Dark Flight

by Lin Anderson

  There had already been a flurry of incident reports from those brave enough to lodge them. It made a change from sectarian abuse. Dark skin was as much a marker as a Rangers or Celtic scarf. Only now both sides of the religious divide had a common enemy: anyone of a duskier hue than themselves. The continent of origin wasn’t an issue. Africa, Asia, they didn’t even know where they were on a map. Just as long as they could vent their self-righteous spleen on someone different.

  Bill had taken Janice’s phone call as a constable laid the report list in front of him. He was pleased DC Clark had a lead on the white van, yet the words well done stuck in his throat. Anger coloured everything. Made you spit when you should smile. What was the point of being nice, when shit kept coming anyway? Bill suddenly felt ashamed. If Margaret thought he was taking problems in his personal life out on his team, she would never forgive him. She wasn’t taking it out on anyone. She had confessed to raging around the house, punching cushions and shouting her anger, but had waited until he left for work and the kids for school.

  The buzz of conversation in the outer office faded to silence when he opened his door. Bill marshalled his expression into something resembling pleasure.

  ‘DC Clark’s got a number for the white van.’

  There was a wave of excitement, almost a cheer.

  Bill passed the number to the nearest officer. ‘See if Traffic can tell us anything about the owner.’ He paused. ‘If anyone’s looking for me, I’m at the Nigerian Church of God, Maryhill Road.’

  The congregation met in an old Presbyterian hall. The neighbouring church building had been converted into a singles bar called the Dream Club. Bill had done a routine internet search and discovered the Nigerian Church of God had ministries in all West African countries, a strong presence in Europe and England, 150 churches in North America, and had recently purchased a multimillion-dollar property in Dallas, Texas. Apparently Glasgow was their first foray into Scotland.

  Miracles were high on their agenda. That’s what people wanted to believe in, why they paid their tithe. And judging by the rapid increase in membership from an initial half-dozen members meeting in a room in Lagos in 1957, to millions worldwide, the members thought they were getting what they paid for.

  Bill checked himself, as he often did when his natural scepticism came into opposition with his wife’s religion. Margaret was a believer; even her illness hadn’t shaken her faith.

  There was no sign of Janice when he drew up in front of the church hall. Bill trusted she would spot his parked car and went in alone.

  The big oak door spoke of wealthier times. In the foyer a display of church dignitaries consisted of six colour photographs with names and positions below. All but one of the dignitaries were black and wore national dress. Pastor Achebe looked imposing and confident in his position and beliefs. Bill wished he felt the same. A list of activities included Daily Worship, Sunday School, House Fellowship and Internet Radio broadcasts. A special Miracle Service was scheduled for the last Sunday of every month. Members were requested to state the miracle they desired. As Bill ran his eye down the list, a distant murmur rose and fell like waves on a shore, audible through the half-open inner door.

  Inside a large echoing room, ten people sat in a circle, heads bowed in prayer. In the centre was a table like a small altar on which six candles burnt. The room smelt warmly fragrant.

  Bill waited as the tide of voices rose to a crescendo, finishing with a joyous chorus of ‘Hallelujah’, which sent an involuntary tingle up his spine. A belief in God had been the unspoken certainty of his childhood, along with a clear definition of right and wrong, and perhaps the greatest gift his mother could bestow: a respect for people whoever they were. Only the God bit had gone.

  A tall man he recognised as Pastor Achebe came towards him, hand outstretched. First impressions could be wrong, but not often. The churchman’s expression was open and welcoming. ‘You must be Detective Inspector Wilson.’

  Bill took the large firm hand in his. He had not warned the pastor of his intended visit, nor was he sure how he had been recognised. Either Sam Haruna had furnished a very good description, or the pastor had second sight as well as an ability to perform miracles.

  ‘I do not perform miracles, only God can do that.’

  ‘What?’

  The pastor smiled, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth. ‘I saw you reading the request list, Detective Inspector. If you ask God for help, I am sure he will answer.’

  ‘I’ll settle for your help, Pastor, for the moment.’

  ‘Of course. Would you like to come through to my study?’

  The candles had been blown out, the altar moved to the wall. Six men and three women were donning coats and heading for the door, calling their goodbyes.

  ‘Christ be with you.’

  ‘And with you.’

  Bill ran a swift eye over the worshippers. Mixed age group, two white faces among the black, both of them middle-aged women.

  Pastor Achebe led him to an open door at the rear of the hall. The room was warmed by a gas fire and lit by a single window that looked out on a stone wall three feet away, which, judging by direction, belonged to the Dream Club. A simple wooden cross hung on the wall behind a desk that housed a pile of papers and an ultra-slim laptop. Beside the cross hung a map of the world, many of the countries marked by a small cross. The map reminded Bill of the one in his old schoolroom, but with the Nigerian Church of God replacing the pink expanse of the British Empire.

  He took the seat the pastor indicated.

  ‘I understand Carole Devlin and her son were members of your church?’

  The pastor settled himself behind the desk. He was a broad man, his bulk more likely to be muscle than fat. ‘Not my church,’ he gently corrected. ‘God’s church. I am merely a member.’

  ‘But you are in charge?’

  ‘I have certain responsibilities, yes.’

  His professions of modesty were beginning to irritate.

  ‘Tell me about Carole.’

  ‘She came with Stephen most Sundays. The boy attended Sunday School while his mother worshipped in the main hall.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Not well, I’m ashamed to say. But I understand she attended one of our sister churches in Kano before returning to the UK. She did not mingle with the other worshippers here, merely arrived for the service and left swiftly afterwards.’

  ‘Wasn’t that strange?’

  ‘Our church is our family, Detective Inspector. Yes, it is, was, unusual. What I can tell you is that Carole entered a request for a miracle last Sunday, the day before she died.’

  He pushed a black diary across the desk and pointed at an entry which said simply ‘Don Allah’.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘In the Hausa language it means “please” or, more precisely, “please, God”.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘God knows everything. There was no need for her to write down the miracle she needed. It was enough to say please.’

  ‘Do you know what she wanted?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. But I can surmise.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘In my experience women rarely ask anything for themselves. Whatever she wanted it would be for her child.’

  Bill changed tack. ‘And Carole Devlin’s husband?’

  ‘I never met him.’ The pastor’s tone of voice didn’t change, but his answer was almost too swift.

  Bill examined the eyes that stared unblinkingly into his. ‘Do you know a Dr Olatunde?’

  The pastor had no difficulty with that question. Practice was making his responses perfect. ‘Not directly. Sam Haruna has mentioned the name to me. He works at the university, I believe.’

  ‘He is not a member of your church?’

  He shook his head sadly.

  ‘But he is Nigerian?’

  The pastor placed his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. ‘Not all Nigerians are men of
God.’

  ‘There are elements of this case that suggest a link with voodoo.’

  The pastor looked distressed. ‘The African term is juju, Inspector. Yes, I am sorry to say some of my fellow Africans still run after fetish priests and other powers of darkness for assistance.’

  ‘Like Dr Olatunde?’

  ‘I cannot say that, for I do not know.’

  Bill felt he was wading through treacle. Regardless of how accommodating Pastor Achebe appeared to be, he had told him nothing, except that Carole had asked for a miracle and her God had failed her. ‘I will need contact details for all members of your church.’

  Pastor Achebe opened his mouth to protest, but Bill went on regardless. ‘I will also require every male over the age of sixteen to give a DNA sample to eliminate them from our enquiries.’

  The pastor had regained his composure. He rose from the chair, with an accepting smile. ‘Of course, Inspector. I understand. Although among the black community, might such a requirement be seen as police harassment?’

  Bill was already rehearsing the conversation he would have with his superior officer over such a request. And sampling the male congregation depended entirely on Pastor Achebe persuading his flock to come forward. The Nigerian Church of God, he suspected, had members entirely unknown to the Home Office. Perhaps an admission of illegal status was as sacrosanct to Pastor Achebe as an admission in the confessional.

  When they emerged from the office, Janice was in the foyer, reading the miracle list. She threw Bill a swift smile, before adjusting it to a nod. Obviously smiling had not been well received of late.

  Bill introduced her to the pastor, who shook her hand.

  ‘Pastor Achebe has kindly agreed to supply us with the names of males over sixteen in his congregation, for DNA testing. I want you to wait here until he puts this together.’

  Janice’s presence might encourage the pastor to give a more comprehensive list.

  ‘In view of the nature of the case, I would also like the names of families with children under the age of sixteen.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I will do everything I can.’ The pastor’s expression grew grim. ‘Those who engage in witchcraft have great control over believers and a vested interest in keeping that control. For that reason alone, they are dangerous.’

  It struck Bill as he walked to his car that had the pastor substituted ‘religion’ for ‘witchcraft’, his pronouncement would have held the same truth.

  25

  MALCHIE WAS WORRIED, although he was sure the story of the van and stolen goods had worked. Danny had played that detective along, even fooled his da into believing the shit-scared trick. A rare wee actor was Danny.

  The charge of sexual assault had no hope either. The security cameras were too far from where they’d handled the woman. And anyway, the cameras had been smashed so often that if any of them worked it would be a miracle.

  Malchie gnawed at his fingernail, biting it to the quick. But if HE thought for a minute they’d led the police to the site? He and Danny had been given the job of keeping folk away from that building, and they’d been paid well for it. Heavy-duty shit that blew your mind even without the drink.

  Malchie ran a furred tongue over his lips, finding a sore at the corner of his mouth. He picked at it, tasting the salt of his own blood.

  At least he didn’t have the mobile on him when they took him to the police station. He’d managed to slip it down the side of the settee when it was obvious the pig would insist he go with them. If the fucking phone had gone off, he really would have shit himself.

  To make himself feel better, Malchie imagined doing more than just sticking his hand between the woman’s legs. He would fix her for reporting them. Fuck the bitch till she bled. A rush of pleasure filled his groin and he rubbed himself hard, imagining her frightened face, looking up at him, begging him to stop. When he was ready, he yanked down the tracksuit bottoms and let fly, shouting short staccato ‘fucks’ with each spurt.

  Momentarily released from his anger, he slumped back in the chair. Whatever he did to the woman wouldn’t bring his job back. Now that the police were swarming all over the site, that was gone, along with his supply. No shit, no fun and no cash.

  He pulled out the phone. What if he was the one to make contact? Tell HIM what was going on here. Tell HIM about the woman.

  Whatever fantasy he dreamt up to pay her back was nothing to what he might be told to do.

  Malchie punched out the keys before he changed his mind, and waited for a connection. HE had never answered the phone, only a standard answer machine. This time there was nothing but a dead-end drone. Malchie tried again, cursing under his breath, already suspecting that any contact they’d had was at an end. His drug ticket was gone. He didn’t know who HE was or where to find HIM. Their only contact had been the mobile.

  He threw the phone on the bed, slammed the door behind him and went downstairs to take it out on his mother.

  She was in the kitchen, her hands in the sink. The radio was on, playing a stupid tune and she was humming. He stood at the door watching and waiting. He’d seen his dad do that lots of times. Wait till she looked happy before he moved in for the kill. Sometimes his father would go out of his way to make her happy. Her expression would slowly change from fear to hope, then pleasure. Malchie’d watched the performance as a child, still on her side, hoping when she hoped. Gradually he learned that hers was the losing side. Learned to hate her when she cowered like a frightened sheep. From then on he got what he wanted. He was his dad’s partner in the game, a game that grew ever more cruel.

  His mother turned, sensing his presence. For a moment she was his mum, the one who used to shield him from his father’s rages. Malchie immediately dismissed the uncomfortable feeling that gave him.

  ‘Food,’ he demanded.

  She pointed at a pot on the stove. ‘There’s mince.’

  ‘Fuck mince.’

  He snatched her purse from the table.

  ‘Ah haven’t . . .’ she began, then stopped, drying her hands nervously on a tea towel as he rifled through the purse, taking the one note in there. She opened her mouth to protest, then rapidly shut it again.

  The gesture of futility fanned Malchie’s simmering resentment. He lifted the pot from the gas and threw it across the table at her. The boiling mince flew out, spraying the table, the floor and her outstretched hand.

  She smothered a scream, clasping the burnt hand to her chest.

  Malchie turned from her shocked face, enjoying the rush of adrenalin pumping through his veins. The money would buy him dope, drink and a pizza, in that order.

  When she heard the slam of the front door, she turned on the cold tap and stuck her hand under the running water. The radio was playing a love song. She held the injured hand with the other to stop them both shaking. She was muttering, ‘Malcolm, Malcolm,’ under her breath as though to a child. Her eyes were dry as dust, red-hot from unshed tears. Her knees buckled slightly and she pressed them against the sink, forcing herself to stay upright. When the pain lessened, she wet the tea towel with cold water and wrapped it around the rising blisters.

  She held the banister with her good hand as she climbed the stairs. When she pushed open the door of her son’s bedroom, the smell of unwashed male rushed out. She walked to the window and opened it, then looked around the room.

  The fancy mobile was lying on the bed. She picked it up, without looking at it. Downstairs again, she slipped on her coat and put the mobile in her handbag along with her purse, after checking she had enough change for the bus.

  Malcolm hadn’t told the police about the phone. But she would. The phone had something to do with that place they’d found the wee boy’s shoe.

  There was a bus waiting at the terminus. She got on, paid and sat at the back, one hand still wrapped in the wet cloth. Her man would come home and find the mess. No tea either. The script was already written for what would happen next, but for once she would not be playi
ng her part.

  After the police station she would go to Karen’s. She knew where her daughter lived; the men of the family didn’t. Karen had wanted her mother to leave ever since she’d left home herself.

  But she hadn’t wanted to go until she was sure. She couldn’t say ‘sure that Malcolm was going to turn out like his father’, not out loud, nor even silently in her head, because she knew that by staying and taking it for so long, she had probably made that happen.

  The woman was sitting in reception when Bill got back to the police station. She wore the same resigned expression, her eyes somewhere else, far, he suspected, from the here and now.

  The desk sergeant explained in a low voice, ‘She wants to see Dr MacLeod. I told her she was forensic and not a policewoman. She was adamant. Dr MacLeod.’

  The woman was probably here to plead her son’s case. More fool her. Didn’t she realise that the more she covered up for him, the worse he was likely to get?

  ‘Mrs Menzies? Can I help?’

  She turned a startled gaze on him. ‘I need to speak to the woman, Dr MacLeod.’

  ‘Sergeant MacVitie has explained. Dr MacLeod is a forensic scientist, not a police officer. She doesn’t work here.’

  ‘I have something to tell her.’

  ‘Will I do?’

  A flash of stubbornness crossed her face. Something had driven her to come here. It had taken courage. She wasn’t going to give up now. ‘I have to talk to the woman.’

  She turned from him, settling back into her trance.

  It was then he noticed her hand, wound around with what looked like a kitchen cloth.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself?’

  She glanced down. ‘I burnt it on a pot.’ She took a sharp breath that sounded like a sob.

  ‘Sergeant, a cup of tea for Mrs Menzies. And bring the first-aid kit,’ he ordered.

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow, then dropped it when he saw Bill’s expression.