by Lin Anderson
A dream ticket for the pair of them. Act like the punks they were and get paid for it in cannabis.
‘Malchie wanted more. I told him to leave it alone . . .’ Danny stumbled. ‘He went to one of their ceremonies. Initiation, that’s what he called it.’ The boy’s face flushed. ‘They cut off a dog’s testicles and drank its blood. Malchie said it gave him a hard-on.’ Despite his fear, he looked slyly at Janice.
‘A name, Danny? A name to keep you safe.’
‘Malchie said you couldn’t touch the guy in charge. That he was immune.’
‘Immune?’ What the hell was he talking about? ‘I need a name, Danny.’
Janice came in. ‘Immunity, sir. Diplomatic immunity?’
‘Did you see this black man?’
‘I followed Malchie once. I saw him then. He was tall, black. That’s all.’
‘Great.’
Danny looked worried that he wasn’t giving enough. Not enough to be safe.
‘There was a white guy too. I saw him with a black lassie. Young, maybe twelve or thirteen. He put her in a car and took her away.’
That was more like it. ‘Tell me about him.’
The description seemed to fit Mundell, but that may have been wishful thinking. Then Danny came out with another gem: ‘He had a fancy watch. Malchie said he looked at it all the time. A Rolex.’
Bill tried not to smile. ‘Would you recognise this man if you saw him again?’
‘Aye, I would.’
‘Good boy, Danny.’
Danny sat back relieved. Safe for the moment. Bill and Janice rose to leave.
‘You won’t leave me alone, will you?’
‘There’s a constable standing outside the door. Your mother’ll be here shortly.’
‘You promised I’d be safe.’
‘We’ll lock the door when we go out. No one can get in except us.’
Danny didn’t look convinced. Bill couldn’t blame him. Everyone connected with this case ended up dead.
‘Bring in Mundell. Let’s set up an identity parade.’
‘Do they all have to wear Rolexes, sir?’
The attempt at a joke brought a half smile to Bill’s face. He would dearly love to nail Mundell. Abusing a minor would be a start.
The Home Office had not been prepared to release a list of those with diplomatic immunity. It was up to him to submit the name and offence to them, he’d been politely informed. Eventually common sense, or a little arm-twisting from the Procurator Fiscal’s Office, had produced a list of a dozen people currently resident in Scotland. One name interested Bill the most. Prince Kabiru Suleiman, who gave his Nigerian address as Sabon Gari, Kano.
48
KANO WAS IN semi-darkness. Those with standby generators had switched them on, the patches of light delineating the well-to-do from the poorer areas of the city.
The consul’s driver had been sympathetic but not much else. He had talked to the owner of the soft-drinks stall at McNab’s orders. The madam had got into a large black vehicle. That’s all the man would say. No. He had never seen the men before. He didn’t think the madam looked frightened. McNab knew he was lying. His eyes were wide with worry. From the compound behind, women watched, babies slung on their backs. All of them seemed nervous.
When the driver mentioned the British consul, there was a slight release of tension. McNab jumped on the opportunity. ‘Ask him which direction the vehicle went.’
The rapid exchange elicited the word north.
‘What’s up there?’
The driver thought for a moment. ‘Tiga.’
‘What’s Tiga?’
The driver threw his arms wide. ‘A big dam.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘Not this way.’ The driver shook his head. ‘We go back to the consulate.’
The driver was right. They couldn’t go across the bush in this vehicle. The best bet was to speak to the consul. McNab had never felt so useless in his life. This was one crime scene he couldn’t manage. Everything he knew, everything he’d learned, was futile here.
On the way back to town, he stared at the unremitting barren terrain that rushed past his window, as though he might spot Rhona or the black vehicle moving among the endless scrub and low bushes. When he’d heard about the decision to send a team to Nigeria, he’d done everything he could to make sure he went with Rhona. He wanted to be alone with her. He wanted to show her that there was still something between them. Something that they both needed and wanted, despite the Irish guy, despite Janice. His hunger to be with her had put Rhona in danger. As the sun went down and darkness fell, McNab’s mood was as black as the night that surrounded him.
Henry Boswell paced the tiled floor. In his long white socks and big baggy khaki shorts he looked every inch the colonial. He might have resembled a relic of the past but his brain was sharp enough.
‘And you’re convinced Adamu’s men were involved?’
‘It was too much of a coincidence. They were at the front of the queue with the others. When the vehicle took off into the bush with Rhona, the policemen dismantled the roadblock.’
‘How did your guards react when you found Dr MacLeod gone?’
McNab thought for a moment. ‘Worried.’
‘Surprised?’
He had to admit they had been. Then when he started shouting at them, the shutters came down.
‘I have reason to thank John Adamu for my life. I trust him implicitly. But he cannot vouch for all his men, which makes his job even harder.’ Henry paused. ‘Naseem’s family are conspicuously absent. His father, the chief, is in Lagos overseeing his oil interests in the Delta.’
‘Oil interests?’
‘He owns a major Nigerian oil company. It employs a number of Europeans.’
The large puzzle was beginning to come together.
‘John has been in contact with the family. They deny all knowledge of Stephen and his mother. He knows they are lying, but the family are very powerful in Kano State.
‘So what do we do?’
‘Dr MacLeod is in danger. I have no doubt of that. But we can do little in the dark.’
The lights flickered as the generator stalled, then brightened as it kicked back into action.
‘If she was taken in the direction of Tiga Dam . . .’ He paused again. ‘I have a house there. So too do a number of expats and wealthy Kano residents. We can search the area at sunrise.’
‘What about Sam’s mother?’
‘Abdul went to her home. Her houseboy has not seen her for several days.’
‘She’s missing?’
‘According to Abdul, the man was terrified. He says a black vehicle took the madam away. He tried to report this to the police and was beaten for his trouble. He only told Abdul because he knew he worked for me.’
‘I think we should speak to him.’
They were on their way to the car, when Henry’s mobile rang. As Henry answered, McNab could just make out Bill’s voice on the other end, tinny but clear. When Henry filled him in on Rhona’s abduction, there was an explosion of furious expletives.
Henry handed the mobile to McNab. ‘It’s DI Wilson. He wants to speak to you.’
McNab told Bill the whole sorry story.
‘Find Rhona. Get her out of there.’ Bill’s voice was thick with anxiety.
‘There may be a ritual planned for Stephen. From what Danny Fergus said, Rhona could be in danger. It looks as though they might involve her. Go to the Nigerian Church of God. It was the pastor there who told Achebe about the ritual . . .’
The mobile cut out before Bill could finish.
Henry directed the driver to head for the Nigerian Church of God.
‘Pastor Oyekunde is a good man. He’ll help us all he can.’
The Sabon Gari was bustling despite the blackout. Every shop and stall had its own paraffin lamp, and was doing business in its circle of light. The Peugeot estate had been exchanged for a Land Rover. Abdul sat in front with the driver. Followin
g his directions, they weaved their way around the potholes, horn honking, the mass of humanity that thronged the shadowy, rubbish-strewn streets giving way before them.
Pastor Oyekunde was in his candlelit church, a low red-mud building with a tin roof and a small bell tower. The church was surrounded by a high wire fence, a guard at the gate. When the guard saw the consul in the Land Rover, he pulled the gate back to let them in.
‘The Christians feel under threat here since the riots. Although one guard won’t keep out a mob,’ Henry explained.
McNab was inclined to agree. The gate was a token gesture, nothing more.
The pastor, a small round man, robed in black, welcomed the consul as though he expected him. They exchanged a series of greetings in a language McNab didn’t recognise. Once these were complete, the consul introduced McNab in English.
Oyekunde held out his hand. ‘I am sorry for what has happened.’
When they were seated, he told them what he knew.
‘The practice of Ritualism, as Mr Boswell is aware, is a continuing problem among both Christians and Muslims. Even those educated in the West are not free of its influence.’
The talk wasn’t moving fast enough for McNab. He butted in. ‘Do you know where this ceremony will be held?’
The pastor indicated he did not. ‘However, the ceremony mirrors baptism, so it should be held near water. A river or lake.’
‘Tiga Dam,’ McNab muttered.
The consul explained. ‘Dr MacLeod was taken from the Rano road across country, we think towards Tiga.’
‘The Suleiman family have a small house on an island in the lake,’ said the pastor.
49
RHONA VEERED LEFT at the hum of the motor boat’s engines. A powerful light on the bow illuminated the small bungalow. She heard the backwash slap the boat’s side as it turned and one of the two men jumped into the water, heading for the house.
She was barely twenty yards from shore. A short distance away, the white spectre of a drowned tree reflected the light of a pale white moon. She kicked out smoothly towards it, trying not to splash. It would only take a few seconds for the men to realise she wasn’t on the island. Maybe if she hid in among the submerged trees they wouldn’t find her.
Rhona felt a sharp jab of pain in her foot. She trod water for a moment, feeling gingerly with her hands and feet, trying to judge how far she could swim into the tangle of branches. A loud plopping sound beside her told her she had disturbed something big, causing it to surface.
There was a shout from the shore. Then the light swung over the water. Rhona took a gulp of air and sank.
Her eyes were open, yet she could see nothing. The water lapped over her head. Her shirt billowed in descent, snagging on a twig. She struggled, panic-stricken, imagining herself trapped for ever in this watery coffin. The twig snapped, freeing her. She rose against her will, broke the surface and gasped for air.
The motor boat was inching towards her, the head-lamp slowly turning this way and that, searching.
Rhona filled her lungs and sank again.
She had no idea how many times she did that. Up for air briefly, then down again. The men were frustrated and angry. She heard the rapid Hausa, sometimes English, as they called for her across the water. Eventually the motor boat gave up and headed for shore.
She waited until she was sure, before she dared leave her thorny refuge. Then she trod water, wondering which way to swim, her limbs heavy, her muscles aching from tension and exhaustion.
Could she reach the shore or should she return to the bungalow, safe now in the knowledge that they thought her gone?
She had no idea how long she had been swimming. Her world had turned into the swish of water, the plop of fish, the moon on the surface of the lake, the ever-distant lights. If she ceased her stroke she knew she would sink like a stone. At first she counted using Hausa numbers to keep her awake. D’aya, biyu, uku, hud’u, biyar, shida, bakwai, takwas, tara, goma. She only knew up to ten and repeated them endlessly until she remembered them too easily, and started to nod off. She switched to Gaelic, then French.
She was in her fourth group of ten in French when her hand hit the side of a dugout canoe.
The panic she caused the occupant was almost as bad as her own. The night fisherman dropped his net mid-cast, startled out of his wits. He grabbed for his paddle.
Rhona clung desperately to the side, her body exhausted, her sodden clothes dragging her downwards.
‘Don Allah,’ she shouted. ‘Please, God. Help me.’
The compound consisted of two roundhouses, a grain store sitting on misshapen wooden stilts nearby.
Her rescuer, who said his name was Joshua, brought her to a central fire, kept alive and banked up overnight. Rhona was shivering now, in rapid juddering waves. He gave her a blanket that smelt of dust and smoke. She wrapped it around her and huddled close to the glow.
At a shout from Joshua, two women appeared from one of the houses. One was elderly and walked with a pronounced limp. The other was a young woman, a baby suckling one breast.
From the door of the roundhouse, three sets of eyes stared at Rhona with more curiosity than fear.
Joshua had displayed some knowledge of English in the boat as he paddled her to shore. Rhona had tried to explain that her boat had sunk in the lake. He’d accepted this without question and did not ask why she was alone.
The younger woman put some water to boil in a black kettle over the fire. When it began to simmer, she threw in a pinch of tea from a leather pouch at her waist. The result was a hot sweet concoction of boiled tea, goat’s milk and lots of sugar, which tasted delicious. Rhona drank it all down and was offered another.
When she tried – with her few words of Hausa and his halting English – to explain that she needed to get to Kano, Joshua looked baffled. He understood the urgency of her request from her tone, but how was she to get there? He only had his canoe.
‘Baturi?’ she asked. ‘Are there any Baturi?’
Joshua nodded, understanding.
‘Yes – Baturi houses, lake. We go?’ he said, pointing back towards the island.
She had no way of telling him that she wanted to know about houses on the shore of the mainland, and the thought of being transported back to where she had come from was too much to bear.
She fell asleep at the fire, the hum of a motor boat engine punctuating her dreams, transforming them into nightmares. When she woke, it was still dark, the night lit only by a white moon and surrounding stars. The fire had burnt to a glow and its lingering smoke hung in the air, mingling with the mist that clouded the lake.
Joshua and his family were nowhere to be seen. She had grown used to the rustlings and mutterings of the family and the silence of the compound was unnatural.
Rhona tried to stand, her body stiff with exhaustion.
‘Joshua!’
She let the blanket fall. The air was warm and sultry, yet she shivered as though drenched in cold water.
‘Joshua!’ she called again, willing him to walk into the fire circle or emerge from a roundhouse.
The figure that did appear, came from the direction of the rocks behind. At first alone, then followed by two men.
He was dressed like a Baturi, but moved with the graceful ease of an African. As he drew closer, Rhona saw the three tribal scars scored across each cheek.
The two men behind were halted in their approach by his raised hand. The scarred man stood still, taking time to appraise Rhona. His glance passed from her feet upwards, paused briefly at her breasts, then rose more slowly until his eyes met hers. Rhona was trans-fixed like a small mammal waiting for a snake to strike.
Her instinct was to break that locked gaze, yet she could not. Both fear and fascination kept her eyes on his. This was the man who terrified Stephen so much he drew pictures of him and scribbled them out. This was the man who had made Carole run across continents to escape him. This was the man responsible for her mutilation and death.
<
br /> The words were gently spoken, his English perfect, with no hint of his African origin.
‘You are far from home, Dr MacLeod.’
The words were gently said, but unmistakable in interpretation. She was far from home. Alone and helpless in an alien culture. He could do with her as he liked.
‘The British consul will find me.’
‘I will make sure of that,’ he said.
50
STEPHEN SMELT THE heat and dust and knew he was nearly home. The terror he’d felt on the long journey by van then plane had been eased by the man with him. The man called Sam he’d seen in church. Sam had told him everything would be all right.
‘Your mother asked me to help you.’
‘My mum’s dead.’
Sam had held his hand then and let him cry.
‘Your mum’s in heaven, watching over you.’
Sam was his friend. He had taken him from that terrible dark place, washed and dressed him in clean clothes and told him he was going to take him home. That it was what his mum would have wanted.
Stephen told Sam about Boniface. About his red velvet spiders that came with the rain. They sang Stephen’s favourite song as Sam drove.
Give me courage when the world is rough,
Keep me loving though the world is tough;
Leap and sing in all I do,
Keep me travelling along with you.
When they reached the airport Sam explained that Stephen was to be his yaronsa, his boy. He was to be called Stephen Haruna. That way he would be allowed to go home.
The plane was small with a big red S on the side. It was a private jet. A friend of his mother had sent it from Kano, Sam told him. They would fly over the desert. Maybe see a camel train trekking towards Kano. Had he ever been to the camel market in Kano?
They never talked about HIM or the man Stephen had seen bent over his dead mother. He was safe now, Sam said, and Stephen believed him.
51
PRINCE KABIRU SULEIMAN greeted the arrival of police officers at his home in the West End with bemused indifference. The pleasant surroundings of the town house were in stark contrast to the city mortuary, where Bill had seen him last.