Dark Flight Read online

  The result confirmed what she already suspected. FGM was more of a cultural than a religious practice, carried out predominantly in sub-Saharan Africa, on pre-pubescent girls, designed to reduce their sexual response.

  What she hadn’t known was that an estimated fifty per cent of all Nigerian girls had been operated on. Some thirty million women in Sam’s country had been mutilated in this way.

  Whoever killed Carole performed that ritual on her. Although Stephen’s father was likely black, that didn’t mean he was African. But most murdered women were killed by their husband or partner. If Carole Devlin’s husband was in Scotland, then he had to be a suspect.

  Much later she was awakened by Sean’s key in the lock. The stumbling sound of his footsteps in the hall, followed by the masked expletive, suggested he was drunk. Rhona lay in the darkness, nonplussed by this, because she had never seen Sean really drunk before.

  When he didn’t come into the bedroom, curiosity sent her to find him. The sight made her stop silently in her tracks. He was in the spare room, a fiddle in his hand. He’d brought the battered case with him when he moved in. When she asked whether he could play, he’d told her all Irishmen could play the fiddle, if not with their hands, then in their hearts. Yet the case had stood gathering dust in a corner. To her knowledge Sean had never looked at it since, let alone played it.

  Something made her melt back into the shadow of the hall, so she could watch Sean, unseen.

  He began to play, slowly at first, as though trying to remember, then he relaxed and the music came of its own accord. She didn’t recognise the tune, yet felt herself drown in its sadness.

  Sean stopped suddenly, mid-phrase, and threw the fiddle back in its case. ‘Fucking old bastard!’

  Rhona stepped into the light, frightened by his vehemence. ‘Sean?’

  His eyes tried to focus on her. ‘I’m drunk,’ he said in a mixture of defiance and apology.

  She smiled. ‘I can see that.’

  He staggered past her into the kitchen.

  When she got there, he had already poured himself a whisky. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Who are you? My fucking mother?’

  She recoiled, stung by the viciousness of the attack.

  He shook his head, as if he didn’t know where the anger had come from, then swallowed the whisky.

  Rhona mentally calculated whether his blood alcohol content was at danger level. Sean wouldn’t be the first male in Glasgow to die from too much drink.

  Seeing the worried look on her face, he pushed the glass away. ‘My father’s sick. I have to go home.’

  4

  BILL’S RELIEF AT being back home was almost overwhelming. The normal sounds as he slipped his key in the lock; the warmth in the hall after the night air between the car and the front door.

  But it wasn’t the wind that had chilled him to the bone. It was the remembered sight in that room. The mutilated spread-eagled body of the woman. Her elderly mother, her head bowed almost in prayer. What manner of man could have done such a thing? For he had no doubt in his mind that it had been a man. And the child? The face in the photograph smiling and happy. Where was the boy?

  He pulled himself together as Lisa came down the stairs.

  ‘At last. We’re starving and Mum made us wait until you came home.’ She brushed past him, shouting, ‘He’s here,’ on her way to the kitchen.

  A door banged upstairs and Robbie’s gelled head appeared, the dark locks spiked like a Victorian street urchin’s. He nodded at Bill, his earphones in, the tinny sound of a band escaping.

  Margaret’s back was towards him as Bill entered the kitchen. Thinking about it later, he realised he should have seen the too-high shoulders, the tenseness in the position of her head.

  He placed a kiss in the nape of her neck, feeling overwhelmingly tender towards her. She was his friend, his lover and his soulmate. He could only do what he did because of her. The blackest of days would dissolve as they lay curled together in the bed where his two children had been conceived.

  She pointed to a dram already poured out for him.

  ‘You’re having one?’ he’d said in surprise, seeing the second glass.

  Margaret, the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, drank rarely, and never mid-week; the drinking habit had not lasted past student days.

  She placed the serving dish on the table and sat down. Bill threw back the whisky, not wanting to delay the meal any further.

  ‘I saw it on the news,’ Margaret said, to make it easier for him.

  ‘Saw what?’ Lisa piped up.

  Margaret gave him a look that said: Tell her enough to end the questions.

  ‘A wee boy’s missing. We think he ran away when his mother and grandmother were murdered.’

  Lisa had the emotional intelligence of her mother and could read situations and people’s reactions as clearly as a written page. She gave her dad a look of sympathy and went back to her food.

  Robbie’s earphones were still in. Bill was about to remonstrate when Margaret silently shook her head.

  They ate in relative silence. By now Bill sensed something was wrong, something more than what had happened in his day. A creeping realisation came when Margaret reached for the water jug and he saw her hand tremble. He was shocked beyond comprehension.

  Robbie cleared his plate first, muttered an ‘excuse me’ and was allowed to depart. Lisa hung on a little longer until Margaret reminded her that her favourite soap was about to come on.

  She waited until Lisa had shut the door behind her, then pushed her plate away.

  ‘What is it?’

  She composed herself. ‘I saw the doctor today . . .’

  He was about to interrupt, ask her why, but her hand fluttered like a trapped bird asking him to wait and hear her out.

  Bill’s heart took off, punching his chest so hard it hurt.

  ‘I have a lump in my right breast. The doctor has requested an immediate appointment at the breast clinic.’

  The words out, Margaret looked relieved.

  Bill moved his chair towards her, but she drew back. ‘No! If you put your arms about me now, I won’t cope.’

  She got up and began clearing the table, taking refuge in the mundane.

  Bill sat in silence, as helpless as a child without its mother, his throat full of words he dared not let himself speak. ‘You’re sure?’ It was a stupid question but he had to ask it. He wanted her to say no, she wasn’t sure. He wanted the hands of the clock to tick backwards to the beginning of their meal.

  ‘I wouldn’t have told you tonight only . . .’ She paused.

  She was apologising to him for telling him that she was ill. Apologising because she sensed in him what he had faced that day and knew the demons that would haunt him through the night.

  He felt an overwhelming sadness at the stupidity of men and a matching wonder at the emotional strength of women.

  He went quickly towards her before she could retreat and wrapped her in his arms. The tightness of his grip took both their breath away.

  The tenseness of her limbs flowed into his taut muscles. He felt her body relax and she sighed, resting her face on his shoulder.

  He shut his eyes and saw a bright white line stretching into the distance. He found himself praying, absurdly muttering words to a God he didn’t know, mixing Margaret with the missing boy as though they were one and the same.

  Her tears dampened his shoulder. He thought of other times when she had wept on his shoulder. Some of them happy and some of them sad. He realised with a sudden clarity that his strength came directly from her.

  ‘The missing boy. Did he see the man kill his mother?’

  He wanted to tell her no. But he could never lie to her. ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘But you think the murderer has the child?’

  ‘We hope the boy got away and is hiding somewhere.’

  In her mind, the child’s ordeal had become greater than her own. ‘Tell me everything.’
/>   He shook his head. ‘I can’t repeat it.’

  She drew back and looked him in the face. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  She was asleep. He had watched her close her eyes, had seen her mouthing words of prayer. Margaret, daughter of a Scottish minister, had married Bill Wilson, a lapsed Catholic. She, unlike him, had never lost the core of her faith in a God.

  In his own mind he bullied her God, demanding that he look after someone who had never knowingly harmed a living soul, who brought joy, humour and intelligence into a dark world. Then he thought of the child. Alone and terrified, or already dead.

  And he wept silently in the darkness.

  Morning brought some semblance of normality. Margaret had always been a fighter. Her mindset had moved from despair and fear to determination. Whatever she had to do to confront this thing she would do. The possibility that the lump might be benign was there, but Margaret had already contemplated the worst scenario and decided how to deal with it. If the growth was benign, that was a bonus.

  Before she slept she’d given him her instructions. The children were not to be told until the lump was examined. If it was benign they need never be told. If it wasn’t they would be told the truth.

  ‘They are old enough to deal with it,’ was what she’d said.

  She would not hear of Bill coming to the hospital with her. ‘If you are with me, I’ll have to think about you. I’d rather be there on my own. We’ll meet up afterwards, away from the house.’

  He had taken her instructions without question. She would tell him when the appointment came through. He had other things to think about just now, she’d insisted.

  She saw him off at the door. The scent of her skin as she kissed his cheek swamped him. Ever since she told him, he had grown conscious again of everything about her. It was as though he were back thirty years.

  ‘Find the boy’ were her last words to him as he got in the car.

  Day 2

  Tuesday

  5

  BILL GLANCED AROUND the table. Rhona looked bleary-eyed. He suspected she’d had as much sleep as himself, which wasn’t much. This strategy meeting was critical in deciding how much they knew and what their next move would be. As well as himself and Rhona, the Crime Scene Manager, McNab, was there. Bill had observed McNab’s reaction when Rhona walked in, smart and professional in her navy-blue suit. He had been relieved by McNab’s lack of interest, which must mean McNab had returned to the fold minus that particular obsession.

  Detective Superintendent Sutherland was there. He would watch the 360-degree live footage of the crime scene while the experts around the table gave him their opinions to date. Dr Sissons, the pathologist, was the last to arrive. As soon as he had taken his seat, Bill began.

  ‘The crime was discovered by chance. A house-bound neighbour, Mrs Cullen, saw the front door lying open and phoned Mrs Cavanagh. Apparently the old lady was bad about leaving her door unlocked. When there was no answer, the neighbour became concerned and called the police station around five o’clock. A patrol car came to check and found the bodies at five-thirty. Mrs Cullen did not see Stephen, his mother or a stranger enter the house. As far as she knows, there is no Mr Devlin. Carole appeared about a month ago. Mrs Cavanagh told her neighbour her daughter had been living abroad.’

  Rhona looked up. ‘Abroad?’

  ‘Mrs Cullen thinks England’s abroad. The child being “dark”, as Mrs Cullen put it, she thought Carole had been living in London.’

  They watched the footage in silence. The Super tried to remain impassive, but even he paled at the carnage.

  Dr Sissons confirmed the mode of death. ‘Enid Cavanagh died from a single blow to the back of the head with a long-bladed and extremely sharp knife. The skull was separated into two halves by the force. Subsequent damage to vital brainstem structure resulted in reflex cardiorespiratory arrest and a quick death.

  ‘Carole Devlin had a more protracted end. Lacerations suggest the knife was held to her neck, probably while she was raped. Then the carotid artery was cut, perhaps at the moment of ejaculation. Once on the floor, her clitoris, prepuce and labia were removed, probably with the same knife—’

  Bill interrupted. ‘There is no question of more than one weapon or assailant?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Whoever wielded this weapon was familiar with it and knew exactly what it could do.’

  It was Rhona’s turn. ‘We found footprints for Carole, her mother, one from a child inside the house and a partial set on the gate. We also have some that might be the intruder’s.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘We matched Carole’s and her mother’s to various sets about this house. I found a clear set from a child on the top of the gate. My guess is the murderer wore gloves, which is strange, because he didn’t use a condom. We have a semen sample and a lot of blood, none of it, I think, will be his. We believe,’ she indicated Dr Sissons’s agreement, ‘that Carole didn’t put up a fight. Her nails were clean and she had had her hands in bleach prior to her death.’

  ‘Maybe she thought that by not fighting she would stay alive?’ Bill wondered.

  ‘Or maybe she didn’t want her son to hear and come inside,’ Rhona suggested. ‘Chrissy is working on the trace material from the carpet. Oh, and something else. The attacker urinated on the old woman. If he was high on something when he killed, we should be able to identify it from the urine.’

  ‘So a sexually violent murder, probably by someone who knew the victims,’ Bill said, mentally hoping it was a one-off.

  ‘Or,’ Rhona offered, ‘a ritualistic murder with satanic connections.’ Which meant the murderer would more than likely strike again.

  She explained the presence of the human-bone fetish near the gate and the possible link with juju.

  Bill didn’t like the sound of that. The discovery of human bones identified a crime in itself. ‘How can we be sure the bones have anything to do with this murder?’ he tried. ‘They may have been lying in the garden for a while.’

  ‘We can’t. However, the bones were dry, although the grass was damp,’ Rhona told him. ‘I have a meeting with GUARD later today to try to date them and identify the age and gender of the owner.’

  Dr Sissons backed Rhona up. ‘The practice of clitoridectomy exists in sub-Saharan Africa, an area also known for the practice of juju or voodoo. Dr MacLeod is right to suggest a possible link between the crime and such a culture.’

  Rhona said what they were all thinking: ‘We must find the boy. He’s our key witness . . . if he’s still alive.’

  Rhona rushed off after the meeting and Bill didn’t get a chance to speak to her alone. He wondered if she was avoiding McNab, but had seen no evidence of discomfort between them. More likely she felt the extreme urgency of the investigation. As Chief Forensic on the case, she had a mass of work to get through with her team. He would be better to leave her alone to get on with it. His team had their own work cut out.

  In the incident room, the crime scene photos decorated one wall, as a constant stimulant to the thought process, and an ugly reminder of what they were up against.

  He had been totally focused in the meeting, but now thoughts of Margaret rushed in to replace work. He tried to push them to one side. The first thing Margaret would ask when he got home tonight was whether he had found the boy. Worrying about her while on duty wouldn’t cut ice with his wife.

  He headed for his office and sat down in the ancient leather chair that was his thinking post. It squeaked loudly as he turned towards the window. The boy had been missing for around eighteen hours. The best scenario was that he had entered the house after the murderer left and was hiding out alone somewhere. It had stayed relatively mild overnight, so exposure might not be a problem, depending on how Stephen was dressed.

  DC Janice Clark came in.

  ‘Well?’

  She shook her head. ‘We have a constable at Carole Devlin’s flat. The boy hasn’t turned up there. The photo went out on all channels la
st night, but no sightings yet.’

  ‘What about nearby security cameras?’

  ‘We’re checking those.’

  ‘House-to-house?’

  ‘Progressing, but nothing significant.’

  She must have sensed his frustration because she tried for something positive. ‘We should have a DNA sample to check against the database soon.’

  ‘Why did he wear gloves and not a condom?’ Bill was really asking himself, but Janice answered.

  ‘He’s worried we have his fingerprints and not his DNA?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty?’

  ‘Or the sexual deviance of the attack demanded he spill his sperm.’

  Bill tapped the table with a pen. ‘Did she have a mobile?’

  ‘There wasn’t one in the handbag.’

  ‘She must have had one, if only to keep in touch with her invalid mother. Maybe the kid took it?’

  ‘Or the murderer?’

  ‘Check the mobile phone companies. See if she’s registered with any of them. Find out who the old lady’s doctor was. They might know something about the family. The Passport Office. Let’s find out if Carole Devlin went abroad. And records of births, deaths and marriages. Was Mr Devlin still in the picture? Anything we can get on her, bank statements, credit cards. Did she ever have a joint account? What about friends? Some girlfriend is bound to come looking for her. And the kid’s school. Did they ever hear talk of a daddy? Those bits of news kids write in their jotters . . . teachers know a lot more about home life than parents realise.’

  Carole Devlin and her son had a life. People knew them. If the killer wasn’t a stranger, then maybe they knew him too. Angry, jealous or disturbed men often killed their kids as well as their partners.

  6

  STEPHEN OPENED HIS eyes to darkness. At first he imagined he was at home in bed and everything else was a nightmare. Then he knew it wasn’t. He closed his eyes tightly and the blackness became bright swirling red, like the blood in the kitchen.