Sacrifice

by Jay Nadal

  Scott flicked through the report that Matt had provided on all of their forensic examinations. “The organs and blood traces discovered in Daniel Johnson’s room have been examined. The samples were sent away and processed overnight. We can now confirm that all the organs and blood belong to animals. A veterinary pathologist examined the evidence. She confirmed that the organs belonged to a cat, several species of birds, and the heart that Abby picked up belonged to a medium to large size dog, in her opinion.”

  Abby made a few notes. “Uniform are examining recent cases of animals being abducted, Guv. So I’ll pass this information on to them. Hopefully it’s connected to their cases.”

  Scott nodded his approval. “A local resident found some sort of den two days ago whilst out walking. We now believe it was used by children. Because of its proximity to the Whitehawk estate and the location to where Michael’s body was found, forensics were dispatched to examine the den in greater detail. They found sweet wrappers, biscuit wrappers, and half-empty bottles of fizzy drinks. Analysis of the evidence confirmed DNA that matched Michael and Nathi. Other DNA traces were found, but so far today we have had no hits.”

  “So we know both boys knew each other and played together. Does that help our case in any way?” Raj asked.

  Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and rattled some loose change. “Yes and no. Yes, it helps us to identify another place where the children hung out, but no, it doesn’t take us any closer to knowing who murdered them.”

  Raj banged his hand on the table. “Guv, this frustrates the shit out of me. I’m sure there are people on the estate amongst the asylum community who know a lot more than they’re letting on. But they’re just too terrified. It makes little sense to remain silent.”

  He knew Raj had a point. Trying to get through to them felt like a waste of resources. He had already exchanged several heated phone calls with Home Office. Any attempts to get swabs from the six families that been seized had been denied. The officials in charge blocked any requests from Scott, including the release of information that would identify which families were held at which of the two immigration removal centres close to Gatwick airport.

  He’d tried to circumnavigate the Home Office by contacting Brook House and Tinsley House immigration removal centres, to no avail. Scott had been told that the release of information about who was housed at either centre was strictly controlled and required authorisation by the Home Office.

  Scott tapped the pictures on the incident board. “Our focus has to be on finding Xabi, and Daniel Johnson. Daniel may have nothing to do with it, but we have the CCTV stills which seem to suggest he was the person who may have disposed of the arm in the sea. We’re running out of time here and still have three children that are unaccounted for.”

  The fact that they hadn’t found Pastor Xabi concerned him. Scott knew in his gut someone harboured the odious man. Pastor Mabunda seemed the most likely suspect, but several visits, plus one day where two uniformed officers were assigned to follow him, had revealed nothing.

  “The bodies of Michael and Nathi were found one mile apart. So Xabi could be in that area. But that’s close to the Whitehawk estate, and supposedly, no one has seen him around there. If we go with Mike’s suggestion, then the hunt for Daniel Johnson would take us in the opposite direction. So as a team we need to split up.”

  A consensus of nods from those gathered appeared to agree with Scott.

  “Mike, you stick with the area we agreed towards Offham. Raj and Helen, there’s a large area of dense woodland beyond the den close to the Whitehawk. I want you to scan the area for any signs of Daniel or his van. Abby, I want you to call Barry Johnson. Press him on any areas that he can think of that Daniel has mentioned before. Even if it seems trivial, and he only heard it in passing conversation, we need to know about it.”

  Scott’s mobile rang as he wrapped up. The tone at the other end left him in no doubt that it was urgent.

  “What did he say?”

  Simon’s hands trembled as he tried to recall the conversation. The call had surprised him, but there was a hint of a smile trailed after it. “Erm, I…I…the man said, if you know what’s good for you, stop snooping in our business. He muttered something in Zulu, and said that if the police or I continued to look into tribal practices, we’d not see the end of the year.”

  Scott took down some notes. “Interesting.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Inspector. Pardon me. It might sound a little weird that I seem to get excited over something so serious in your eyes. It’s just that I’ve been studying Africa and its people for over twenty years. Muti killings have absolutely fascinated me. People out there have such strong beliefs that these witch doctors and powerful spell makers can do absolutely anything. They are held in higher regard than traditional doctors, the police, stockbrokers, and bankers.”

  “Yes, I’m realising that. Sorry, I meant both your fascination and interest, and how powerful these individuals are.”

  “They are, Inspector. In traditional African beliefs, it is assumed that there is only a certain amount of luck available in society. Each individual receives a portion of that luck. It is therefore believed that if another person is successful, then they have obtained an extra portion of luck via devious means, with the intervention of the supernatural. And a sangoma, a traditional witch doctor, fits the bill.”

  “I see.”

  “Any further update on your cases, Inspector?” Simon asked. Another hint of excitement tinged his voice as he poured Scott a cup of tea. “Did you find who you’re looking for? Was it muti after all?”

  The questions tumbled out of Simon’s mouth like an eager schoolboy keen to hear the features of the latest computer game. Scott thought he showed a little too much of interest in his cases. He was unsure as to how much he should reveal. “We’re still looking for those of interest to us and considering all possible motives. Can you think of areas where such killings could be carried out?”

  Simon must have sensed Scott’s hesitancy and reluctance. “I don’t think so, to be honest. From what I can gather, some muti killings back in Africa have been done in front of the whole tribe. Others are being done in random locations where they have kidnapped someone. But then again, there are just as many muti killings that are conducted in very quiet spots. Often they have small fires or candles to mark out the ritual. In that type of setting, I guess they need somewhere where it’s not windy, or exposed.”

  “So indoors?”

  Simon nodded and shrugged. “I guess. Somewhere where they are not going to be disturbed, or attract attention. And I’m referring to this country, if that’s the angle you’re coming from with your questioning.”

  “That’s helpful to know.”

  Simon changed the subject altogether. He reached for his laptop. “Do you know I was reading this article, and muti is once again growing in South Africa, with more witch doctors wanting to serve people on the European continent? Demand is high. With a large African population living and working here, they’re looking to target the UK. The Limpopo province alone once recorded two hundred and fifty muti murders in a single year.”

  He paused to flick through a document before continuing. “In 2013, a scandal broke as a hospital in Swaziland was accused of operating a black market in human body parts used in black magic muti spells and rituals. Those in the know considered it an ‘open secret’. They could literally buy from a shopping list. People came to the hospital from neighbouring regions to buy from a shopping list of bones, hearts, brains, genital organs, tongues, ears, eyes, fingers, hands, feet, legs, arms, and any other human body part to use in muti medicines. If this is coming to the UK, then Inspector, you have your work cut out.”

  “Two cases are enough for me,” Scott replied, jotting down Simon’s comments.

  “Can I ask? Have any of the children been albino?”

  Simon’s question took Scott by surprise, since he was about to leave. “No, why do you ask?”

&nb
sp; “Well, it’s due to availability here. Back in Africa, albinos, known in Africa as ‘ghosts’ or ‘zeroes’, were murdered for their particularly valuable body parts and skin. It’s beyond comprehension. According to believers, an albino’s arms, fingers, genitals, ears, and blood are prized for their especially powerful magic. For example, fishermen will weave albino hair into their nets to improve their catches whilst miners have splashed albino blood on the ground, wore albino muti charms or buried albino bones to ‘attract’ gems and gold to the surface to improve their prospecting.”

  Scott thanked Simon for the tea and further information. No doubt Simon would have kept him there all day if he’d had the opportunity.

  30

  The drive out from Woodingdean passed in silence. Darkness of the night surrounded them on all sides. An occasional car approaching from the opposite direction appeared like two cat’s eyes in the distance. They’d scrunched their eyes, as the beam from the headlights penetrated and lit up the interior of the van. The vehicle rushed by, leaving them in darkness once again.

  Daniel had been given strict instructions on identifying a spot that wouldn’t be discovered for some time. Having scoured his maps, he’d settled for a location close to the Castle Hill national nature reserve north of Woodingdean.

  The temperature inside the van had been turned up to a level that had become unbearable, but he dared not ask to turn it back down again. His guest felt cold most of the time, but that was perhaps because he wore little.

  Daniel continued to drive along the unlit road that swept around long curving bends, and an undulating landscape. In the darkness, he could not catch his bearings. The occasional lights from a farmhouse in the distance shimmered, like stars in a dark, night sky.

  Nerves tingled throughout him. His lips were dry with excitement, his hands sweaty, and his breathing short and sharp. The last few weeks had taken his experimentation to a higher plane. His morbid fascination with death had been nurtured by the special one. He dared not look to his left, since his guest was a menacing figure, with penetrating eyes that would freeze you on the spot and drain you of your very life force. When he pointed, his fingers were twisted and contorted, like the claws of a vulture. With sharp nails for talons, they could reach inside and tear apart a grown man’s chest.

  His grotesque appearance justified his reputation. Fearsome, mystical, powerful, and dangerous. Men would fall at his knees, and women would run, too scared to look him in the face.

  His guest hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the shed in the forest. Having completed the last act, his clients would be delighted with the outcome. Of that, he was sure.

  He pulled into a lay-by. In the stillness, they ventured off the road and travelled the last few yards on foot. The site nestled in amongst some trees and large bushes which offered the perfect camouflage. With a small torch that he lay on the ground to illuminate the area, he drove the spade into the hardened earth. Months of a dry summer and little rain had left the ground parched and firm. The impact on the tip sent shock waves that raced up his arms and through his shoulders. He cursed under his breath as he realised the task that lay ahead.

  As the minutes rolled by, the beginnings of a shallow pit formed.

  Despite the chill of the night, sweat beaded from his forehead, and moisture saturated his back as he toiled. Several hours later he stood in the middle of the pit, its edge in line with his thighs. His body ached, his shoulders were stiff, but with little choice, he soldiered on. He had to make the chamber deep enough. Scrambling out from beneath the dense greenery, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness once again. With little to see, he listened for any signs of danger.

  He waited for his breath to calm before making his way back to the van.

  He made the trip three times in total. Each time he carried a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. One by one, he laid them in the bottom of the pit. He returned to the van one more time, and picked up a large plastic container that weighed little, but carried a precious cargo.

  Standing by the edge of the pit, he glanced up towards the sky and closed his eyes.

  “Amandla avela empilweni entsha,” he repeated for more than a minute. He lifted the plastic container towards the sky. Tearing the lid off, he emptied the contents into the pit. The thud of the heart echoed loudly through the stillness that surrounded him. He glanced down and watched as the beam from his torch picked out the thousands of maggots that he’d tipped out.

  Filling in the pit took less than an hour. He tore down some foliage from the bushes, and laid them in a haphazard fashion over the turned earth. He leant back, pleased with his night’s work. If the bodies were ever discovered, there would be little left once the maggots had finished their job, and he’d be long gone.

  31

  The team arrived early to go over the final plans for the two sites they had identified yesterday. A ripple of laughter turned into raucous belly laughs as Mike, the last of the team, burst through the doors. Mike, never one to miss an opportunity to get down and dirty, turned up dressed for an away day with the royal marines. He had his black army boots, green combat trousers, and green sweatshirt on. To finish his outfit, he had a pair of green rubberised binoculars draped around his neck.

  Scott thought Mike must have raised a few eyebrows as he came through the station. “Mike, you’re looking for a nineteen-year-old man, and evidence of him camping out. Not Osama Bin Laden.”

  The others fell about laughing.

  “Guv, I don’t know what type of terrain I will come across. And the last thing I want to do is stand out like a sore thumb. We were always taught to blend into the background.” Mike replied looking down at his attire as if it made perfect sense.

  Raj shook his head in bewilderment. “You blend into something, but it won’t be the background. You look more like a big, green pile of cow shit.”

  Mike pointed an accusatory finger in Raj’s direction. “Any time mate…any time.”

  “Could you not get an army jacket to fit? One too many pork pies?” Raj continued.

  “Enough, you two,” Scott interrupted. “This isn’t the playground. Mike, or should I say Rambo, Helen, and Raj. You know what you’re looking for. Get going now. Abby and I will hover between the two locations so that we can get to either site as fast as we can.”

  “This is an absolute waste of time, since I’m sure the PolSA team covered some of this area,” Raj mumbled as he trekked across the grassy incline.

  Helen disagreed. “No, the search teams looked closer towards the road and the estate. They didn’t come this far up. If we carry on in this direction, it will take us closer towards the racecourse on our left, and north beyond the Whitehawk.”

  “Yes, but we are heading in the direction where the second lad was found. If Daniel Johnson is camping out somewhere, and he’s connected, then he’d be daft to go anywhere near that second crime scene. If you think about what the guv said, Johnson would be somewhere where he’s not going to be spotted or disturbed. You’ve got Warren Road, Bear Road, two crematoriums and a cemetery all within walking distance. He will not be here.”

  “You’re probably right, but what happens if he is? Your arse would be in the firing line for not doing a proper search.”

  The weather was clear, mild, and dry. The hum of traffic surrounded them, and the familiar buzz of a light aircraft flying low attracted their attention for a few moments. Other than a few joggers and dog walkers, Raj and Helen had failed to spot anyone else. Nor did they find any evidence of anyone camping out, such as discarded rubbish, no burnt-out campfires, and nothing to suggest Daniel’s presence. Despite spending the best part of two hours scanning the terrain, they continued to search.

  The location of Mike’s destination took him north of Brighton into the Sussex countryside. Mike parked in Offham and headed west away from the village. He snaked his way through the forest, sticking close to a stream that cut through the centre. Despite his large frame, he made go
od progress. Something about being outdoors, following his instincts, and using his tracking and observation skills spurred him on.

  He’d marked out a track just short of two and a half miles, and followed a route that took him between Offham and Plumpton. Even covering more than a mile, he hadn’t seen a single living soul. He stopped every hundred yards, crouched down and checked his bearings on his map and compass, using the opportunity to scan his environment through his binoculars before continuing.

  The lush green vegetation provided the ideal background to blend in as he moved. The sound of the trickling stream that flowed just a few feet away masked the slight sound of his movements. The water was clean, fresh, and free-flowing. He occasionally saw the silhouette of fish hovering close to the streambed.

  Something caught his eye that caused him to stop mid-step.

  He crouched low and made his way towards the edge of the stream. Across some of the large rocks appeared to be entrails. Mike assumed they had been there some time as flies feasted. Not far from the stones appeared to be bone fragments, and the pelt of an animal. Mike’s heart quickened and pounded in his chest. He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes as he snapped his head up and scanned his surroundings.

  Mike glanced over his shoulder towards the woods, and could make out a rough trail that snaked off into the distance. Ground foliage and shrub matter had been pushed to the sides, and trodden underfoot as if used as a path to the stream on numerous occasions.

  He placed each step carefully to avoid disturbing the ground, or stepping on twigs that would crack and announce his presence. The makeshift path zigzagged through the trees before joining with another path that led off deeper into the forest. Mike paused and looked through his binoculars for any sign of activity. With nothing obvious, he continued treading carefully. The path opened out into a clearing where about twenty yards ahead, he saw a brown weathered shed.