Dark Flight

by Lin Anderson

  It felt like an illicit tea party. The sweet African beer quickly went to Rhona’s head. A fan whirred above them as they ate, while outside a million insects sang.

  She was too tired to care what her bedroom looked like, and got the haziest impression of white walls and African print curtains before exhaustion claimed her. The hum of an air conditioner rendered the temperature almost European. Rhona slipped between cool white sheets and was asleep in seconds.

  Day 8

  Monday

  40

  RHONA WOKE NEXT morning to a room filled with sunlight. A distant splash suggested someone was already up and using the swimming pool. She lay absolutely still, unable to believe she was here in Africa.

  She finally rose, switched off the air conditioner and threw open the window. The white patterned security grille was locked and she had to be content with the view it afforded.

  The air was clear, with no evidence of yesterday’s harmattan. It smelt hot and damp and pungent. Through the leafy branches of a flame tree she could see the pool, a dark head moving through the blue water. Rhona wondered if it was McNab, but dismissed the thought. She didn’t remember him as a fitness fanatic. Then she recalled how he’d run across the waste ground towards her. He’d got in shape since they were together. He obviously now relied on more than just sex for exercise.

  The swimmer was McNab. Rhona watched as he pulled himself from the pool and began to towel dry. He turned, sensing someone watching, and Rhona slipped out of view, feeling foolish and embarrassed at the same time.

  She decided against joining him and chose to shower instead. According to the information leaflet, breakfast was served between seven and nine. It was just before seven now.

  McNab rang the room phone as she got out of the shower. ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘I’ll be down in five minutes.’

  ‘See you in the dining room.’

  Rhona noticed the bones as she hung up. They were lying on the bedside table, tucked behind the lamp.

  For a second, it was as though she were back in the tiny front garden, with the murdered bodies of the two women in the house behind.

  Only now she knew what she was looking at. Now she knew what the fetish meant.

  The bones choose their next victim.

  She withdrew her trembling hand from the receiver and willed her shallow breaths into longer, deeper ones. Only when she felt in control, did she take a closer look.

  As before, they appeared to be children’s forefinger bones, tied with red thread in the shape of a diagonal cross. Each bone had three striations. There was no mistaking the pattern.

  Water from the shower trickled down her body mixing with beads of perspiration. The realisation that she’d slept all night with the cross beside her made her heart take off again. If this was a threat, it was working. It had scared her half to death already. She forced herself into motion. Dried her body. Put on clothes. She had told McNab five minutes. He would come looking if she did not appear.

  Once dressed, she fetched her forensic case, donned latex gloves, picked up the cross and dropped it into an evidence bag, taking time to write the place and time on the label.

  The phone rang as she finished.

  ‘Are you coming?’ McNab sounded worried.

  ‘On my way.’

  He was seated at a table by an open French window leading to the pool. He looked up as she entered and Rhona readjusted her expression. She would have to tell him about the bones, but she didn’t want to look frightened when she did it.

  She fetched fresh fruit and yoghurt from the buffet table. McNab was already tucking into a cooked breakfast. The big overhead fans were working hard, moving the moist air of the dining room in an effort to cool it. McNab was wearing a khaki shirt and trousers and looked comfortable despite the heat.

  ‘I spoke to Abdul. He says to walk across when we’ve eaten. He’ll take us to the police station.’

  Rhona took a sip of coffee before speaking.

  ‘I found a set of crossed bones by my bed this morning.’

  ‘What?’ McNab almost dropped his fork.

  Rhona produced the evidence and handed it to him.

  He glanced inside the bag and his face blanched. He was interpreting the find just as she had.

  ‘They weren’t there last night?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully.

  ‘You heard nothing during the night?’

  ‘I don’t think anything would have woken me.’

  ‘Were there any signs of a break-in?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to look. We can check the room after breakfast.’

  They sat in silence, food now untouched. Rhona assumed they had reached the same conclusion: somebody associated with Stephen’s case knew they were in Kano. That wasn’t surprising since Abdul had already been out asking about Stephen. But whoever knew didn’t like the fact.

  ‘I don’t like being threatened.’ McNab’s expression was grim.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  When they opened the door, her bedroom had assumed an ominous air.

  ‘Did you see anything unusual as you undressed for bed?’ asked McNab.

  ‘I only had the light on briefly,’ she answered.

  She ran through the previous night in her mind. Briefly admiring the African print curtains, the snowy walls. Noting the security grille outside the window. Listening for mosquitoes and hearing only the satisfying hum of the air conditioner.

  McNab was thorough in his search. Rhona tried not to mind his presence in what was effectively her bedroom, with her clothes, including underwear, scattered about. Her forbearance was rewarded with a partial footprint below the window. A large bare foot had rested briefly on the tiles, leaving its imprint in red harmattan dust.

  ‘It could have been left by a member of staff,’ McNab suggested.

  ‘I haven’t seen one with bare feet.’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘Even the gardener wears flip-flops. Whoever got in didn’t use the window.’

  He echoed her thoughts entirely. McNab had tried hard to open the security grille, to no avail. ‘Let’s hope there isn’t a fire while we’re here,’ he said cynically.

  They decided against questioning the management themselves. According to the consul, it was better if Abdul did the talking.

  A call for Rhona came through to reception as they were leaving. Her mobile was useless here, as was McNab’s. Henry had promised them handsets that would work in Kano, but there was little chance of reception outside the city. The lack of contact from home was a serious problem.

  ‘Rhona?’

  ‘Chrissy! It’s great to hear your voice.’

  There was a short silence as though the phone had cut out.

  ‘Chrissy, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a catch in her throat.

  Rhona’s heart sank. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sam’s disappeared.’

  ‘What?’

  It came tumbling out. ‘He sent me a strange text. It just said, “I’m sorry.” I went round to his flat, because he hadn’t turned up for work at the club. Some of his clothes were in a skip outside. Then –’ she paused and cleared her throat – ‘his DNA was on the Velcro of Stephen’s shoe.’

  ‘He went to church with Stephen,’ she tried. ‘Maybe he helped him put on his shoe.’

  ‘Sam told me he’d never met Stephen or Carole.’

  Nothing Rhona could think of offered an explanation. ‘Have they searched his flat?’

  ‘There’s nothing there. It’s as though he never existed.’

  ‘There must be something,’ Rhona insisted. ‘What about his laptop?’

  ‘No sign of it. Bill thinks Sam’s left the country. They’re checking the airports.’

  ‘His mother lives in Kano. We’ll find her. Maybe she knows where he is.’

  Sam had disappeared either because he had something to hide, or because someone wanted him out of the way. An ima
ge of Malcolm Menzies’s tortured body flashed through Rhona’s mind. Sam guilty or Sam dead? Neither was a prospect she wanted to consider.

  ‘What if Sam’s involved in this?’ Chrissy voiced her fears.

  ‘No!’ Rhona was adamant. ‘I don’t believe that.’

  When she rang off, McNab was waiting. From his expression it was obvious he had been trying to interpret the one-sided conversation.

  ‘What don’t you believe?’

  Rhona looked at his worried face. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

  41

  CHRISSY REPLACED THE receiver, her hand shaking. Rhona’s words had done little to ease her worries. It was easy enough to say that Sam wasn’t involved, but the evidence pointed to the opposite. She kept remembering things he’d said, things she’d seen. Innocent words and actions began to take on new meaning. His words, ‘I have done nothing wrong.’ And what about the picture of Stephen in the bible? A chill ran down her spine. She thought of the times they had slept in the same bed, how they had made love. It filled her with horror. What if Sam was involved in juju or, worse still, a killer?

  She crossed herself, an involuntary motion that both surprised and comforted her. One thing was certain: Sam had touched Stephen’s shoe. Why, only Sam could answer.

  She tried to get back to work. She hadn’t finished processing all the DNA samples from the church. The pastor had listed fifty names. Forty-seven had turned up and Sam was the last. She made a note to speak to Bill about the missing three. Despite her best efforts, her mind continually returned to Sam. Her gut instinct told her he was alive. He had sent the message in the early hours of Sunday morning. Surely Bill could discover where the message had been sent from? The more she thought of his phrase ‘I’m sorry’, the more she knew it meant he was going away. Sam couldn’t leave without saying something. But where had he gone?

  Somewhere he didn’t need warm clothes.

  Home? Could he have gone home to Nigeria?

  The more she thought about it, the more Chrissy suspected and hoped it was true. Sam threw the jumper away because he didn’t need it any more. Not in a country where it was hot even when it rained.

  Bill glanced through the pathology report one more time. Malchie had been high when he died. The report showed similar toxic levels to those found in the urine of the murderer, suggesting they were smoking the same dope. Why Malchie was at the Olatundes’ flat, Bill had no idea. Had he gone there of his own free will? What connection was there between Olatunde and Malcolm Menzies?

  One thing he was sure of: Malchie had died because he knew too much, or had met the murderer and could identify him. This probably meant his mate Danny was in danger too. Bill had already sent a constable to the Fergus home, where Danny Fergus Senior had given him extensive grief. He’d point-blank refused to say where Danny was and wouldn’t believe that his son was in danger, even when the constable told him about Malchie’s murder. They were trying to locate Danny. He could only hope the murderer didn’t get to him first. Bill didn’t want another dead teenager on his conscience.

  They hadn’t discovered yet who the extra child was who had travelled with the Olatundes to Nigeria. Bill had spoken briefly to Henry Boswell, the honorary consul in Kano. Apparently the Olatundes had left Kano almost immediately and gone to their rural home outside the city. The local police were checking.

  The consul didn’t sound too hopeful. ‘The extended family system considers many members to be brothers or sisters. They don’t need the same mother.’

  ‘But he had only one child here.’

  ‘Maybe the boy was staying with a relative, going to a different school. Boys are special in this culture.’

  Didn’t Bill know it? Two women and one young man lay dead in the mortuary, waiting for the murderer to be caught before they could be buried. They’d been killed because someone wanted Stephen, because he was a boy and special.

  And what would happen to Stephen if they found him alive? Correction. When they found him alive. Who would take care of the boy now that his mother and grandmother were dead?

  Bill wouldn’t let himself think that way. That was the job of Social Services.

  ‘Sir?’

  Bill swivelled around to face Janice.

  ‘Peter Niven on the phone.’

  ‘Niven?’ Bill dragged his mind back to the present.

  ‘Operation Pentameter.’

  ‘Right. Put him through.’

  He picked up the receiver.

  Operation Pentameter had been set up to monitor the increase in human trafficking into the UK, both adult and child. Fifty-five police forces were involved. North of the border it was coordinated by the SDEA, the Scottish Drug Enforcement Agency.

  ‘DI Wilson?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Can you come down here? I have some info you should see.’

  Bill hesitated before answering.

  Niven spoke again. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  The SDEA was based a short drive away on the M8, not far from Glasgow Airport. He left Janice and the team working on tracing Sam’s last call, finding Danny Fergus, interviewing the sauna owner and trying to establish if Sam had left the country. And that was only the half of it. The deeper they went into this case, the more complex it became. Bill was beginning to wonder whether there was black magic working against them.

  The run out to the Osprey House complex was easy now the morning rush-hour traffic had cleared. In the near distance, planes lifted from the airport runway into a cloudy sky, spelling escape. Bill wished he was on one, heading off on holiday, Margaret by his side. He made a mental note to book some leave for the summer. He would take Margaret and the kids away for a fortnight. They hadn’t done that in years. Better still, him and Margaret alone for two weeks. No teenagers, no work, no dead bodies. He knew that any plans for the summer depended on the results of the biopsy, but he felt better making them anyway.

  Margaret still hadn’t heard from the hospital. A week she’d said. Every day felt like a fortnight. She had remained calm, but Bill knew when he woke in the night that she lay awake beside him. When he did hear the soft sound of her sleeping breath, he felt relief he could hardly describe even to himself.

  The news that they thought Stephen had been taken to Nigeria had lifted her spirits. Bill didn’t want to get her hopes up, yet he still coloured the story in a positive light just to watch her reaction.

  ‘Child Slaves Trafficked to Scotland for Sex Industry’ was the headline.

  Niven laid the newspaper cutting on the table. ‘What he says is all true. It’s the tip of the iceberg. They arrive with adults by sea or air via London. Their stories lack credibility, but we don’t have the time or resources to investigate further.’

  ‘How does this help us to find Stephen?’ Bill didn’t mean to sound so short, but he didn’t want to find he had been brought here to listen to what he already knew.

  ‘We think there is a group taking the children back out of the country.’

  That he didn’t know. ‘Where?’

  ‘Back to West Africa.’

  Bill tried to digest this. ‘Someone’s bringing them here . . . and someone’s taking them back?’ He couldn’t disguise his confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s not the same group. The girl you found in the sauna – Adeela – says Jarumai rescue them and take them home.’

  ‘Jarumai?’

  ‘It translates as “brave people”.’

  ‘Brave people take them home? Why not take them to us or you?’

  ‘We suspect those involved are illegals themselves. Adeela says the boy on the ship with her was rescued by the Jamurai.’

  ‘How does she know?’

  ‘Word filters through. Whether it’s true or not, I don’t know.’

  ‘Olatunde took a boy and a girl back to Nigeria. According to the passports, they were both his children, although we believe he only has a da
ughter.’

  ‘And you thought the boy might be Stephen?’

  It was a hope they’d clung to. Bill realised with sickening certainty now how slim the chance had been. Olatunde took a boy to Nigeria who wasn’t his child. Bill had no idea what his motives might be.

  ‘We’re dealing with a culture we don’t understand,’ Niven went on.

  ‘You don’t have to go to West Africa to see child abuse.’

  Niven acknowledged that with a nod. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘There’s a strong link between the Nigerian oil industry and child trafficking. Europeans get a taste for the girls they’re offered. They want the same when they get home.’

  On the way back Bill took a detour via Maryhill Road. The main church door was closed and locked. Bill rang the bell continuously until he heard footsteps.

  The pastor’s face was grey when he opened the door. He looked like a sick man or a very worried one.

  ‘Detective Inspector!’ He was clearly trying to summon his usual lofty manner, but failed.

  Bill almost felt sorry for him. It looked like God had deserted the pastor in his hour of need. Bill knew what that felt like. ‘Can I come in?’

  Bill waited for ‘the house of God is always open’. It didn’t come. The pastor held the door wide for Bill to enter. The entrance hall didn’t seem to have changed since the last time Bill had visited. The miracle list had at least a dozen names on it.

  Achebe led him through to his study. He sank into the seat behind his desk like a man whose legs would no longer support his weight.

  ‘What do you know of the Jarumai?’

  The pastor’s face was a study in blankness.

  ‘The Jarumai,’ Bill repeated. ‘The brave ones.’

  ‘I know what it means,’ he replied sharply.

  Bill waited. The pastor said nothing further.

  ‘You have illegals attending this church. We will prosecute you and send them back where they came from.’

  ‘Then you will send many to their deaths.’

  ‘I have one dead child already and one missing. Two women mutilated and a daft punk with his testicles offered on a plate to some African deity.’