyekunde.’

  ‘We’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘Of course. Abdul will arrange this.’

  Rhona outlined the investigation and the urgency of their hunt for Stephen. Henry told them that the search for the boy had already begun. Abdul was known in all the local communities. Henry was convinced they stood a better chance of locating the boy via him, than through the police force.

  ‘Ordinary Nigerian citizens don’t trust the
police,’ he told them. ‘Until recently their anti-crime campaign was called “Operation Fire with Fire”. Confrontation rather than protection. The fallout, I’m afraid, from the many military regimes. The new motto is “Serving with integrity and honour”. Nice words but not much to back them up yet. Unfortunately the force is poorly paid. They make up their wages by demanding money from the public at checkpoints. One out of twenty stopped is shot, by accident of course.’

  McNab was finding this hard to believe. ‘There’s plenty at home don’t like us either.’

  ‘Mostly criminals, I suspect,’ Karen said. ‘Here it’s the innocent.’

  ‘What chance do we have with the investigation, then?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘There are good policemen who are trying to make a difference. John Adamu, your liaison officer, is one.’

  ‘Is a week here long enough?’

  ‘We’ll do what we can.’ Henry sounded nervous, but determined.

  Rhona’s limbs felt like lead as she stood up. The journey and the heat were taking their toll. If she stayed awake long enough to eat, it would be a miracle.

  ‘We would have offered you dinner,’ the consul said, ‘but unfortunately Karen and I are out on official business tonight. A meal has been booked for you at the hotel. I recommend the Lebanese dishes. They are excellent.’

  They strolled across the road to the Prince Hotel. According to Abdul, the driver had already delivered their luggage and it would be in their rooms. The dust had cleared and above them the night sky was alive with stars. The evening air was scented by cooking fires mixed with dust and oranges – the smell of Africa.

  Rhona felt lethargic, as though the rhythm of the dark continent had entered her soul. ‘Master must learn patience,’ Henry had told them before they left. ‘You’ll hear that said a lot.’

  The Prince Hotel was cool and quiet, an oasis of white walls and greenery. Abdul escorted them to the dining room and helped them order. McNab fancied a beer, but didn’t think it would be allowed under Sharia law. He was wrong. Cold African beer arrived in a large teapot with two china cups, so as not to offend any Muslim guests eating in the restaurant.