Sacrifice

by Jay Nadal

  Abby sat with a pad and pen in hand taking notes as Mike asked similar questions to those presented to Michael’s parents. The pastor gave similar answers.

  “What involvement do you have with the asylum seekers on the Whitehawk estate?”

  With his arms crossed, the pastor leant back in his chair. “I’m here to help them in any way. For many, it is a scary and dangerous journey. They arrive here unsure of their outcome, wary of authority and helpless.”

  “And for those who arrive in this country through the human trafficking routes, you help them too?” Mike asked.

  The pastor nodded. “It doesn’t matter how they have come here. What matters is that they are taken care of. They are given food, shelter, and hope.” His eyes lit up as he emphasised that last word. “They want to begin new lives. They are looking for good luck and fortune.”

  “And you help them to begin new lives?”

  “That is my job. I am God’s servant; I am here to do the right thing. I’m here to preach God’s principles. My purpose is to show those less fortunate, that even in the most destitute of times, with hope, prayers, and luck, things can turn out better.”

  “So, when Michael went missing, why wasn’t his disappearance reported immediately?” Mike probed.

  “We are a community and the children are our responsibility. It was our job to find him,” he replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

  “But it didn’t turn out the way you had hoped for as a community…” Mike didn’t finish the sentence, but let the thought hang in the air. He changed tack. “How well do you know Margaret Eze?”

  The pastor’s eyes flickered as he glanced towards the officers. “I know her well enough.”

  “When did she last see Michael?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Mike shifted his sizeable frame and leant forward to level his eyes with the pastor’s. “You see, something doesn’t really make sense. Now we know that she’s been acting as a childminder in an unofficial capacity. We also know that you’ve been taking Michael to her. So are you telling me that you can’t recall the last time that you took Michael to Margaret’s?”

  He nodded.

  “For the benefit of the tape, Mr Mabunda, can you say your replies please,” Mike demanded.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Is that because you can’t remember, or you’re not willing to remember? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that she’s an illegal immigrant in this country? Were you involved in bringing her into this country?”

  “No.”

  Mike tapped his pen on the table for a few moments, before asking, “May I remind you that you’re under caution, Mr Mabunda. Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of Michael?”

  Pastor Mabunda looked Mike squarely in the eyes. He displayed no fear, panic, or concern. “No,” he replied, his tone ringing with confidence.

  The interview didn’t drag on for much longer. A series of questions were met with answers that gleaned little.

  10

  “Guv, the pastor has come back clean. He’s got no previous. I’m looking into his credentials at the moment,” Helen said as she updated Scott and the rest of the team around the incident board.

  Scott pinned a picture of the pastor on the incident board alongside pictures of the parents and Michael. “Keep digging, Helen. Look at social security records, bank statements, and Google him. I’m not so sure about the pastor, something doesn’t add up there.”

  “I agree, Guv,” Mike added. “He’s holding back, or keeping his cards close to his chest.”

  “Well, whilst he was in the interview, we downloaded his phone records, so we can look at those.”

  “I’ve got further information from the NCA, Guv. They believe that our case has all the hallmarks of a ritual killing. In their experience with ritual killings, the body’s dismembered, in particular, the head. But it’s not uncommon to have all limbs removed. They’ve recorded several such incidents which bear the hallmarks of ritual killings. They all had little evidence to go on, even less forensic evidence, and a wall of silence. Unfortunately, there have been no convictions.”

  Abby’s feedback only confirmed his suspicions. His search on the Internet had thrown up many such cases. There were fewer in the UK, but on the African continent, there seemed to be a long history of ritual killings.

  The team continued to listen to Abby’s feedback. “The NCA was keen to highlight a case that attracted nationwide attention. The torso in the Thames. That was quite a complex case in London where the boy had been trafficked into the UK. He was identified as Adam.”

  Scott made a mental note to have a look at that case again in more detail. “I doubt any of us in this room have first-hand knowledge or a detailed understanding of ritual killings. But this case certainly points to the potential for it to be a ritual killing. We’ve got African asylum seekers in this country, a pastor who is not playing ball, and little intelligence to go on. This is beyond us. Abby, can you have a look and see if we can track down a specialist in African cultures?”

  Abby nodded. “Sussex uni? I can try there first. Failing that, I can always try the School of Oriental and African Studies, which is part of the University of London.”

  “Good call. Mike and Raj, take the pastor back to where he lives and search his place. Take two uniforms with you. If he gives you any shit, tell him that we are investigating his connection with the abduction and murder of Michael Chauke. Organise a SOCO to accompany you.” Scott clapped his hands and then rubbed them together. “Okay, team, let’s get on it. I’m off to track down the childminder.”

  Abby trawled through the University of Sussex website searching for a relevant point of contact. She began by looking through the list of admin contacts but found no one who jumped out. She moved through several other tabs, with little joy again. They weren’t making her search easy. Her next port of call would be the individual schools themselves, and then the breakdown of courses.

  A tap on the shoulder and the sound of a familiar voice interrupted her task. “Hiya.”

  Abby spun round in a seat to see her friend Samantha Huxtable standing there with a mug of tea and a rich tea biscuit. “For me?”

  Samantha laughed. “Oh no, sorry. I thought I would just stop by. You know we were talking about that bloody case I had been given?”

  Abby pursed her lips as she tried to recall the conversation they’d had in the canteen. Her eyes lit up as the penny dropped. “Yes, yes. The missing animals.” She held her hands out, palms up and shrugged her shoulders. “Have you found Dr Dolittle’s pets?”

  “Ha ha, funny. Well, I’m still saddled with the case. And another report came in just an hour ago. A dog, a black Labrador to be precise, went missing a couple of days ago. Anyway, it looks like it’s been found. Dead.”

  Abby turned her lips down. “Ah, that’s a shame. Bless it.”

  “That’s not the half of it. It was found dissected in the woods in Stanmer Park. It’s fucking heart and lungs have been removed,” she said in a whisper as she leant forward. “Whoever is doing this, is one real sicko.”

  “Shit, that’s gross. I feel sick thinking about it.”

  “You feel sick? I’m just about to go down there and have a look. I don’t suppose you fancy coming do you?”

  Abby shook her head vehemently. “No chance. Besides, I’ve got a ton of digging around to do,” she added thumbing towards her PC screen. “Sounds like a case for the RSPCA now?”

  “Yeah, I’ve already put a call into them. They are going to meet me up there. Wish me luck.”

  Abby winked as Samantha strolled off again.

  11

  The search for Margaret Eze led Scott to a small apartment in the tight streets behind Brighton station. She lived there with another woman, who according to Patrick had been sheltering Margaret and allowing the childminder to look after children at her residence. The location didn’t alarm Scott, but the position did. Five floors up
, with a balcony that didn’t appear more than chest height, the apartment posed a serious threat to the safety of children.

  He’d knocked on the door several times. With no answer, he’d tried the neighbouring doors. Residents confirmed that two women lived there, but both had left earlier that morning and not returned.

  One resident, Grace Stanley, complained about the level of noise emanating from the flat. Grace was an elderly lady who referred to a constant drone of children screaming and playing, and the sound of a loud TV, that would come through the walls. She couldn’t understand why the women needed to talk so loud. She said that they talked in “a funny language”.

  Scott sighed, wishing he’d never knocked. Grace kept him there for thirty minutes as she aired her grievances. Flashing his warrant card appeared to have given her the green light to grill him on why the police could not tackle the kids who caused a nuisance downstairs, drinking and shouting until the early hours. Or the “filthy tarts” she spat out, who parked up in cars and did their business.

  Every crime that a hoodlum could commit, she appeared to moan about. Discarded needles in stairwells, loitering youths, loud cars screeching their tyres, loud “black” music, parties, litter and to top it off, dustbins not being emptied by the council.

  Returning again the following morning, Scott hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat performance as he knocked on the door. He figured eight-thirty a.m. was early enough to find Margaret and the owner still at home. And Grace to still be asleep.

  His first attempt proved unsuccessful, so Scott knocked louder and winced hoping Grace wasn’t peering through the spyhole in her door. When no answer was forthcoming, Scott decided that he’d try again in a few hours. He had a far more pressing appointment to attend.

  Scott figured the Costa Coffee on Western Road would be the last place he’d be meeting a university lecturer in African Studies. He’d been expecting to meet on campus, surrounded by stacks of dusty books, an untidy desk. He imagined him in a tweed jacket with glasses and a beard, sitting in an old, creaky leather captain’s chair. Instead, he found a man in his thirties, sitting in one corner sipping a hot drink. The man did have a beard, but that’s where the similarities ended. He wore faded jeans, and an open-neck white shirt. The first few buttons were undone, allowing his chest hair to poke through.

  “Simon Young?”

  Simon stood up, greeting Scott with a healthy smile and a firm enthusiastic handshake.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see me. I know my colleague DS Trent contacted you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Inspector. Your colleague suggested that I may be able to assist you on a case?” he asked returning to his seat. “Can I get your drink?”

  Scott declined Simon’s offer. “Is this your usual place for a meeting? I was expecting to find you in an office surrounded by shelves of old books and a desk overflowing with papers.”

  Simon grinned. “I guess that’s what most people assume when they put university and lecturer in the same sentence. Well, this is as good a place as any to meet. Frankly, it’s nice to get away from that overflowing desk and old books.”

  “We’re working on a case where the body of a child has been discovered, with some limbs missing. He’s of South African descent, and we’ve been advised by our partner agencies that this case does bear the hallmarks of a potential ritual killing. It’s not something my team has dealt with, so we are running blind.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes and nodded as he analysed Scott thoughts. “May I ask what limbs were removed?”

  “His arms and head…and his heart.”

  Simon nodded enthusiastically as his eyes lit up. He strummed his fingers on the armrest. “Fascinating. Yes, I’d agree, it carries all the indicators of it being a ritual killing. An African child, the head, some limbs. So yes, it certainly could be.”

  “Can you shed some light on why people would do this?”

  Simon cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “It sounds like a muti killing. The term ‘muti’ finds its roots in the Zulu tribe, and in the Zulu word for tree. Its use is widespread in many African languages. Muti has been used for, gosh, a long time, as a slang term to refer to traditional African medicine. I’ve studied this. I’ve been to South Africa a few times to study the tribal communities in greater detail. I guess you could say it’s a passion of mine.”

  He took a quick sip of his drink before continuing, “The thing is, Inspector, traditional African medicine makes use of many spiritually concocted medicines. They contain nothing more sinister than everyday items with botanical properties, together with minerals and zoological composed formulas. These loosely termed medicines have been used to treat everything from headaches, anxiety, organ disease, high blood pressure to increasing sexual potency.”

  Scott nodded as he took a few notes and related to what Simon was saying about his case.

  “In my opinion, muti killings are nothing more than murder and mutilation to harvest body parts, which can be added as ingredients into medicine. Let me be clear here, they are not human sacrifice, nor are they religious in nature, despite what’s documented or said about muti. They’ll have you believe that muti brings good luck, good health, and prosperity and that the gods are being served. The victims, and yes, they are victims as far as I’m concerned, are often young children. Most are killed for their soft tissue; so the eyelids, lips, scrota, and labia, though entire limbs have been severed, as in your case.”

  “So, it’s not magical or mystical in your view?”

  Simon shook his head. “In the view of those who believe in it, then there is an element of that. Sadly, the victims are alive since their screams are supposed to enhance the medicinal power. It is believed that medicines made from these killings will increase one’s ability to excel in business or politics, improve agriculture or protect against a war. The list is endless, Inspector.”

  Simon sat back in the chair to let Scott digest his comments.

  Scott shook his head. “That’s mind-blowing. Has muti been going on for some time?”

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. Though it is difficult to find precise statistics and trust me, I’ve looked.” He rolled his eyes, “The earliest documentation appears to be in the 1800s. You must understand, Inspector, that people believe in things for different reasons. We all do. Science has eliminated deities, but people, on the African and Asian Continents, still feel the need for something spiritual. They want something to use as a tool to structure their lives and guide them.”

  “Why are we starting to see more of this outside of the African continent?”

  “I can only make a guess, but I would say it’s because we’re experiencing a greater migrant flow between countries. Many are heading to safer Western countries because of political and military strife and catastrophic climatic change. Whether they arrive here legally or illegally doesn’t matter. Wherever they end up, the religion and beliefs come with them, too.

  “In the context of your victim coming from South Africa, during the 1990s South Africa experienced significant political strife with the ending of apartheid. There’s been significant unrest in the political, economic, and social landscape there. Things were supposed to have changed. Sadly they haven’t. I guess that’s why we are finding more migrants from that country escaping.”

  Scott thanked Simon for his time and his offer of continued help. The meeting had been informative. He’d walked away with a bundle of notes, and a motive for the killing. Whilst this felt like progress, the enormity of the task ahead dawned on him. It wasn’t uncommon for children arriving in this country to not be registered. It made them harder to track and easier to disappear. With a wall of silence from a hostile local community, and a small group of frightened and suspicious asylum seekers, this case would test him.

  Sandra Bello was the owner of the apartment and had resided there for a little over two years. Scott knocked on the door and prayed that Gra
ce Stanley couldn’t hear him.

  On this occasion, he could hear the faint sound of the TV from somewhere within the apartment, and a shuffle of footsteps. He waited a few moments before knocking again. The footsteps grew louder. Several locks unbolted before the door opened a few inches. A dark, short lady with unusually large eyeballs gave Scott a penetrating stare.

  Scott held up his warrant card saying, “I’m Detective Inspector Baker from Brighton CID. Are you Sandra Bello?”

  The woman stared at Scott’s ID card, her eyes tracking back and forth between Scott’s face and his photo ID. She nodded in confirmation. “What is this all about?” she asked in a heavy-set African accent.

  “I’m looking for Margaret Eze. I believe she lives here?”

  The woman neither confirmed nor denied the fact, instead choosing to repeat the question again.

  “It’s a private matter. I’m looking for Margaret Eze. Is she here?”

  The woman raised her voice in her own dialect. Scott raised a brow to press the issue.

  Scott heard a further shuffling coming from somewhere further along the hallway. Another face appeared from behind Sandra, an African lady dressed in a knee-length skirt of brown and grey tweed, white blouse, and a thigh-length cardigan. She wore a black and yellow headwrap that Scott knew as a dhuku from the research he’d been conducting.

  “I’m Margaret Eze. I've been expecting you. I’m almost packed,” she said in a soft, sorrowful tone as she lowered her gaze.

  “Sorry?”

  “You’ve come to deport me, haven’t you?”

  Scott shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s some confusion here. I’m not from the Immigration Department. I’m not here to deport you. I’m here because I’m investigating the death of a child that we believe to be Michael Chauke.”