Dark Flight

by Lin Anderson

Sam smiled over at her, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine. If she wanted to go home with him, she would have to last until midnight and she had to be up early. Common sense told her to wait for the weekend, but she felt the need for human company rather than sleep. If Rhona had been here they would have talked it through, laid the day’s events to rest, at least for tonight.

  Sam threw her a quizzical glance. Did she plan to stay?

  Chrissy nodded and ordered another drink.

  Rain smattered the pavement with puddles. Sam guided her around them, his arm about her shoulders. She was glad of the dark. That way no one looked at them, or shouted racist comments. Chrissy could give as good as she got, but Sam didn’t like her to. He would put his hand on her arm and tell her quietly that it didn’t matter. But it mattered to her. She wasn’t ashamed of their relationship, she was ashamed of the people of the city she loved, behaving like that.

  Tonight there was no anger, just pleasure in walking together through the dark wet streets.

  ‘Does it rain like this in Kano?’

  ‘Much worse. When the rains come, the force of water is strong enough to dig trenches.’

  ‘In tarmac?’

  ‘No, the tarred road becomes a river. But such roads are scarce, especially in the old city. There they are red clay. Concrete in the dry season, mud in the wet.’

  ‘The wet season lasts all year here.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  Chrissy looked up at the rain illuminated in the yellow of the street lamp. ‘How can it be lucky to have rain all the time?’

  Sam tipped his head back and savoured the drops. ‘Because the rain makes things grow. Nothing grows without it.’

  Even her vivid imagination could not conjure up a world where rain was welcomed.

  ‘The woman who died . . .’ Sam said as they walked on.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She was a member of my church.’

  Chrissy came to an abrupt halt. ‘Your church?’ She said the word church as though it were poison.

  He looked puzzled. ‘You are a Catholic.’

  ‘I was indoctrinated as a Catholic.’

  ‘And you no longer believe?’

  Chrissy opened her mouth to agree but something stopped her. ‘I don’t go to church,’ was the best she could manage.

  ‘Carole Devlin was a member of the Nigerian Church of God.’

  Chrissy gave a silent groan. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Pastor Achebe spoke to me when he saw the photo in the newspaper.’

  ‘Why didn’t he call the police?’

  Sam looked uncomfortable. ‘The church is a place of refuge.’

  Chrissy digested that. ‘Meaning people go there who are illegal immigrants?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Sam was cautious.

  ‘The police need to speak to anyone who knew Carole if we’re going to find her killer.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What about Stephen?’

  ‘I never saw either of them, but according to the pastor he would come to church with his mother.’

  ‘And the husband?’

  Sam shook his head.

  ‘I’ll tell DI Wilson tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ He seemed relieved.

  ‘Where is this church?’

  ‘We meet in a hall on Maryhill Road. I will give you the pastor’s mobile number.’

  Chrissy tried to control her expression to no avail. So, her latest boyfriend was a member of some sect called the Nigerian Church of God. What would her family priest say about that? The expression ‘sleeping with the enemy’ immediately sprang to mind.

  Sam’s face was black porcelain in the wet light. He stood very still, waiting for Chrissy to make an excuse to go home. If she wasn’t put off by the colour of his skin, then revealing his religion might have done it.

  Chrissy slipped her hand into his and opened her mouth to crack a joke along those lines.

  ‘Don’t.’ He laid a finger on her lips. ‘The pastor teaches us that love is greater than hate. Is that a bad thing?’

  The flat smelt of bergamot and cinnamon. Sam had an oil burner lit most of the time. Chrissy had assumed it reminded him of Africa, but now she pondered its religious significance.

  He was meticulous in his tidiness. Everything clean, the bed carefully made. Her own flat looked like a tip in comparison. Ever since she’d left home, she’d cultivated the ‘lived-in’ look, in contrast to her mother’s constant, obsessive housework. It was as though tidying the house gave her mum control over at least part of her life. The monotonous regularity of Chrissy’s dad’s drunken rages and her brothers’ moral messes could never rock the ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ ship her mum sailed as captain.

  They undressed and lay between the clean white sheets, still scented from washing. The sound of jazz piano on the stereo was their accompaniment, its roving nuances like Sam’s black hand across her ivory skin.

  His long pianist fingers were both gentle and firm, playing notes on her body that made her cry out with pleasure. Afterwards they lay, not speaking, her head in the crook of his arm. Chrissy didn’t want to break the silence nor leave him, but she still stood up and began to dress.

  ‘Don’t leave,’ Sam pleaded.

  ‘It’s better if I go home.’

  He swung his legs out of bed.

  ‘No,’ she protested. ‘I’ll call a taxi. You don’t have to get up.’

  He pulled on his trousers. ‘If we stand outside, one will pass soon.’

  They waited at the kerb. The sexual intimacy was gone, but there was still an invisible bond between them. He hailed a cab on its way back to the city centre and opened the door for her. She caught a glimpse of the driver’s expression and tried to read it, with no success.

  ‘Where to?’

  She gave him the address and settled back, fastening her seat belt. All the church members would have to be interviewed, including Sam. What if he’d never met Carole or Stephen? Chrissy tried to recall his denial. Was he telling the truth?

  She watched the rain trickling down the window pane, feeling increasingly uneasy with the decision she had to make. Maybe it would be better not to see Sam until the investigation was complete. The realisation left a hole in her stomach. It would be difficult to explain. Sam would take it as rejection.

  Chrissy wondered if her decision was purely professional or whether Sam’s religious leanings had tipped the balance. She had fought so hard to break free of the church, and love was, as she knew from bitter experience, its strongest method of persuasion.

  20

  THE GUESTS AT the Malmaison Hotel experienced chic and comfortable rooms with a choice of CDs for the high quality stereo. The entrance to this former Greek Orthodox church was classical, suffused with that inimitable Glasgow style.

  Despite this, the outlook from some side bedrooms left a lot to be desired. A bird’s-eye view of Pitt Street Police Station. Pitt Street was renowned for many things, but not a classical entrance or stylish decor.

  At the desk, a patient sergeant was attempting to take down details from an elderly man who wanted an ASBO put on his neighbour’s budgies. Despite turning off his hearing aid, his flat still sounded like an aviary.

  Rhona followed Bill to an interview room, passing Malchie and mother on the way. They were already in Room 1. Malchie had drawn his chair as far from his mother as possible in the cramped space. Rhona wondered if ‘her man’ had returned, as promised. The woman glanced out as Rhona passed. The sudden intimacy of the look suggested she and Rhona had something in common. Both had suffered abuse at her son’s hands.

  If she pressed charges on Malchie, what would that mean for this woman? Who in that house would pay the price?

  It made Rhona think of Chrissy, staying too long at home, protecting her mother from her father’s drunken rages, spending an inordinate amount of time and her earnings righting her brothers’ misdemeanours. Only Patrick, the eldest, had been a real man to both women, and
he was gay. Chrissy had kept that secret from her macho father and younger brothers, and particularly from her mother, for whom Catholicism was much more than a prop in a difficult life.

  Bill ushered her into Room 3 and shut the door. ‘Okay – so what’s this all about?’

  He listened patiently while she described the assault. It sounded insignificant. Unworthy of the attention it was getting. Yet Rhona could not shake off the feeling of violation that retelling the tale gave her.

  She waited for Bill’s comment.

  ‘I suggest you make a formal statement. It will, of course, be difficult to make it stick.’

  ‘Two against one; they win.’

  Bill looked sympathetic. ‘Janice is checking with the council. If they have footage . . .’

  ‘Chances are it won’t be pointing my way. Look, Bill, the only reason I’m here is in the hope you can get him to talk about that building.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see what he has to say.’

  Bill left her with paper and pen. She wrote a brief résumé of events and signed it. The door to Room 1 was firmly closed when she passed. She handed her statement to the desk sergeant and he gave her a file in return.

  ‘Compliments of the Met. DI Wilson said you’d understand.’

  When she reached the car, she checked her mobile. There was a voice message from Sean.

  ‘Rhona, it’s Wednesday 5 p.m. I’m on my way back to Dublin. The funeral is on Friday morning. The wake will last days but I plan to escape Saturday. See you then.’

  She contemplated going to the jazz club. Chances were Chrissy would still be there. She rejected the idea in favour of food and a read of the Met’s forensic notes.

  Rhona switched on all the lights, walking from room to room in the flat, illuminating the darkness. The silence remained thick and unwelcoming.

  She stuck a ready meal in the microwave, trying to ignore the label and its list of chemical additives, including too much sugar and salt. Sean was the cook and he wasn’t here. She discovered the remains of a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge and poured herself a glass while waiting for the timer to ping.

  Settled on the couch in front of the fire, she ate and read at the same time.

  In September 2001, the headless, limbless and bloodless torso of a five-year-old black boy was found floating in the Thames near Tower Bridge. The DI in charge named him Adam. The investigation followed ‘the beat in the heart of darkness’, or so the newspapers had said.

  Rhona leafed through the photos of the exhibits collected on raids on nine houses the following July. Exhibits that suggested, according to a well-known academic and expert in African culture, the practice of voodoo, juju or black magic.

  The first photograph was of an animal skull pierced by a large staple and wound thickly in heavy black cotton. This was followed by photos of evidence bags containing dung, clay and soil samples, and medicine bottles containing wooden crucifixes floating in an oily liquid.

  But it was the forensic report that interested her most. When the investigation team contacted the FBI’s powerful forensic muscle with what they had, they’d been told to give up. The case was unsolvable.

  The London team didn’t take the FBI’s advice.

  Pollen content in Adam’s stomach confirmed the presence of particles common to European plant life. From that they established Adam had been in the UK up to seventy-two hours prior to his death. A study of his bones narrowed his isotope signature to three different areas covering five different countries in Africa where Adam might have been brought up. A team from the Met had taken a forensic safari to West Africa to collect soil and animal bones, fresh meat from market stalls and even a sample from a post-mortem examination. When these were compared in the laboratory with Adam’s strontium signature they pinpointed Adam’s origins to a wedge of land, 100 miles by 50 miles, in south-west Nigeria. At its centre was Benin City, a place renowned for human trafficking.

  It was a remarkable investigation, which did not as yet have a conclusion. The question was whether the Met’s Adam had any connection with Abel. Adam’s ritualistic death was similar to Abel’s. Tests on the samples taken from the cylindrical building could confirm Abel’s presence there, although the lack of blood suggested that wasn’t where he died. The shoe they recovered might turn out to be one worn by Stephen. She would test that tomorrow. If it was, then Abel’s death and Stephen’s disappearance had to be linked.

  The over-seasoned ready meal tasted bitter in her mouth. She set it aside and took a mouthful of wine. The investigation seemed to be turning just as sour. Bill’s difficult manner was more than just desperation to find the missing boy.

  Rhona wondered if he was ill and hiding it from them. Or if there was trouble from his superiors. A missing child put enormous pressure on the investigation team, in this case worsened by the double murder of his mother and grandmother. It was enough to make anyone irritable and depressed, even Bill Wilson.

  The phone rang in the hall and she went to answer it. At eleven o’clock it was more than likely Sean calling from the bosom of his family.

  The voice was Irish, but it was a woman. The tone was soft, almost apologetic. ‘Is that Rhona MacLeod?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I’m calling from Dublin.’

  Rhona felt instantly unnerved. ‘Did Sean arrive okay?’

  ‘He’s with his mother.’

  This was followed by silence. It was as though the caller wanted Rhona to speak first.

  ‘Are you one of Sean’s sisters?’ How many did Sean say he had? She knew none of their names.

  ‘No.’

  Silence fell again.

  ‘I’m sorry, but can I ask who you are?’

  ‘I’m Kitty Maguire. Sean’s wife.’

  Rhona felt a surge of something – panic? – and acid rose in her throat. She gripped the receiver more tightly.

  ‘Sean’s wife?’ she repeated slowly. She knew a reaction was called for, but had no idea what it might be.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sean didn’t mention me, then?’

  ‘I think there must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake.’

  The phone went down with a clatter. Rhona did a swift 1471 but the caller had withheld the number.

  Rhona replaced the receiver, not knowing whether to be angry or irritated.

  What on earth was the woman talking about? Sean didn’t have a wife. Sean wasn’t married.

  But why would a woman phone and tell her she was Sean’s wife if she wasn’t? And how did the woman get this number? She didn’t give out her home number to just anyone. It was ex-directory. Only Sean and close friends and colleagues knew it. Including McNab.

  Rhona dismissed that thought almost immediately. Even if McNab remembered her number, why would he have anything to do with some mad woman who called from Dublin to say she was Sean’s wife?

  Rhona realised with an abrupt certainty that she knew next to nothing of Sean’s life before they met. He could have been married half a dozen times and she would have no idea. It had taken her long enough to confess to him that she had given up her child for adoption. She only told Sean because of the murdered teenager she’d thought might be the son she hadn’t seen for seventeen years.

  Rhona sank onto a chair. Were she and Sean nothing but strangers having sex with each other? No, it was much more than that. Why else would she feel so hurt, so betrayed?

  Why had she let it get to this stage? If McNab had told her he was married, she wouldn’t have cared. McNab’s commitment elsewhere would have confirmed theirs as the sort of relationship she preferred. Transient.

  The soft Irish voice of the phone call began to assume a face. Probably dark-haired, she sounded younger than Sean. She spoke his name with familiarity.

  Sean played gigs all over the place. Had he played Dublin recently? How many times had he visited Dublin since they got together?

  Rhona reca
lled their conversation about the funeral, when she’d suggested going with him. Sean had made light of the idea. His family would have her for breakfast along with the bacon and soda bread, he’d said, making her laugh.

  Why did he not want her there?

  The wine was finished. Rhona fetched a bottle of Islay Malt from the drinks cabinet and poured a shot.

  A mix of wine, whisky and apprehension swam through her veins. What if she didn’t mention this to Sean when he called? What if she simply turned up in Dublin on Friday?

  Even as she toyed with the idea, Rhona knew she had already made up her mind.

  21

  MALCOLM MENZIES SAT slumped in the chair, fingers drumming the table.

  The desk sergeant had delivered Rhona’s statement. It sat on the table in front of Bill. Next door was Malchie’s partner in crime. A skinny freckled youth of the same age who went by the name of Danny Fergus. He’d apparently spent most of his time since being lifted shitting himself in the Gents. His father had accompanied him to the police station. To Daniel Fergus Senior, Pitt Street was a second home. He’d been lifted on a regular basis since he was his son’s age. History was fast repeating itself.

  Malchie’s mother looked up gratefully as a PC entered with a mug of tea. Her demeanour reminded Bill of the woman in the wheelchair at the hospital. Withered and weary of life and its painful knocks.

  ‘The tattoo . . .’ Bill began.

  ‘What about it?’ A flicker of fear shone in the youth’s eyes, but he kept on drumming.

  ‘You have to be eighteen for a tattoo parlour to work on you.’

  ‘I did it myself.’

  Bill caught Malchie’s hand, silencing it.

  He tried to pull away, then let the hand go limp.

  Bill had a closer look at the diagonal cross between his thumb and forefinger. It was roughly done, more like a scar than a tattoo. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Nothing. It means nothing.’

  ‘This shape was painted on the inside wall of that building.’

  ‘So?’

  Bill suspected that Malchie had spent his entire life talking like this. A mixture of belligerence and defiance. Malchie fought because he knew no other way to live. Everyone was out to get him, and he was out to get them back.